My newest addition to the list of things I want to do: Train as a stuntwoman!

Hackers galore

After watching 'The Social Network', all I seem to be stuck on is that I wish I had the smarts to have gone into computer science, software programming, writing encryption codes and the like and living my life at and by a keyboard. There's something immensely satisfying about the blunted fingertips and sqaured hand shape (and stiffness) you get as you type like the 'pro's' you see in films. Ah the joy.

Towards the end of primary school/ beginning of high school, I remember secretly printing off this document about hacking and being ecstatic at my amazing find. Whilst nervously watching the bedroom door, I prayed that I'd calculated the timing correctly of how much time I had before I was caught. Seems like my math wasn't too bad back then, and so my hundred page secret was safely hidden under my bed.  I was sure I could definitely worm my way into this world if I wanted to.

Unfortunately, a recurring theme in my life I've noticed, is that I get fired up about a new project and then get bored and toss it aside. Although in this case, my computer knowledge being limited to using Word and clearing browsing history (I was so excited when I learnt how to do this) combined with the fear of being smoked out, it became another 'passion' I set aside. Instead, I idolised my brother's friend who was a computer genius. Like a superhero, I never saw his face but instead, heard fantastic rumours of his work, a couple of which I was privileged enough to see. The boy truly had a gift.

Maybe I should just find and befriend a computer whizz/ hacker at Imperial and get them to teach me their stuff. I'm sure there's lots of them around. Project resumed!

< end >   ;)

Once a breeze passes by, it can never come back to the same place..

My new-found Korean obsession surpasses the previous Japanese one. Life is sweet ;)

In a hollow shell, the echoes of a fading dream knock on the doors I am forced to close. Door after door, lock after lock, I shut myself out from the corridors that I had foolishly wandered along, believing myself worthy of a choice. Of freedom and of joy. How wrong I have been shown to be.

Each moment a struggle, I force myself to breathe as I walk onto a path that will leave my self behind. To exist only in form when the soul itself has died, I lay imprisoned in a cage that I choose to deny.

Once came and now gone, I don't remember who it is that I am.

I bid my self farewell..

Struggling from the holds that choked her, each breath was an escape from the evil that slowly destroyed. There was very little left that had not already found itself within the seeping networks that let her clocks stumble some more. Mismatched, the footsteps in her shadows strayed offbeat, a slow tug that had drawn out to three, where one more marked the end..

Ridicule was written in every expression as it flitted across his face.

There was no room for growth, for the mass leverage that change could bring. There was only the stubborn pride of the limited reach that he held. Did I dare to defy?

"People tell you who they are but we ignore it, because we want them to be who we want them to be"

Dawn

Beyond the chasms of reproach
Farther than truths hold extends
Did I seek answers for the voices
That the hearts dared not hold
And in the mirrored gaze that we captured;
Turned startled and devoid
I looked far along the depths
To the blanks that arose
Yet in deemed recognition
Of a desginatory role
I beheld hung reflection,
Drawn to my own

There, desecration of the sacred
Lay ruin to the plans we decode
As the construct destroyed
In the name of resolve
Once more is absolved
Of being party to the sin
Of progress and change.
Novel, indeed
A concept of old

Kashmir

So I basically had little reminders written up on my phone of what I'd been up to in Kashmir and all the interesting things that had happened. Unfortunately, upon reaching Bahrain, I decided to play around with my phone, put a password lock on it and promptly forgot it. Thankfully my phone is no longer disabled but I know for sure now that my memory needs a serious reboot. Sigh. So here it goes, an account of the five weeks made up of disjointed and faded images and occurrences that I am attempting to recollect, and it's taken an awfully long time to get round to writing this.. I'm just really lazy..

***

The morning we were meant to leave, we unpacked our bags, called the travel agency and told them we wanted to cancel our tickets. The situation was so bad out there that we honestly didn't know if we would be able to make it back home to my brother. He was staying behind, busy with organising protests, giving interviews and being called to speak at international conferences regarding the situation into which we were literally flying into. We had our will sorted out, my mum wrote a letter that my brother would receive if we didn't make it back and I did the rounds of 'I'm going to Kashmir, I may die, so please forgive me if I've done anything to harm you. Oh and if I owe you anything, take it off my brother..' Charming, no?

Anyway, we decided to take the risk. It's my last long holiday and I was in dire need of a break from absolutely everything. You know when you're mentally exhausted and your brain is saturated to the point of insanity? Well, time away from everything and everyone you know is the perfect fix, and for me, Kashmir is my drug. You get high, you get addicted and every time you think you're over it, you relapse. An ashiq for the bonds that come with birth. Blood that can't forget. Inshallah soon again :)

Anyhow, upon arriving in the just-bearable heat, the hartaal-imposed silence was more than noticeable, moreso as it stood in stark contrast to the usual clamour and noise that we as a people maximise to our full potential. An unavoidable part of being Kashmiri. Must be something in our rice.. unless you're one of the odd exceptions of course.

