Behold! I’ve entered the race against an absent time, dear friends... I’ve reduced you down into your particles... so that you are confined within a sub-atomic prison of yourself to which you are helpless over your own fate, and here, you accept all which you’ve rejected in the form of The Order. This is not how time was prophesied in the beginning, may Allah, the Merciful, bestow upon us everlasting forgiveness for our blind deviations, for half the human heart has been veiled in darkness to which we owe the unknown. The jinn is a plant whose seed extends its roots to the depths of the unknown then sprouts through the threshold of darkness within us! Half of the heart is the earth of evil, where the jinn swarm ahead a falling dusk, an omen of The End... at the head of their plague rides the archangel on a dragon, who bears in one hand The Book, and inthe other... The Orb.
But... this is not how time was prophesied in the beginning. Here, I have reduced you to truth, so that you are less than a lesser of yourself, because this is the nature of a memory’s existence. I knew first to distrust my eyes, for what they saw was nothing monolithic but the swarm of atoms between which there is space, though the eye knows this not, as it weaves the atoms into a garment of illusion they so depend on. I saw the space between matter, and it was not enough. This is true. As a child, I could see matter and the space between it so vividly, that I could feel every atom, as if I were swimming in that space, except that an atom alone is not like water, how when I moved, they would enter me, becoming a part of me and....
and this is only one prison! and one prison is not enough. I was born in blood, and the air distinguished me from death as I took my first breath and this was not enough. I saw so vividly the tale of a dying sun that I wept in the crossfire of illusion and this was not enough, so I fainted. I poured my soul into a golden vile then handed it off to the grip of darkness and this was not enough. No sacrifice was enough. By the time I spoke I said thus: Love is just enough. and you called me a liar, and I believed you, so love, too, was not enough. I slept in a catacomb as an infant and the damp cold kept me warm even while I was dying and a cold death was not enough. Neither was a warm death enough. I sang a melody unknown to birds, I sang to myself in a tomb, in a language buried there, where nothing is enough.
Nothing was not enough. I walked along a path as a shadow followed me fromafar. With each step it grew closer, and darker, quieter. I kept walking forward, as if I were crawling up a steep mountain side in an onslaught of rain, I kept moving, and it was out of my control. The shadow stepped on my heels and spoke: Slow. and I did, I slowed. The fear overwhelmed me, and shuttered my sight in a flurry of white and black. I said to myself: Stop. and I did, I stopped.
Death is walking along life’s path as a shadow. It is the shadow before which I walked. Death is my shadow. Life is a path between white and black, which is grey, and grey is not enough, so the path disappears.
What was so insatiable that all of this was simply not enough... I walked along the disappearing path... life... the floor of grey smoke so determined to scatter itself among a grove of dreams beyond the sun. The sun, I have not seen in so long, though I could never forget its purpose; like a grandfather clock, keeping track of the space between beginning and end with that burning tick of days worshipped by dandelions on a forgotten hillside. This is both the blessing and the burden of forgetfulness; life goes on... and wherever life goes, I go, too. For instance, I mean to depict the exact circumstances of my imprisonment, torture and exile, yet I find myself incapable of doing so. For existence is and only is, and always is, too. I cannot return to a memory I am currently living, nor can I live a memory that I have already returned to. This is without the patience endowed to me in the stone den hallowed in the mountainside in which I once sought shelter amidst a lethal storm. I suppose it would be helpful to begin again at the landscape from which I first was. How do you expect to me to tell you where I come from, considering all that I’ve seen of it? Memory is distorted enough from any given vantage point, and to add to it the obscurity of which my memory has been welded with, no, memory is not like metal, memory is like inscription on stone, so, the obscurity of which my memory has been written over with, that obscurity which is yet another distortion of my homeland. Thus I am left tracing these marks with my fingers, feeling for anything which may resemble the truth of what my body lived and what my eyes documented of what it had lived. Then, the senses, too, have become obscure, and the stone becomes blank, though I’m thrusting my soul into it, as if it would absorb me should I strike myself upon it with the perfect trajectory and force. But, this is not so, for the blow yields no blood, and the blood is indeed the river in which the truth is swimming upstream. Dear God, I must be dreaming. I’ve sacrificed everything I was for the purity of my own blood. The purity of which I’ve yet to reinstate, so long as it’s inside me. To purify one’s own blood, one must release it, back from whence it came, where it may boil beneath the sun and fume into tiny spores so small the swarm of them could charm the mist before it becomes rain while the molecules still share a puddle in the mud.
