Errr, question?

The Secret, Eat, Pray, Love and my pc manual says if I expect something good to happen, it will.

Are they bullshitting me?

Peace in her stomach

When she put her hands around the 5 litre plastic container, it felt cool.

And the water made its necessary comforting glug-glug sound. A dream.

If some water should splash onto the ground and give a drink to a thirsty maize plant. And then the maize plant grew. And it was harvested. And stamped to its pale grainy yellowness. And then this water was boiled. And some of the maize added. And cooked 'til it looked like rain clouds do. And then she ate some. And her mother. And her brothers and sisters. And they went to sleep. This time looking foward to getting up in the morning.

A dream.

Maybe there wasnt peace in the land...but at 5 years old, all she wanted was peace in her stomach.

My Apologies

It was no more than a twist in my sobriety

I did

In another time, another bastardized version of this life, we coulda been good together.
You and me.
Not rubbing each other up the wrong way for the fact that we cant get into each others pants. Feeling expectant and knowing nothing is to follow.
Curious and uninterested.
Reeling in and casting far out.
So far that I never know if either of us will get back.

The Theraputic Drag

Wouldn't it be nice if right at this moment, I could take all my frustrations - which, when I really think of it, are largely irritations - all the gross things I've internalised since waking up late and on the very wrong side of the bed this morning and release it in a nice puff of smoke.

Yes, I want a cigarette. In all it's glorious tar-filled noxiousness. To make me look as dangerous as I feel. So that I can fool myself into thinking I have a handle on things. Then afterwards I can berate myself on how terrible smoking is, how it helps dull skin and wrinkles along. But I can do that afterwards, after I roam into Uma's character in Pulp Fiction.

Trouble in Paradise

Gods ears must be ringing, 'cos let me tell you, there's one helluva lot of peeved-off chicks down here. And they're not being quiet about.



Whoever said Muslim women were submissive should take a look at the complaints going top-side, and it's all becaise of these snarfy Hur al ayn. Apparently they're all gorgeous, with magnificent boobs 'that do not sag' (I kid you not) and large lusturous eyes and when you're a meanie to your hubby they tell you not to be a grot because they're waiting for him in jannah (they're obviously oblivious to his boep and toe-nail picking habit) and, to compound matters, the male of the species get 70 of these beauts if they're really good.



Now honey, I dont intend to watch any heavenly cat-fights, should I ever get up there, but the claws have been drawn and looks like insaan is going for blood in round one.



I have heard and read every kind of complaint from "Allah favours the male sex" na oodhu billah to "what if I dont want my husband to have other wives in Jannah?". And I have one question to all people who ever ask questions that they know is going to be a mission for them to comprehend; Can you not just accept that you will never ever ever ever fully comprehend Allah's wisdom???

Dudettes, I ask you, in all honesty - do you really believe that your Maker - the One who is closer to you than your jugular vein, Who loves you 70 times more than your own mama - is going to give you a raw deal in Paradise?

Do you think you're going to be the same limited person that you are here? And that you will have to make sacrifices over there? For real?

Let me just put your mind at ease; the learned say that Jannah is a place beyond all our imaginings. Is it really worth it for us to start fighting the whole feminist fight from now (This is without any guarantees of us getting there), and with God nogal.

Get over it

Where You Are

I used to wonder before where you were

What you were doing

If you were thinking of me

Now I know

Where you are

What you're doing

That you're not thinking of me

And it's all these things I know that I court and simper at. Rant and rave at. It's all these things I know that I take to bed at night, that I plot against. It's all these things I know that I frustrate beyond all your limits. It's all these things I know that scramble to get away from me.

Sometimes I think maybe both of us wish I was still wondering where you are.

The truth about being honest

I sit here thinking about what and how to write, at the same time thinking about how often that intro 'I sit here..' has been used and that thought is making me a bit fidgety. Honesty sucks. How often have I told people the truth?

More frighteningly, how often have I told myself the truth? I don't even want to answer that question honestly.

Is it really liberating to be honest with ourselves or do we manage to scrape by in life only because of the illusions and lies we feed our minds, making up promises for the future, telling ourselves it's not too late, that we're still young enough, lithe enough, not bad enough to warrant change.

This is the part where I figuratively lift up the rug and begin the calming task of sweeping. If there were a mirror infront of me right now, I'd be ashamed to look into it. I'll sort out this mess tomorrow. I'll be honest with myself tomorrow. After I sort out Domestic Affairs and lunch and bags and stuff. Tomorrow, I'll be honest.

Me

The one side rears to go

the other

lags behind

The furtive and blatant battle

I sit by

and watch

somewhat interested.