And talking about being different, our thankfully uneventful journey home was laughter-ridden as we couldn't stop staring at this bizarre movie player that proudly sat in place of the usual rearview mirror. I mean, seriously, is the driver supposed to sneak peeks at some film that's playing whilst he's trying to manoeuvre the car around horses, cows, people and maniac driving, and all without being able to see whats going on on the road behind him? Crazy!

And yes, I often do wonder if God made us Kashmiris this weird and wonderful species just so that we can forget about our issues and have jokes instead as we do oddly baffling things. So basically my uncle arrives after a two hour journey, at six in the morning, on a motorbike he'd borrowed off one of the boys on his street. Fair enough, right? Apart from the fact that his experience of riding one dates back 20 years or so. And to proper hero-fy it, he came without a helmet or jacket, (arriving shivering and frozen to the bone) during the hartaal and having to endure the ken-jang going on. Errr, don hai, don. Such a Kashmiri :D

He did it again a couple of days later, but with a friend's car, and this time managed to bring us back down with him to Baramullah. It's a good thing that he did, considering the fact that the situation worsened to such an extent that we were unable to go back down a second time.

Stuck in Baramullah for about ten days, we had three different houses we could wander between, dividing our time between sleeping, eating and watching tv. We didn't get up to much, mostly spending our days with our youngest cousins and punctuating our immense amounts of rest by sitting in peaceful content at the lake or the railway station down the road.

The situation seemed to always be the worst in Baramullah. Whilst we were there, there was a boy who was beaten by the police, had his head crushed and was then thrown into the lake. Waiting for the body to be found was a tense situation and in lue of this, the army personnel were already sat in the streets, lining the sidewalks with their own terror at the anger that they were about to face from the distraught people.

Each day brought more news of more death. More torture, more unimaginable goings on. Lives were being tossed aside as though old clothes, and like uninhibited wild animals ripping through hunted flesh, it was as though the troops were craving more innocent blood. The people had had enough. Geelani saab was calling for the still ongoing strikes and the youth were on the streets protesting, throwing stones and beating anyone who dared to resume normality in the form of open shops or travel.With all phone networks shut down, newspapers censored, and the news stories on tv cut short, word of mouth and night-time movements allowed the flow of information to spread throughout Kashmir. Things were looking worse as each day passed by.

It was a miracle that we were able to leave Baramullah, get ourselves up to Srinagar, and the following day find ourselves in Pudsoo at a far too early an hour to remember. However, the two weeks we spent 'stuck' there defined the entire trip and have created such intense memories, that it is difficult to put all those feelings into words. Each time I remember my time there, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I usually end up doing a bit of both. Dealing with such incomparabale amounts of genuine love and affection from my dad's side of the family is always slightly overwhelming to begin with, but it's what we have learned as being the true definition of somewhere being 'home'.

As though the cleaner air up in the mountains purifies the passing hours, the village appears to live in a bubble of land that time has forgot. There is a stillness, an almost breathing entity that allows life to flow unbroken alongside the running streams. An infinitude of peace. A haven reclaimed.. :)

Spanning almost 20 years between the youngest and the eldest of our 30 odd cousins, we were able to enjoy each other's company for the two weeks that we were there. We spent our days traipsing around both our and neighbouring villages, eliciting unashamed stares from the natives, a very ingrained characteristic passed down through generations amongst the Kashmiris.

The fruit orchards are always something else. To spend whole afternoons in the fields looking for snakes, eating fruit plucked straight from our trees, and hearing stories about life in Kashmir, this was the bliss we had come in search of. My memories of Pudus are mostly of spending my time sitting outside on the boulders and cracking open half-ripened walnuts and almonds whilst we're sharing stories and soaking in the atmosphere and the people.

There were always funny incidents, such as when one cousin milked a cow straight into another cousins waiting open mouth, or when my sister had a tantrum on seeing a dead abandoned puppy on the road. We also learned that one of my younger cousins has built a pigeon pen in his loft and spends his time 'training' them. Although I never got round to seeing it, my sister did seem to be impressed by it!

The boys in the village would gather at a pre-fixed time to play volleyball in the courtyard everyday outside the darzga (Islamic school for the kids) and despite numerous attempts to take over the playing area, we had to settle with just watching them from an abandoned building that looked down onto them.

One of the major highlights was learning to drive. We snuck out one day to practice in the open grounds in Aherbal and also enjoy the view at the same time. Aherbal, although highly dangerous, is extremely beautiful; the water source for Kashmir, a raging waterfall that has seen the death of many. This was only the start of my many driving expeditions.

Apart from the time where we went to visit extended family in Ritnipoora and Shoonshpoor, we managed to leave the house once and went to Wazirbag, a park of sorts, followed by a quick trip to a place known for housing black fish. Our outing was however cut short as the ken-jang started up again as we made a speedy escape.

One thing I will never forget is standing on the rooftops at nightime, holding candles in order to see the young boys and adults of the village surge through the streets to nearby villages, gaining numbers as they went along, shouting their slogans and demonstrating against the situation Kashmir was arrested in. The rumble of their voices and their intense passion filled our hearts to breaking point. We only wished we could go down and join them.