There is true mystery dwelling upon the Earth, but it does not sneak through the eclipse of our senses as magic is so often prescribed. No... there is no true darkness on the Earth. The mystery is exactly this: Darkness does not exist. The Earth is a city amongst stars, the way a tree is a civilization to microorganisms thriving beyond the scope of sight. The Earth knows only this tragedy which is not absence, but presence, where the light is inescapable and divine. Sixty billion years of immeasurable force accumulate into an instant and I have been to where the darkness was born.
Forget everything I’ve just told you... stare into the space I’ve hollowed from my eye sockets... try to recall how handsome I was in my youth, while brimming with wild aspiration and the tangibility of the impossible. Remember, then, that I am as young now as I was then... that a child who is born into death is preserved only by his breath, thus is forever renewed... that time has been split into two: a time which exists in isolation and a time conjoined at the limb. Recall that I am and was the line which does and will divide them. See then! as you stare into the face of death how it disappears before the fleeting trace of yourself. Listen to me! Do not fall for your own truancy as you become intoxicated by the presence of a bird’s sweet melody... for you exalt your ignorance of God in such indulgence... do not put faith in tales of love hindering on the sweetness of a bird’s song, nor the innocence of its lyrics... beware you forget it decapitates the worm with the same beak it sings from!
And that melody is the music of separation. This language, in which is written before you, is the bridge between you and I. Though I see not what you see. And if you were to speak these words which I’ve written, we would not have sung in the same tune. These words are either the building of the bridge between me and God, or they are the destruction of the bridge which already exists between Him and I. I have been given choice, perhaps, I have been given one choice in all my life, which is neither to create nor destroy, for such power I do not wield, but to be is my solemn decision. It was not my decision to begin with, nor was it anyone’s or anything’s, but from the first breath, I may decide whether to continue.... and this is only the first illusion, as not even my own death is within my control, as proven by the failed attempts. The only truth in my words is that I did not write them; they were written by a hand infinitely wiser than my own, and such is the truth in the words I’ve spoken. This is, of course, the nature of God’s work; freedom and will acting out our hallucinations of what is unknown to us, andsuch is a testament to our blindness. That is the truth. God’s work is blind guidance and I have become a living testament. For I witnessed the light of His glory and became blinded. So what is the purpose of surrender to this repetition?
You must forgive me... I am addressing myself now... You must forgive me. It is true, I was born into a life of true freedom, for which there are no words, yet I succumbed to capitulation, and have lived beneath the merciless foot of Man ever since. So it is true... that my life has been overwritten with poverty and oppression; and that I’ve become aware of my circumstances yet still surrendered to this role of the victim. I need you to hear me now... for my existence is trapped between life and death.... and I’ve hurt myself. I did something unforgivable to my body. My injuries are so severe now because I refused to treat them once the wounds were inflicted. I have refused to eat, or drink water, despite it not being offered to me, for I accepted when it was, naturally, but now... I am alone. I am alone and my body is failing and overcome with illness. If you have never been in this position, you will not understand how death hovers around you, closing in on you with the virtue of a vulture’s shadow circling its prey. Or how its trace leaves a distinguished mark on the minds, mouths and ... faces of the men it preys on with merciless patience. Forgive me for this language, for I knew no better than to listen to it too closely, how I knew not to avert my gaze from the sun until I could no longer see. It was the sound which nourished my curiosity for the exact nature of existence and through this came understanding. It was through my ears that I learned how to see, and through my eyes that I learned how to hear, as the eyes alone cannot comprehend the complexity of oscillations emanating from themselves, neither can the ear trace the exact shape of an echo ringing throughout them. Thus, it was through my senses that I learned to live, to survive. Although, over time, what is taken for granted becomes numb like a ghost limb to those ridden with stimulus and sensation.
I have not slept in so long that I’ve forgotten what it is to sleep. It is possible, too, in addition to ill state of mind, that my body should perish from lack of sleep. This is as if the earth passed days, weeks and months in the narrow frame of noon on the hottest summer day with a bittersweet longing for the inevitable dusk which never arrives. Rest, indeed, is the nourishment of all life, and night is the mother of us orphans. Being that this is the relationship between both my life and death, it seems inevitable to me now that my next rest will be my final slumber. In this phase of my life, I’ve learned many things worth learning but, have yet to learn to give up the ghost, that is, the only thing worth learning in life.
