half past nomad

This is my worklife, honestly.
A man came up to me, a co-worker and goes as such:

Man: “Do you live by yourself?”
Me: thinking: Does he want to give me a new room-mate? I hope not, I have enough as it is “No, I live with my brother”
Man: “Oh I see”
*pause*
Man: “Do you eat out or cook at home?”
Me: “Mostly cook at home I guess”
Man: “Do you want chicken? Whole chicken? To cook?”

And then proceeded to give me two free whole raw zabiha chickens from this farm. Alhamdulilah.
At most offices, you get free coffee. At mine, apparently you get a little more then your contract summarized.

I just can’t wait for next week!

I close the gate behind me and stand still for a moment and observe the silent world that stands tranquilled in front of me. There’s a magic about winter that clouds and covers life and re-directs it, focuses it, to concentrate elsewhere, in warm houses, in fireplaces and in thick blankets. With summer, life exudes from each and every single pore, an over-abundance of la vie that should not cannot will not be denied existence. With winter, frozen life dances in its sleep, tingling at the end of each branch a dab of snow, clinging in the outreach of every bush a gentle sweeping brush of snow.
The work of the best of artists.

The coughing engine interrupts me, the smokey residue emanating from its back. It twirls, stretches, spreads, lives and dies in a moment of a few seconds, completely unnoticed. I trail my fingers down the spine of the car, a frozen trail of ice, snow and wet wet migrating flakes, from milky clouds above.

And each time I walk out, I re-live a life I can almost have.

Each visit outside, promises are made.
Each visit outside, beauties are marveled.
Each visit outside, ponderments are re-visited.
Each visit outside leads to a return indoors, to walls that hide reality, to bookshelves that present themselves appetizingly, to friends that demand to be laughed along with.

The instructions in the email were abrupt, direct and cunningly intelligent.
Fools laughed and they did. Intellects rejoiced, and they did.
“8pm, below the bell tower. Dress warmly. We’ll be sitting out for the evening, in the pouring snow. We’ll be opening up our eyes.”

I think it’s time to live up to that again.

I made a list of all the things I had forgotten. The blank paper sits heavily in my pocket. I open it and read it carefully, memorizing each line and making corrections along the way. I put the blank paper back in my pocket.

Thoughout history, everytime man over-boasted of his strength, God sent the tiniest of murmurs to break him up. The army of elephants crushed by mere birds. Insha-allah, Yajuj and Majuj will be brought down by the aid of tiny insects. A tiny virus, having brought me down to my knees.
I have the flu.

Subhan-allah walhamdulilah wallah-ukbar!

I’m not sure where to begin from…
There’s no beginning. There’s no ending.
There is just time. Time spent, time wasted, time invested, time traveled, time thought, time changed, time evolved, time revoked evoked memories and reality.
At the end of the day, there’s just time repented.

To begin someplace would mean to end someplace, for all entities that begin, must end. I mind not ending, it is not an ending I fear. It is beginning, it is starting that I approach cautiously.

Hibernation, the cocoon of a butterfly before it emerges, these are shells that are casted upon by God All-Mighty, to give time for rejuvenation, for rebirth, for re-affirmation of an identity, of a creed, of a natural state of being. Depending upon the creatures patterns, habits and methodology, nay, needs, these periods of time differ.
Yet the same is true each time.

I’m back.