Our last night was filled with singing, dancing and a lot of silences as it dawned on us that we wouldn't see them again. Surrounded by all my cousins, I couldn't help but realise what we miss out on when family isn't always in your life.

By the end of our stay, the city was ringing with the sound of the oppressed people; nasheeds, slogan shouting and restrained anger blaring out from the mosque speakers. Some areas made announcements that anyone who stayed indoors during the hartaals and didn't protest would face the wrath of the people. The women and children lined the streets outside their homes until 2am whilst the boys and men took to the streets.

The day we left Kashmir we heard the news of a child who had been taken by the army; the body came back battered with the eyes gouged out and had the ears and hands cut off. Obviously dead. The nine year old boy who had gone to play at his friends house was captured, had a baton rammed all the way down his throat, which was then used to bash his head in. Witnesses saw the army stamping on his small body until the audible sounds of all his ribs breaking were heard. Goodness knows how many more similar stories exist, I just couldn't bear to hear them all. But these aren't just 'stories', they are realities which the Indian Government do their best to hide by nation-wide media blanketing. The situation is out of control and no one in the outside world knows.

It is only Allah's blessings that allows anyone to survive at all..

------------

*hartaal = imposed by kashmiri leaders, i.e. Geelani. These are strikes where nothing is open. You can't go anywhere by car because the people on the streets, mostly young guys, will beat the muffins out of you or throw stones at you as go by.

* curfew = imposed by the army. shoot-on-site order if you leave the house. usually imposed during the hartaal so that people can't go out and protest.

Uraboku et al

I <3 anime more than <3 itself

Words can bear no fruit to those that will not hear

For a slip of the skin is what it takes to dream

Dubai

Four days. Dubai. With Miss Mini. WHAT an experience.

My friend invited me to go with her on a 'business trip' to Dubai. Whilst her business partners were there for their meetings, we were there to most definitely chill.

A small nap upon arriving at the hotel was absolutely essential due to the previous day's all-nighter, filled with the memory of American Alley, nice cars and hilarious conversation about banana bags, 15K and 'saamaan'.

After freshening up, we were picked up from the hotel by a jeep that would take us to the desert safari that Miss Mini had booked for both ourselves and her very cool business partners/ friends. We were also joined by a lovely serbian couple who quickly became a part of our mini family, joining in the entertainment that asians seem to bring with them everywhere they go.

The desert is absolutely beautiful. The soft undulating planes, unending waves that are gently rippled by the winds. There's something magical about the place, as though they have their own secrets, always changing, always hiding the tracks you leave behind. I have this weird fascination with sand. Give me any stretch of golden dust, be it in a glass bottle or a replication through the salt and grit they sprinkle on icy roads, and I will be transfixed by the sight. Perhaps this is what living in London does to a person, especially when you're wary to hit the beaches in a society where nakedness is seen as the norm. But whatever it is, I'm in love with it. The sand, not the nakedness of course.

Dune bashing was absolutely amazing! Whilst I was begging the guy to make it last longer and to do the twisty crazy drive on the dunes again and again, I had the two ladies girls to my right with their eyes closed, holding hands and shrieking.. I just sat there hoping the driver would listen to me instead, which he did :D

After arriving at the campsite just in time for iftar, we decided to forego the camel-riding and the sand boarding and sat down to shawarma, pakoras and samosas to break our fast with. Once we were slightly refreshed with food in our tummies, we took a look around and found there to be various things on offer, complementary to the package we paid for of course. There was henna tattooing, a chance to play dress up in thobes and abayas (for the non arabs/muslims) and stalls selling belly dancing outfits and bottled sand art. The standard shisha section seemed to be quite popular, especially as the arab and asian men seemed to be intrigued by these scantily clad europeans and americans trying out their first ever puffs on the pipes of the hubbly-bubbly.

The bbq buffet was delicious, made moreso by sitting at the japanese style tables, something that I've always wanted to do. Entertainment whilst we finished off our food had been toned down for ramadan and so instead of bellydancing, there was a man who whirled and twirled with umbrellas, skirts and flashing fairy lights! Quite a memorable act indeed!!

Whilst on our way back to the hotel (with the driver telling us how the prince himself is an elephant and therefore it is the only animal that he himself does not own), we decided the night was far too young to turn in for the day, and so picked up the rest of the crew and made our way to Madinat Jumeira. The outside seating area had its own charm with the bronzed lights and the lake below, especially in the mild warmth of the night. As though in its own separate niche of Dubai, the whole place had this quaint feel about it, a quietly bustling area with an aura of a higher-class calm. However, the numerous shops that were dotted around selling kashmiri embroidered items made me feel right at home.

Upon deciding that we didn't want to eat at Madinat Jumeira, we found ourselves in one of the restaurants on the promenade. I wasn't too interested in the food there and so myself and Miss Mini went for dessert at a nearby italian restaurant to indulge ourselves with warm brownies and vanilla ice cream, the real stuff and not the likes of Wall's.