Surrender, you see, is the virtue of all virtues. Think, then, of the chirping bird whose name I dared not remember, whom, in defiance, left its perch in search of sustenance on a gloomy, grey, grey like the roaring claps of thunder veiling an assaulting sun, morning, which, housing the slew of juicy earth worms, leading a slithering path of decomposition through the moist grip of earth, surrendered to its hunger which we’ve mistaken as resistance towards death, as it surrendered to the fall of gravity and lift of wind, carrying it from its throne of leaves and anguish down to the coarse, grass infested swamp below where the soil is as rich in relief to the living little bird as it was to the immeasurable amount of corpses collected in the graveyard of its belly before it. How long does it consider the leap from its perch? What is the length of consideration it has as it surrenders to its instincts of pecking through the mud, and what does it feel, and how long does it feel, the warm, slimy texture of worm before it clamps its beak upon it, yanking it up from the earth? In that moment... when the worm is thrusted up into the air, restrained only by the complex system of muscles and tendons surging throughout the birds neck and body, at the peak of its upward thrust, what ecstasy overcomes the bird? Take this moment throughout the scope of your many lives, your many memories, amidst your failures, triumphs and melancholiac contemplations, as permanent an image as say, Our lord, Christ, splayed upon his crucifix, as He beseeched God; “Allaho, Allaho, lama sabachthani?”, at the instant the bird’s beak reaches up toward heaven, how distant is the star with which it aligns? At the moment of this sacred alignment, the clouds have dissipated in anticipation of divinity, allowing a ray of light to descend upon the bird the eternal crown reserved for saints, for the bird has surrendered to none but God, wherein its surrender is triumph. There, with its halo of pure light, the worm continues to squirm, for the story of this bird is the absent reflection mirrored in the worm as it stabs its beak downward, casting the worm back upon the earth. Still, it struggles, in defiance of fate, as the bird had in its hunger, for the resistance of fate, too, is surrender, and fate.
Listen... Fuck the bird. True rage exists in silence. Violence is as ingrained in God’s language as well as Love, and it is only the privileged who escape this divine order hearkened upon on the earth by hoarding hideous mutations made of His masterpiece. If I speak of wonder, and it leaves you in a trance-like awe, does this omit the agreement kept between soil and seed? How does one live on a land so plentiful with vegetation and neglect the balancing act of violence in either momentary or day-to-day life? Does the sapling not break through the coarse lair of dirt, despite its oppression, to achieve liberation, so that it might grow? Do the roots of the most gentle tree, whose blossoming buds bring awe and color unto the world, not slip through the cracks of stones, in search of life, splitting a solid rock into shale? Was the stone’s vulnerability to its environment not the reason it became disintegrated? See then! How I veil myself in shadows, and have bathed my supple skin in the blood of men. Detest me if you will, for having treated women as stones, and my soul as the root of a struggling seed in search of life. Self-preservation and procreation are the silent feet of Life’s longing for itself. Some people call that “love”, and it is true, those people who weave sentiment out of the pure threads of Love are naught but retards and heretics. So long as I keep this journal of death written in English, the English and their barren descendants will use this in their favor to perpetuate oppression, so I must interrupt divine elements with disclaimers and propaganda, for the hatred seeps from within me like the roots of a tulip into infertile soil; that is... I was born into the world I live in, within the times I lived. I believe in true equality, which is incapable of being molested in the hands of men, or women for that matter, for it already exists beneath the skin of their palms. God created the Earth, as was prophesied in earlier times, as if anyone could not find this to be true, independently, through submission and sacrifice, and all upon the Earth and whatever lies beyond is known to He and Unknown to us, inevitably so, equality exists and is outside of our realm of control, for it is God’s will. What does not exist is independence, for equality could not be managed without dependence, thus, only God is liberation. From here, I might venture to estimate, that for true liberation of all peoples, the collapse of oppressive powers would have to occur.... that is, most approximately, to slaughter all White people off the face of the Earth, indiscriminately. Think of it like alchemy: We take White bodies and turn them into Corpses! A simple transmutation of elements, I suppose.... such is God’s will!
And such hatred is tilled in the land of the heart and in the body, which is the temple of the soul. And who would groom this garden of death had it not been cultivated around this temple? Such emotion is beguiling, so when one seeks themselves out in the world, they are met only by delirium; and when one seeks the past for reconciliation, they come to know retardation in their mind. For all of life is of such valiance, that its reasoning is beyond the grasp of flesh. Thus, in english, we invoke the word, God; and in Arabic, we are humbled as we call out the name, Allah; and in my native Syriac, the world and its stars stand still as I whisper His name, Allaho, deep within my heart, and in the darkness of my words.
Take heed to the word, for all its meaning lays beyond the threshold of silence. So beautiful is the flower and the tree, that while admiring it, one may forget that it was the infinity of the sky above, which commanded the dark depths of the soil below to give these creatures such beauty; and such is the word’s relationship with silence.
Thus it is true I should say not another word and surrender myself to silence. What has been lost in this translation is lucidity, and it is within my realm to provide it. So I will say this; I have surrendered myself to the silence. This is nothing more than my fingers manipulating the elements, and it so, that I have beheld God in my hands. Such a statement may only be interpreted. The rest is left vulnerable to the whim of darkness.
