Posts tagged Story
Posts tagged Story
“I am not a smart man, particularly, but one day, at long last, I stumbled from the dark woods of my own, and my family’s, and my country’s past, holding in my hands these truths: that love grows from the rich loam of forgiveness; that mongrels make good dogs; that the evidence of God exists in the roundness of things.
This much, at least, I’ve figured out. I know this much is true.”
I’m addicted to the words he finds stumbling out of his incoherence. These drugs have him so heavy down in mental inebriations, he thinks he’s speaking to angels. He finds himself sitting at a crossroads between heaven and hell, not sure which way to go because both decisions seem to come with a consequence. Does he let her go or can he ask her to stay? These days he’s not sure how to control the thoughts coming out of his mouth so he says nothing at all. He’s speaking in hand gestures and body language. Shaking his head from side to side and swinging his arms her way. But she’s not watching. She’s too distracted by the silence of the noise, she doesn’t realize he’s whispering I love you. Days later he’s found himself at the bottom of an empty bottle, drowning sorrows in melodies of the songs he thought he could love her to. But he misses her. He just doesn’t know how to say it.
Anis Mojgani - Shake The Dust
“Because just like the days, I burn at both ends and every time I write, every time I open my eyes I am cutting out a part of myself to give to you…”
It’s officially the first day of the holy month of Ramadan and somehow I’ve never felt more unholy myself.
Maybe it’s because I’ve spent the last eight months of the year committing more time to sin than religion. Maybe because I’ve told more lies than truths, kept more secrets and made it an incentive to become a more selfish person.
This time of year is for the purification of mind and body but how does someone purify their soul? Yes, I can commit myself to conceding food and water. I can keep my thoughts occupied with work, family, friends and even religious scripts. I can pray. I can spend the next thirty days confined to faith.
But what happens on the thirty-first day?
What happens when Ramadan is over and all that surrounds me is no longer consumed by religion? What happens when we all go back to eating while the sun is out, sinning when it sets and absorbing ourselves in the lives we led before August 1st? How does thirty days, more or less, purify the talking demon from within?
This year I’m starting Ramadan with more questions than answers. It’s the first year I find myself questioning my faith…not in religion, but in myself. Do I want to be the holier version of myself? Am I ready, willing, to give up indulgence for creed? Maybe the answers lie within the questions themselves. If I am questioning my own conviction than where does that leave my soul?
Ramadan is an emotional journey. Every year we devote ourselves to a month of blatant worship, obligating ourselves to mandatory prayer and conscious faith. With every growling stomach comes the reminder that religion is an everyday part of life. It is a necessity, like the water and food we’ve forfeited. Ramadan is a concentration camp. It is a deliberate awareness of faith.
Day one and I am already feeling faithless. Can thirty days of religion cleanse a sinner’s heart?
“The month of Ramadan is that in which the Quran was revealed, guidance to men and clear proofs of the guidance and the distinction; therefore whoever of you is present in the month, he shall fast therein…” Quran 2:185
The music catered to our desires. It was like a trance, my mind having run away with thoughts of you. It’s been like that for so long now. I’m in some constant daze questioning the moments that seem to pass without you. I’ve convinced myself that I’m surviving, that you were some fragile necessity I can do without. So long as I keep myself preoccupied with faked elation I’m kept distracted from tampering with the lock to these emotions. His hands were gentle and nothing like yours. Sure, his touch could never hold me the way you did, but sometimes a woman just needs to be held. I’ve gotten quite good at pretending anyway. It doesn’t hurt half as much as it used to, it just feels different. I’m accustomed to the nagging pain in my heart, it’s a numbing sensation. So when I find myself yearning for you I become more eager to let him take advantage of me. These lustful endeavors become means for a cure and these days I find myself in need of a fix.
He must be drunk. This late at night, tequila tinged at the tip of his tongue. He always seems to confuse it for me when the hours run belated. My mistake was answering. Falling back into his addiction, like a relapse. I can hear it in his voice, the taste of liquor and the scent of nostalgia. His words stumbling over thought, he’s not sure why he called. He senses the disdain in my intonation and apologetically starts to explain himself, although he knows I need no explanation. I can hear him mouthing out words he wishes he could say out loud but even under the influence he lacks the courage. I do nothing but listen. Listen to the words he can’t seem to say between all the words he manages to ramble. I sit in the silence of the empty words, the lack of words, the words I don’t want to hear anyway. It’s 3 a.m. and he’s lonely. It’s 3 a.m. and I’m lonely. I’m waiting for the words that had him place this call, the reason why I even answered. In an hour we’ll be lying in each other’s arms, lying to ourselves and lying to each other. His drunken words. My sober thoughts.
He bore the weight of religion on his shoulders and I was heavy with sin. Godly as he was, his body laid the foundation for lust. Intellect so profound, he made love to me with his words. His maneuver of religious empathy and modest compassion made me want to take advantage of his earnest. I loved him, in the purest form, though I couldn’t help but yearn for his virtue. He was a saint, holy and glorified and I took the form of a miscreant demon on the prowl for corruption. Though I embodied sin he seemed to find sanctity in my soul and with this notion he became my savior.
Sometimes the words you used to say find themselves in the lyrics of songs we’d play when we made love. Now these memories are bittersweet and haunting, making their way into moments when I’m trying to forget you the most. And I almost feel bad for him when he takes credit for the pleasure he thinks he sees in my smile. I could lay in his arms the countless hours of a lifetime reminiscent of your touch, nostalgic for your taste. So long as I am consumed in your memory, I am content with your absence.
He held my hand and suddenly it wasn’t just sex, we were making love. His fingertips traced against the palm of my heart and with a tight grip he’d thrusted himself deep enough to penetrate my walls of conviction. His savage kisses radiated a sense of ardor that lingered in the heat of this transitory passion. Somehow we’d gone from being foreigners to passionate lovers of a fleeting occasion. Instead of making love to each other, we were simply falling in love with the moment.
The song was haunting. A melodic chronology of what once was you and me. I can hear the tune echoing in the background of every moment we’d ever shared. This pleasant harmony of a love gone astray somehow having turned into misery’s affair with lust.
Nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard.
It was the lyrics of our passion that kept us together, it was our words that drew us apart. Yet with every interlude we somehow found ourselves in refrain, singing the verses of reprise. And though our emotions danced to the rhythm of heartbreak, we’d hit repeat just so we could find ourselves falling back in love with our own tragedy.
We laid in darkness, not as lovers but as friends, sharing tales of loveless passion and the turbulent roads that led us here. His smile spoke the murmurs of heartbreak, lips stained with distrust and kisses so eager to fall back in love with history. Fear glazed his sulking eyes as he stared deeply into mine trying to find fault in my soul. His words echoed with the hint of disdain and the earnest will to let go of the past. When he spoke of her, he spoke of kindness. Afraid to tarnish the image of a girl his heart had been so careless to fall for, though his voice whimpered when recalling her name. He asked if I’d ever been in love before, if I’d ever felt that kind of pain. Part of me wanted to lie just so I could have him break me in, touch me with the corruption he felt inside. He seemed lost, like a wanderer aimless with destination. I wanted to hold him but I was too scared he’d recognize my adoration and fall victim to the kind of love she left him yearning, damaging and almost meaningless. I loved him too much to want to hurt him.