Deciding to skip on the 2am walk, we went to sleep, ready to wake up early and check into a second hotel, one that was up to Miss Mini's high standards, and not the embarassment of a five star hotel that our current one claimed to be.

(Un)fortunately, God either thought we needed to rest a little more or that we would get up to no good with our own set of wheels, and so we were unable to collect our booked out Mercedes C class until midnight due to some difficulties in company policy. It's quite amusing to see a petulant and annoyed Miss Mini, especially when her sweet-talk seemingly held no effect on the unamused lady serving us.

However, after a grateful nap back at the hotel we managed to make our way to Dubai mall and broke our fast with Bertollis' ferrero rocher ice cream; a modern twist on the sunnah of dates, but at least it complied with being something sweet! However, for actual food, we had a spectacular meal with Miss Mini's cousin and her husband, made more so by the incredible fountain-shows that punctuated our dinner every half an hour.

After free-tasting caramelised nuts for dessert, long stays in g1 gallery and conversations with a kashmiri shop-owner and subsequent politely declined invitations, we were more than ready to pick up our car from the airport.

Freedom in hand, we decided to make our way to a suhoor majlis and took our seat amongst the bored, hungry and affluent late-chillers of Dubain society. As Miss Mini eats less than a baby still on breast-milk, I ended up consuming the entire lobster platter to myself, along with the hoummus and odd-tasting dessert. The other orders were all hers to take, including conversation with the lovely waiter who stood disillusioned by the unislamic manners of the customary attending arabs. How he dealt with the attitudes that comes with a society driven by the lust of their wealth, I don't know. May Allah give him patience..

The natural choice to make after the majlis was to go to the beach (I basically wanted to walk in the sand again), and it being 4am stood in our favour for the empty roads and cool night air. Despite getting lost and having to be shown the way, it was a surreal experience once we got there. Those moments are something I can't ever forget. Sitting on an empty beach looking out to the sea, the dark blue of the never-ending sky filling me with awe and the warmth of the sand reminding me this is real. For me, this will always be the epitome of true beauty. When it comes to the skies and the sea, something in me just stops. It's as though there's a magic that surrounds them that doesn't let me breathe, because if I dare breathe, it will disappear. How can such beauty exist? It is a power I dare not understand.

Leaving behind crushed seashells as proof of our presence there, our short wading time in the water brought along plenty of sand for a free ride as our Merc endured our salted clothes.

The next day saw us awake surprisingly early and we embarked on our journey to the souks. We quickly discovered that without Miss Mini in her Swarovski clad abaya, and my ability to hold a conversation with the shop assistants in urdu (which seemed to shock them more than anything), I could haggle prices down to any level that took my fancy . It was a liberating experience overall bar one incident which has taken me until now to get over. Let's just say that people need to learn when 'no' really means 'no' and not the asian version of an invitation.

After looking over the minimal goods we'd bought and trying to figure out where our money seemed to have disappeared, we checked out of the hotel and went over to the Arabian Ranches, a model town in which Miss Mini's cousin resides. However, our original intention to chill somehow turned into a sleep marathon and Miss Rover found us to be slightly dazed when she arrived to pick me up just in time for iftar.

Whilst Miss Mini had a flight to catch, I was welcomed into Miss Rover's family in true style with their knack for making me blush within the first few minutes of any conversation I held.

We decided to round off the night by stopping by Atlantis hotel on Palm Island. More interesting than the large aquarium and the beautiful corridors, were the ice cream men who were picking up scoops of ice cream, tossing them high in the air and catching them again in the scooper! What a sight! Another transfixing moment it seems. And apparently in America, this service comes along with a song!

My last day started off with Dubai Mall again, and after making a large detour around the area that housed the eagerly awaiting Kashmiri man, we managed to find ourselves outside the world's largest pyrex panelled aquarium (or something like that), situated directly opposite a huge candy store <3

After praying in an empty mosque, we drove down to 'old' Dubai and the underground museum that was predominantly filled with chinese tourists. It was quite cool, in both senses of the word, but I quickly got bored and wanted to be above ground again. We therefore re-entered the living world by way of a lace shop and a nice iranian man, who brought out his better goods once I told him my father used to speak farsi :)

After a quick look around Madinat Jumeira for the last time, seeing Burj al Arab from afar and taking in the sight of all the beautiful cars on the road, we picked up up some cake from Shakespeare cafe and made our way back home for my last iftar there. 

I had an amazing time with dear Miss Mini, and for that, I do thank thee <3

For You

"I miss you like omg's"
<3

William Cowper

'Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees'

Sarah Teasdale

'Long, look long and you will be blessed:
No one worth possessing
Can be quite possessed.'

Carry me in your grace
And I shall rise to stand
Firm upon the shoulders of belief
As I sway to deliver
Each message as they fall
To their forgotten mound
And as I liken each touch
To that of the profound
I can finally feel
Each life passing down.
My own, a thousand times over
In the race of my blood
Deep within my hand

Hearken. For those who dare
To open their thoughts
And believe in the power
That nature's force does bring
Will begin to rest in the murmuring
Rhythm of the whisper of our world.
A gift, given to those who have learnt
To see.