For I have uttered but one word in my writing this letter to you.
I’ve condemned love in the word violence, and violence, too, I’ve distorted into an object of perverted desire. So what was once pure, now rests helplessly innocent after the long torture of molestation. And what torment! Lurking below the calloused skin, like a vermin below the abandoned home, have these hands come to fulfill temptations. Had the Lord not prayed, out of his earthly desire, “and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”? For what worth was this prayer? When the words which follow have been reserved for submission, “For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours, now and forever. Amen.” The scale of this music is but a desolate one, like a flat tone riding out on a dying bird’s last breath. Only the Lord could create such an earthly prayer so void of sustenance, meaning, and truth. The truth here is that man may not ask of God but one thing which God had not already provided for him. True equality on the earth is buried deep within that truth. Which is to say, true equality exists actively on the earth in a latent dwelling, unknown to mankind as we know him. What is death, then? I know my body rots away now, but what becomes of the details? Is it so, that within these parentheses lies the poem of forbidden knowledge? Like the fertile land sewed by the hand of God, does a life not plant this seed of death at its beginning, so that it may grow and become fruitful? Do you remember this saying, my beloved? “As I walk though the shadows of the valley of death...” Behold! I am the one who has risen from that valley, and to its shadows shall I return. For this, I bare my consumption, and the insatiable hunger of my soul, which longs for the darkness of silence and the silence of darkness combined.
Rebuke this foreboding if you wish to survive. I say this as if I truly believe it. Beyond this wonder is a wonder enacting, for example, the blue light of a winter dusk, and its provoking of our own immortality. For the cold itself brings about the memory of its own preservation. Was I not once enraptured in a sheet of ice? And while the sound dissipates in this isolation, do I not hear the stars crying out to me to return? From the furthest star, should I imagine then, that I am, too, crying out from the star furthest from there? And what then is my word? Who shall hear my cry but God? Leave this body more mutilated than I, and I shall show you the confirmation of this form as a vessel of everlasting change. How ignorant was he to prostrate on the grounds of linearity? Whisper that word “evolution” to yourself as if it were a prayer. Say that time moves forward, not backward, neither up, nor down, but concretely in one direction so that you may find solace in your exile. Sixty four billion years accumulate into an instant... and I have been to where the darkness was born.
I would summon the psychologist to do her job, being it the field of her expertise. Bring that man from the dark corner he dwells in... go, as his nasal snore has disturbed the atmosphere of prayer. Please, brother, turn this man on his side, smack his foot, go on, smack his foot and wake him. Now bring him here to be reprimanded. Summon the lawyers as his witness. I intend to commit many crimes, better call the lawmen. I intend to build one, too, summon also the laymen. It is nearly time for the second prayer, and I haven’t yet washed my limbs. It is nearly time, my brothers, the time has nearly come! Go on, say goodnight now... tuck the child into sleep.
I know first and foremost that I’ve suffered from an illness of mind. I wish for nothing now than to watch the dawn, as if it were the last iceberg melting. Let me tell you then, how I wish to be the soldier who marches alone into his village, bearing the scar of war in his eyes. Like those soldiers who return in droves to this kingdom of hell... eyes torn to pieces, minds null and empty, plagued with images of the women and children mutilated by shrapnel, explosions, carefully calculated rounds of armor piecing ammunition. Torn to pieces. The source of all innocence and inspiration torn, ripped and raped into dust. Let me call God unto them. I wait for myself to release this prayer.... I wait while they die. Listen to the last call to prayer now... how the beauty resonates through the hearts of men, like throwing a brick onto a pile of rubble...
I ask first that the children do not suffer. Know first that your first prayer has been rejected. I ask second that their mothers are free from capitulation. Know next this prayer has been denied. My third wish is an act of desperation... I wish only to return to my land now... No, I did not neglect to ask God why He is so cruel... He said to you, “Look deeper.”
“But, I cannot see, my lord. Holy art thou...” is the sentence befalling a deafening stillness. The cruelty of God disintegrates into the wind, going on, to a place far away where it may blossom through living things and stones. See how it separates itself from the water, and turns what has become toxic into substance once again pure. Ask me why I flee into women, why I seek refuge in the irrelevance of birds and the insects they’ve been given to digest. Ask me why I’ve smothered myself in filth since birth, why my sins are beyond comprehension and why the sun still rises after dark. Let my dream fall far from the touch of inspiration. Let me call out to be asked a question, any question, any question at all and I will answer. I will answer. I will answer to you: I have a reason. I have a reason...
I need life in the form of resistance. If I could live against nothing, I would become God. I was born against nothing but God. Thus I am man, nothing more and nothing less. I became comfortable and died.
Turn the lights off now, doctor, I don’t want to listen anymore.