The truth is, sometimes you cannot

help but feel alone. Some days are

longer, harder than most. But when

you look out into the world, you are

struck by the impossible beauty of

it all. Those billions of magnificent

accidents that lead to where you

are today, that lead you to paper

planes and nautilus shells and the

tiny, crooked, heartmelting smiles

of children. When you think about

all the small perfections of the world,

you have faith that your time will

come. You have faith that someday,

a warm light will flood over you.

 

And you will find peace.

 

 

What a difference a year makes.

 

http://youtu.be/GBaHPND2QJg

Selesai solat tonight I climbed into bed

and randomly clicked on this video – anything

with orchestral instruments should be good,

I thought. It resulted in lifting my spirit.

For six minutes, this talented display of

Beethoven’s Ode to Joy momentarily

carried away the heaviness in my chest.

 

The man’s expression at 4:10 was exactly

what I wore on my face as soon as the

full chorus and orchestra stormed in.

And can you see the elated looks of the

french hornists and violinists when the

camera pans them during the bridge?

Wow. Just, wow.

 

I can relate. It’s just something that

washes over you, this special knowledge

that you are part of a complex musical

machine. It’s like no other feeling.

My friends and I, however, do know

what that feels like. You feel small.

You feel awed by this realisation that

music has the power to move us.

 

I am grateful for these few moments.

Moments where I am thankful that

His will allows us the talent to create

something that resonates deep within

the chests of others, that allows for

the sheer brilliance of the human mind.

Moments where I understand connections.

 

These moments are harder to come by now.

Escapism such as the feeling I derive from

an appreciation for the wonders in this world

(like this) is never long-lasting, but it touches

the heart and reminds me that I can still feel.

 

That my soul is good.

 

It has been a heart-wrenching year, truly.

I am trying my best.

 

 

Tonight I was blessed with the presence

of a dear friend who is home for the festive

period, with a beautiful bundle of joy in tow.

 

Imran Fahmi is a wonderful little being. 

So pure and innocent and masyaAllah,

amazing to hold and impart little kisses on.

 

Imran is a spitting image of Fahmi at 

7 months, but one can see his quirks 

that vastly mirror Abby’s. Perfection.

 

And what can I say about Abs? Since the

last that I saw her a year ago, she’s blossomed

into motherhood so naturally and with much

love. I’ve never had the chance to witness a

friend have moments with her child this close 

before, and all I can say is that it is magical.

 

I love the fact that Abby is a mother and

a wife now. These traits come to her with

grace and her commitment is endless.

 

My favourite snap from tonight.

A mother’s joy. Beautiful.

 

I keep praying for a time You see fit to bless

me with this same experience in my lifetime.

 

I won’t let You down, if You so will it.

 

 

I’m on a nine-hour layover, which gives

me some time to breathe on this space.

 

London has been uneventful. It’s not all

that surprising, as our presence here isn’t

to enjoy ourselves - this trip was for Nain.

 

Nain’s funeral was beautiful. Damian

spoke on behalf of the family while

Niamh read from a poem she wrote

for Nain. She was the closest and

kindest to Nain in her later years.

 

Papa doesn’t talk about Nain anymore. 

Our drives have been punctuated with

silence lately. And I know that in such

moments, it is her that he thinks of.

 

My Dad is strong. He will pull through.

xx

 

images via boston.com

 

How other friends are observing Ramadhan. 

Ten days in and it’s been well, thankfully.

18 hours in London isn’t at all bad either.

I doubt I’ll be able to miraculously pull off

a full stretch this year, but strange things

can happen sometimes. We never know.

 

/edit: Spoke too soon.

xx

 

Met up with the Essex bunch at Canary Wharf

on Thursday. Shiv brought her younger son,

and Sulaimaan is so beautiful. Looks every

bit like Shareef with some of Shiv’s features

thrown in, and Ya Allah, such a cool little one. 

 

It was also Shiv and Shareef’s third year

wedding anniversary (and most probably

their seventh year together) – still strong.

These two have come a long way since

Sainty Quay in 2005, filled with obstacles

you and I would pray to avoid. They were

brave, and I’m so thankful to see where

they are now.  Blessed indeed, S and S.

Alhamdulillah.

 

Remmy has had a heartbreaking year.