I am in every breath
That you weave. In every
flutter that you braid
And I sleep within
Your blood. Let me be.

Half-awakened to the
Murmurs of the night,
I hasten to dream again
And yet, the breeze
And the slumber in sight
Makes me awaken again

I am still alive

It is as though I breathe
Through my eyes

Born in the midst of a war they bear the signs of death
Even within their sleep

And amongst the harvested memories of life
They stand naked before each dawn

There were engravings of verse encrypted within the darkness of the storm, and within a momentary drift of balance, they were transformed into a stillness that seeped through far beyond the silence could fathom. Here lay a sign, a final piece of art that lay ruin to the misguided demeanours of the past. An ancestral call. A truthful bond so severe, that to deny it, would be as though to wipe the traces of time from its very existance.

We were fashioned in form to obey. Let us bow to the will of our call..

Rumi

'You dance inside my chest
Where noone sees you

But sometimes I do
And that sight becomes this art'

Clear Skies

There are times in which clarity imposes itself upon ourselves and we remain only as spectators to the unravelling farce, a loss at the hands of a disinterested hold. 

Uninhibited in design, wavering falls lift us in a stepwise fashion from reluctant solitude only to be thrown before the darkening glare of day. Blessings punctuated with relief. Bedazzled by the clamoring fusion of light, a soul once born in the skies and now reawoken to the liberation of peace, bows to the ground, barefoot and overwhelmed by the gratitude of loss.

An awakening previously distanced by time has been rekindled amongst the selfishly mute. The truth found beyond the throes of belief absolves us of our destiny as we lay alongside the innocence of the unborn. 

An attempt at a truly humble beginning.

Unspoken Dawn

The end is nigh. Cracks have appeared within the kingdom and those who are to be delivered from the weeping of the sun must rise forth and grasp the light.

We are indeed the last to see the morn..

Summer Begins

It's been a complete whirlwind with deciding to go, packing and leaving for a camping trip within a few hours of finishing my last exam on Friday. I've spent the past few days with a bunch of amazing people in Walesby Forest, and have returned battered, bruised, burnt (by both the sun and the oven) and exhausted and have yet to catch my breath, but, I've also come back with some fantastic memories and friends that will remain with me for a very long time inshallah. 

DAY 1

After dumping our stuff in the lodge and looking around with awe at the sheer number of bunkbeds and the amount of luggage that some people had brought with them, we started off with orienteering in the forest, blindfolded, but thankfully guided along with a rope, and had to pass through a number of obstacles and slapping trees. We then decided to do it backwards and Safoora and myself were  the only ones brave enough to try it running, from which I still have rope burns as a momento of the experience. And by the way, tightrope walking isn't as easy as it looks, especially when your helping hand lets go off you on your very first attempt!

On our way to finding the lake after we finished early from our introductory event, we managed to get lost and increased a 1 mile journey to about 5 miles! But we climbed trees, grass-whistled and water-fought on the way, enjoying the scenic beauty of the forest and distant sheep as we ambled along through the fields and sand. Although I have no idea what the sand was doing there in the middle of the forest..

Ofcourse food and witticisms are always part of the general jokes on any trip but interspersed between that were educational acitivities. Our halaqah was very refreshing with a talk delivered by a lovely sister named Umm Rumaissa, and was in fact about  her original name-holder. In addition to various case scenarios that we discussed, the baby that came as a bonus with the circle was absolutely adorable mashallah and kept us entertained for a lengthy period of time.

To conclude the day we had group bonding sessions and Bilal Hassam's activity in which we learned about the Johari Window opened our eyes to the importance of self awareness and our interactions with others.

DAY 2

Water bombs. What a way to wake someone from their sleep! However, my threat of throwing a solid punch seemed to deter the perpetrator more than enough to spare me from such a refreshing 'good morning' ;)

Alas, it seems as though I wasn't to be spared from the water, even with the torrential downpour having come to an end as waking time approached, for canoeing brought about its own drenched jokes. Lessons learnt from canooing: 

1. Some people just aren't made for steering around a lake. However, if you want to get an up close and personal look at the branches on the sides of the lake, well, thats another matter altogether.

2. If you are in a two-man canoe and one of you jumps off in a heroic attempt to help those who have managed to capcize, you're going to end up turning your own canoe over too.

3. Some people enjoy recapcizing others.

4. You can fall into the lake and not manage to spoil your eyeliner :D

5. It's difficult to swim with trainers on.

6. Revenge is even sweeter when God does it for you ;)

With todays circle cancelled, we had time to actually clean up the lovely scent the lake water left on our clothes, not to mention we were able to warm up a bit before catching pneumonia, which would have been a problem if we were shivering when we had to go and hold our guns..