She lost her mother to cancer earlier

in February, in the short space of a few

weeks. I felt so much for her but could

never in a million years imagine what

she went through. She left for Nigeria

on Friday, to break the news to her

larger extended family there and 

manage her late mother’s personal

effects. That Rems could still laugh

and go on with her days all these

months later is spectacular to see,

and testament to her quiet strength.

 

I learned a lot from Remmy’s grief

in our short period of time together.

I keep her closer to my heart now.

xx

 

I received some messages from a

dear friend upon arriving in Dubai.

I felt terrible reading them, even

though he complied with what I

had asked of him. In part, I think,

this terrible feeling stemmed from

having to seek it at all in the first

place. Never thought I’d have to.

I shouldn’t have to ask.

 

When certain simple gestures do not

come naturally to your friends anymore

it is a sign that the dynamics of an old

friendship has changed. As it does in life.

 

I have no more expectations.

It is only fair to him. I keep

reminding myself to be kind.

 

But the truth is, I am kinder

to my own heart. I need to be.

Because no one has the right

to treat me with insincerity and 

half-heartedness. Not anymore.

xx

 

Be home soon, KL. I’ve missed you.

 

 

It takes a lot, most of the time,

to admit and accept faults or

circumstances. It takes a lot

more to convince oneself to

get up again and smile, or

talk, or get on with life as

if this wreck of an organ 

was never done any harm.

 

It doesn’t take a lot, though,

to sincerely wish the best for

your friends. Doesn’t take a

lot to say hello, say goodbye,

hope they are well, take care.

 

And it definitely doesn’t take

much to give a word of thanks.

 

It’s something that, in person,

you practice so often and easily

among family members; friends;

strangers who help pick your coin

up from off the ground; those men

and women at checkout counters;

to the bus driver; to train conductors.

 

And yet, with me, there is just

this great, immeasurable silence.

I suppose this silence says it all.

 

I am not angry. I never was.

I am just sadly disappointed

in someone so dear to me.

 

You could have chosen to be kind.

 

Because that final letter meant a

lot for me to write, but more than

anything, it truly wished you well.

 

 

It’s midnight here in London,

and Ya Allah, the weather is

just sweltering. I can’t sleep.

 

There’s a courtyard outside our

family apartment unit here, 

one-fourth of the Great West

Quarter’s infamous quads.

 

As I sit here by the bay window,

praying for a little bit of breeze,

I realise that in the courtyard

below a man and a woman sit

crosslegged on the steps, smoking.

 

Their voices carry over by the still

night air, directly to where I sit.

 

“… it’s just mental.”

“Are you alright then?”

“…(muttering)… and my dad.”

“That’s wrong, mate.”

“I TOLD THEM!” (loudly)

 

The woman places her hand

on the man’s arm. “Shhh.”

 

And as if on cue, they look up.

At my block, my window. At me.

 

The man holds his hand up, almost

apologetically, as if to say “Hey, sorry.”

 

I hold up an OK sign in return.

It’s fine, bruv. Whatever it is, 

I’m pretty sure it’s more serious

than this heatwave I’m experiencing.

Your almost-outburst is acceptable.

 

Go easy on the cigarettes, though.

That’s your fourth stick by my count.

 

 

When someone gives us something,

- whether it is a gift, their time, 

their support, or anything else -

more often than not we tend to

want to give even more in return.

 

We may think we do that

because we are generous.

We are – that’s a human trait.

But it’s not the reason for why

we overcompensate so often.

 

More likely it is because we

don’t like feeling vulnerable,

or feel like we owe anyone.

 

We want to stand alone.

  

http://youtu.be/SDGOXRr-yco

I got my ticket for the long way round

The one with the prettiest of views

It’s got mountains it’s got rivers

It’s got sites to give you shivers

It sure would be prettier with you

 

You’re gonna miss me by my walk

You’re gonna miss me by my talk, oh

You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.

 

 

Walking to tarawikh prayers tonight

with my sister in the balmy night air,

I felt calm for the first time in months.

 

I’ve missed this feeling.

x

 

Last night I packed up a boxful of

letters from the heart. Read through

each one before putting them away.

After I was done, the box went right

to the bottom of our family trunk. 

 

It’ll stay there for a while.

 

Notes like these will be the first

and the last. People don’t deserve

to know that much anymore.

 

Never again.