Rifle shooting was something I had been eagerly anticipating ever since I knew it was on the list of acitivities to undertake, and it was definitely worth the wait. Some people seemed to have an absolute knack for it, and were hitting bulls-eye on their first attempt! I didn't know whether to be impressed or frightened. For me, practice really did make it 'perfect' (well, not perfect per se..), but with me delicately pleading with the guy to give me around 15 shots each time instead of the normal 5, I managed to improve my aim, and am currently finding a place to put up my holed piece of card on my wall :) Ofcourse my brother told me that it looks like I didn't inherit the same genes as he did, as he used to be a professional competitor and used to be one of the top ten marksmen in the country mashallah. I know he was secretly impressed by my attempts though :D

With target practice completed, now was the time to move onto bigger objects and so human catapaults were an obvious follow-up activity. Ever put a rubber band around a pronged twig and used it to boing stones at people? Well, two people each holding one end of a scarf works just as well. Being the first to test-run our contraption, I set the precedent for flying across the field, barely  managing to keep my feet on the ground and stay upright at the same time. This alongside leap frogging and racing was what we managed to get up to as we had to wait about before being allowed back into the lodge.

Back in the lodge we made preparations for our camp fire. Wow is Febreeze useful, especially once you've sat around smoking wood and cardboard and the smell refuses to leave your clothes, although its aroma proved to be somewhat intoxicating. The poor dying fire to which we fed everything we could find, even an apple core and a banana, although the latter was for eating, provided a nice end to the day outdoors as we sat and talked and 'sang', and scared people with torches and my face. Sigh. Standard.

DAY 3

Most of the day was spent cleaning out the lodge, absorbing in the atmosphere for the last time and snatching in conversations with people whenever we could. The barbeque with the talk from a guest speaker at the end was the highlight of the last hours of camp, and it was with a sense of completeness that we finally left in the awaiting coach.

After managing to catch my coach back to London with less than thirty seconds to spare, I finally was able to sit down and reflect upon this shotgun trip, and I'm sure those reflections will be shared at some point, in my more abstract writing style as it's something I'm more comfortable with :)

All in all, I'm thankful for having had such an enjoyable opportunity and as always, I hope it will work to better me somehow inshallah. Ah yes, and I've learned that fire escapes are indeed handy. Not to escape a fire from (or a burnt toast started fire alarm), but to climb in through when you've forgotten the keys or need to avoid the downstairs section of the building :)

Now with my aunt over for a couple of days and then plans to go to Nottingham again for a few days, although with family this time, I get the feeling that this is going to be a busy summer, inshallah..

Barely human

Upon censoring our thoughts and feelings we slowly start to lose all that our humanity has taught us to be.

Tapestries

I looked at him with eyes that held a belief that had been fashioned at the very beginning of time, when creation first began to breathe. In transitory relapse, I stood alone, oblivious to the onlooking spectres that veered past this communion of the unborn. Perhaps wisdom had granted them a justice in their awareness of the abyss into which they were certain to fall. A path they had chose, connected, and in the thread to which we are bound.

The devil himself remained aloof to the ploy, amused by the wanderings of man and the subtleties through which they gave life unheld command. It was a road of the living to create. And that of the dead to bless, with bowed heads, in a light they struggled to weave.

Within already hung tapestries, folded lines ride through our tales as we filter within the layers of the untold. Let their work unfold for I am yet to be, unheard, as I lay tethered and sat upon the ground.

There Can Be No Name...

It's thrilling, isn't it? This realisation, this form that heralds the awakened. From the chaos that nature brings and within the winds sweeping to change, in finality, this is to what it comes. With fumbled hands rewoven and stilted words reborn, we leave to display our design, our final piece to be played. Indeed, it is the end of a beautiful turn. The music sheets flutter to the ground as our roles solidify into the theatrical pieces we are yet to perform. It is time..

As I step barefoot onto the stage and take my place, slowly turning to face the hungry eyes, I smile. I am ready to hold my own.

It is not the fear that drives me, nor their expectations of what is to be, but it is the joy to which I lose myself upon hearing the notes begin to hum; a distant whisper of a dancing within the soul. All within a moment, alive.

Nothing can take away that which you make for yourself. And so, let me begin...

"Every man is said to have his peculiar ambitions"

Set Free

It is by sacrifice that wisdom lends us her robe. And it is within the subtle folds that we abide by the laws that let us preserve our own. A strength to revere, for humility is of the elite. To orchestrate in its entirity, we bow down to the will of man, a weakness reserved to the soul for we beget not our thoughts without but crass relief. How then can we be amongst the flames that burn with remorse if the hue of shadowed smoke is the abode of our desire?

Indeed we are fashioned weak and unruly are our cries, for we despair when we take fright of the burdens we are to bear. But to survive is to bequeath our souls to the Will of God. Let you set me free..

"Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain."

Let us rise

When the will shall amass the truths
And the chimings of time shall pass
It is then that the hurdles of fame
Brings a reality to the love of the farce.
In the window of regret that we open
And wide-eyed to the lies we do learn
No longer are we wrought with desires
For mistakes are wielded to yearn.
But it's in the shadows of space that we lay
In turmoil of the ill-laden grave
As begotten creatures of darkness
In guilt our decisions do waive.
But from the soiled earth do we awaken
As a branded flame of rebirth
And it is in new light that dawn does restore
True faith in the claim of our worth.

Ramblings

1.

Life continues. Events, actions and words remain as the time that is indulged in and spent, but of late, it is as though time itself has crystallised and shattered, scattered amongst the remnants of passers by at the depth of an ocean floor. To remember is as though to fish amongst the wearied souls that are but imaginations of the past.

I seem to have reached a stage of submission to the peace within my own cave, only distantly aware of life itself, absorbed in the timelessness that space can give. But it is a time that stagnates, that dulls the mind, the senses, and in its place remaines a numbness that settles through the cuccoon, a veil to the seasons of change.

It is within these depths that the light of each dawn brings out the words written upon the dark, a reminder and a challenge set forth by Tolkein's words. To fade with the settling of dusk is but a sign of its transient rebirth. Indeed, a warmth to draw slumber to rest. For now..

The rota of the stars are a testament to our growth of age, experience and time. In numbers we are sure to gain, throughout each second to the year, but it is wisdom that we should hope to pursue. It has been a long many years and I feel the subtleties of age more than I knew.

2.

There comes a time when you question your path. When you realise that you spend your days in mindless monotony, a habit born in repeat. Repeat.. But it takes belief to bring perspective to what previously had been aimless play. Again. We do it for Him. And in selfishness, for us. Yet sometimes, it takes a simple conversation to reignite the passion for your belief in the road you walk upon. A difference to make. A change.

I believe that in changing our future, we must change our present. There are those who dismiss their responsibilities to the children that they have born, and to the society in which they reside. It is a lack of understanding which harbours fear, and a lack of acceptance which does not allow for help. With us remains the duty to reach out to the generations before us and allow them to embrace all that which caused them shame.

2 1/2.

Illnesses of the mind. It is a disease, like diabetes or hypertension or even TB. However, mental disorders are shunned as being embarassing, lewd and for some, fictitious. They are real. Ignoring it won't make it go away. Not believing it exists won't explain a friend's behaviour. And hiding a child from society will never give them a chance to get the help that they need.

These disorders exist, and in acceptance there is no shame. It is our duty to educate and to treat. This is my goal. My belief and my change. It is however a dangerous field to play as beliefs are in constant battle against the sience that we are taught. Are we in fact waging war against God's decree. Do we create excuses for those whose cruelty and disregard for love and for life are simply classed as 'diseased'. Are we the ones that allow for the corruption of society to progress further and with little restraint. It is indeed a war, in which our enemy hides from behind our eyes. But what about the abused, the emotionally scarred and the traumatised. These are victims of the depraved. And there are the disabled, the handicapped and confused. They all deserve to be understood. To be accepted. To be loved. Whether adult or child. There is a beauty of that which is recovered by God's blessing and cure in the form of the guidance and support we give. That is to be our aim.

3.

In reevaluating the point at which I stand, I look to those around me and I see change; in character, in maturity and in deen. We each have reached the stage where we are now veering into an unknown territory of humbled intentions in search of a commitment not to be undone. And yet, my insignificance quashes my desire to seek, for there is nought I think I may offer in goodly returns. How then can it be?

I am afraid.

And yet, the alluring beauty it provides, still remains..

'He created for you mates from among yourselves, that ye may dwell in tranquillity with them, and He has put love and mercy between your (hearts)' [30:21]

4.

Humans are however made weak. They fall. Sins are meant to remain between the believer and His Lord, for even when seeking guidance for ones salvation from those of knowledge, in standing before them, your forgiveness was always with Allah.

Havingly recently been made aware of a situation in which a righteous Muslim man held an affair with his daughter-in-law, I fear for their unborn child, an innocent caught in the midst. It would be arrogance to judge and humility to fear for ourselves. No one is safe from the advances of Shaitan. May Allah protect us all from the traps of lust, boredom and mistakes.

"And whoever does evil or wrongs himself and then seeks forgiveness from Allah, he shall find Allah, All-Forgiving, All-Merciful." [4:110]

5.

Forgiveness for humans can be a test of our patience and patience, once inculcated into ones personality brings an undisruptable peace of the soul. And yet there are times when our unwavering belief lets us do nothing but fight. Until we waver. Wisdom may not have been ours to attain and logic may have held discourse, but in sacrifice, we are to learn the truths that were once obscure. It is however in our patience that we attest to the Will, no longer on our own to fight. To decide. Let the balance of living and life find its place amongst the chaos that new thoughts pursue.

"..On no soul does Allah place a burden greater than it can bear.." [7:42]

 --

Jumbed up thoughts- an attempt to express my every day life :)

Working to a Clear Plane

Inspiration can only come from accepting the natural order of the living. An order crucial to our walks; our core. Yet we see that the living are made to evolve. To grow. And it is in learning each stance that we start to dance through each move. Indeed, we may learn to manipulate the art of life itself.

Our dance is a ploy, for unaccustomed as we are to learn, there are times when it is in the grace of a timely pace that we move swiftly in the arms of change. But it is to the beat of the mind that we are bound. Bound to bend to the power of creation, of the rules and ties we have clasped, and the solitude in which we rose. To break is unnatural; an unknown path. And in stuttering strokes, twined tracks of fear lay camouflaged within this lighted trail of spring.

A trail of a rise. A trail we no longer bring. A change. The heart can however lie and defy what the mind already knows. And it is in defiance that the charcoal lined course signposts its way through the iron-laden fog of the diverse. The plane.

And upon this plane, in floating alongside and clearing the mist one woven strand at a time, we allow our wombs to breathe. To be accustomed to grow. And we let our hearts be nourished through the mind. A new bend. Our own.

We create and manipulate the forms that our art can take.

We decree.

Losing

At a loss.
To be lost.
To lose.

All of the above.

Another Year

Exactly six years to this date and time.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon.

My Write

There are times when it feels as though ghosted traffic screams through you as you stand on a deserted road, struck by a realisation so severe that neither awe nor fear can translate the design.

How different we are. How different.

Neither logic nor love works on those who have lost their fight, for they wish to no longer believe. A choice.

Time only works to strengthen their cause, their resolve; a victory of sorts. But such triumph can only bring grief to those that have already left. Disappearing footprints remain as a testament over the void that the darkness now fills. Already at a different plane.. A purer rise. To suffer is to return, and in return, to suffer is waived. And to move beyond is to bid all a disdainful farewell. A choice.

I cannot.

He(r)art

Desert Fairy

Gritty

Painting a green world

Art refers not only to the traditional forms of poetry, prose and paint, but it is the vision with which we adore and engross ourselves in the expressions that signify the discoveries to which we concede. It is in this, an ability that is almost intuition itself, that we forget, in fact, it is all an art.

I'z

One hundred billion million more times than you could ever imagine, did the garish light creepingly blind all that its touch consumed.

Corner by corner, the world illuminated to the grabbing hold of the new moons pull.

It was simply the beginning of this new ravaged land, a sight not seen before.

Darkness unveiled.

And barefoot and dishevelled, eyes awakened in newborn rapture to this world of unknown grace. Who would have thought their foetal form had matured to birth in the time that they had dreamt of their demise. It indeed became a noted date of cries. And indeed, it was but one gush away.

Lay still, and breathe.

.

Unfathomable.
Inert.

Let the dreams begin..

Altered

Each faltered step
Eats shadows into depths
Whilst starved intentions
Let cries run tracks
Into the burdened minds
Of the once elite
And thus once again
We hold our tongues
And hold each fright
As we leave our lies,
To mind.
To rest.
In dreams
We sleep.

Unbound

To live by time seems impossibe and each stretched moment a noble pursuit. Yet, when we record by the strokes of the line, it is in one that we can encompass, and belittled in all we'd forgot.

And though at a leisurely pace, trodden paths seem not to have progressed, as though stilled in voyage, an immortality bent in our failure to resign. And as each collapsing ride hails from a stunted rise, yet unmounted, each steed shall stand alone.

In portrayal of a mustered zeal, glazed and indistinct, a wish of the seer rises into the dust that she walks upon, a fellow amongst the wiles.

Strike.

O

That's all there is to say.

Lest I Should Forget..

Nostalgia always brings with it a deep remorse for lost appreciation. Yet, the beauty of imprinted signs leaves aside the fallen heights of desire, and emboldens us to embrace our blood's calling once again.

Renewal aside, we remain the same and only sheath each brilliant sword with but a cloth of farce. And farce forgot, we remain allied alongside our shield.

It is in our advance that we clasp from behind, so that our future shall not forget. That is a must to accept; my sword cannot be left behind.

I am.

Lessons Learned

Between one heart beat and the next, we seem unable to acknowledge the possibility that we may fail. That all we work towards may never bear the fruit of our efforts, of our dedication, and of our time that we spent, mastering and honing each skill that we use. The intensity of our pride in the lives that we build, blinds us to the truth of our mortality. A shock when it is realised, and amounted to dust when our soothing words of 'not yet' give rise to the ruins that we build for ourselves in that which lays beyond our sight, away from all we know.

We spend our time as hypocrites, languidly idolising the memories we created, having been made in the intensity we wished to gain. Drained and wrung dry, to hoard in the short space we perceive.

One would think that death would awaken us to the reality of life, to the dreams cut short. Again. Another life, another friend. Were they lucky enough to have planned for their now? Did they have the wisdom to prepare? That, I don't know. But tomorrow may not wait for our fruit and so it is the seeds in which we need to invest our lives. Another push. Another time to grow.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon.

Poised

Recoil. Recline. And Strike.

To accept the power that you wield can only mean a rented choice to covet all that is already yours. Sucked into the emptiness of a void world, each extension slowly drifting past, catching onto moments of meaning, a whispering line on the blank platter of instruments to communicate; we make that choice.

Raised in dug grounds, in an attempt to stain the latched, we work to familiarise, to recite; frozen in a grabbing hope towards the dawn.

First or third? You choose.