mustafashehzad

Throughout my time at college in the US, I thought I was taking the high road by believing people are generally well intentioned, and it would be morally inconsistent to paint the greater American canvas with the brush of a few vitriolic white people. Among my close friends, it’s no secret that I was part of the small subset of Muslims that actually pushed against the Islamophobia narrative. I actually believed Muslims peddled a victimized storyline that aimed to pin away blame from ourselves, and that Islamophobia was a just another hype narrative that made us look weaker than we actually were – divisive and detracted from genuine struggles – giving us an easy way to earn sympathy on social media.

But after seeing what’s unfolded after the last two GOP debates, and reading Vox’s recent take on Trump and Rubio, I’m starting to understand otherwise. I’m starting to understand…

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A gun. A mace. A sword. A dagger.

A gun. A mace. A sword. A dagger.

 

The weapons were lined out for us to choose.

A gun. A mace. A sword. A dagger.

We were supposed to set out to war.

Why?

Because the ones who left before us never returned.

Our hellish demons of sorts.

And we had to be wherever they were fated to be.

Why?

Because once we had a dream.

Trudging thought miles of ancient wood.

Smothered green in lichens and warm showers.

We were right behind us.

Garbed in black uniforms.

An array of weapons we did not choose hung by a belt.

A bleeding gash or two.

Pronounced limps and breathless lungs.

Walking fast in pursuit, calling after someone.

A song about somebody else

A song about somebody else

A song about somebody else

Epiphanies of a marauder

Blood crusted fingers

Truth laden bones

I say if you look closely

You’ll see the little carvings

The little dug graves

Within skin pores

Within that that pearly face

Little etched scars left by the stars

A character

A story

A brazen heart

Don’t look in the mirror

You don’t want to see it

Not this one pearly face

Not this master of horrors

Not this piece of fiction

Not this construction of foretelling and tales

Not this sepulchre of events

Not these frames holds of bizarre fancies

Not this one

Sell our souls to the highest bidder

Take it away. All of it.

Instead let’s go rogue.

Let us play with our lives,

let’s drink from the bottomless chasm of sin and deceit.

Let us paint ourselves red with blood and gore.

Let us damn ourselves and this world in the process.

Let us build castles in hell, the gargoyles bearing our vile deeds.

Let us drown ourselves in the breathtaking limitless realm of nothingness.

Let us ride with the demented, the soulless,  the abandoned, the ridiculed.

Let us make absolute spectacles of ourselves,

making play of our lives,

Let us forget good and goodness,

embrace the dark as it stands on our threshold.

Let us build castles in hell.

Let us sell our souls to the highest bidder.

The Rager from Hell

The Rager from Hell

Bending lights, shaded faces

Masked silhouettes

And several thousand secrets

The party is a rager

And the heart is dead

We were on a mission

A group of foes and friends

Misfits and miss pretend

Daggers in disguise

Dreadfully wise

Bending to our will

Our demons came to kill

Dancing bodies

Death like grips

Dark isn’t just a side

You see, this dark is our hide

Morphed into miscreants

And so descended the defiant hellions

Pray for your souls

And pray for the dead

Pray for the departed

Because we’ve just started.

Daggers in disguise

Dreadfully wise

We’ve come to kill

Make you bend to our will

Attempting to Re-define (and failing)

Attempting to Re-define (and failing)

Precise determinations of centuries are at best foggy and opaque through the eye of a beholder.

Time is a river of circular origins but not the way you’d think. Time was not a river of one life but many lives entwined within a multitude of one great life; one great existence.

And the beholder knows all of this. Time itself is irrelevant, the past is very much the present and the future is the whispering wind on the precipices which knocks and corners and writes and bleeds and makes cryptic comments.

For centuries, humans have been blessed with the future, its implications, and its mysteries. So completely obsessed that future has become a monstrous thing to behold.

But what of the beholder? How does he see this great mystery?

Atlast it’s not the future, it is the past that holds a magnificent fascination for the beholder. Fascination perhaps but the grip is from the other side. The past itself. The past grips the beholder in a stranglehold and lays out a canvas of unblinking realities.

Mathematicians, logical analysts,  philosophers, painters and  dreamers, all have been greatly involved in the breaking down the conundrum of time and space. Some sought to nullify it, make its existence surreal, an imagined phenomenon. Some created it and created the ideas enfolding it.

But what is time?

It is all the same. Made of little bits of reality and largely the haunting of the past and the monstrosity that is the future.

But what of these monsters?

If the future was the monstrosity, then the past was the nightmare lurking under your bed on a cold winter’s night.

There you go, I have written a bit of the past and the future and time and conundrums, not making a spit of sense. But I have written something.

Something of who I am.

Who am I, you ask? Human of course.

But what does that mean anyway? To be human?

For centuries all that man has been taught is that we are human and that is the sum total of it. What you make of it is what will become of you. That is what will become of our humanity.

Once upon a time that humanity was described by the greatness of adventurers who discovered distant lands, of the philosophers who spun ideas out of thin air and learned to define and explore and re-define and debate. And the architects with their giant sculptures of art and symmetry, of perfection and practicality, of beauty and monstrosity.

There was a time when humanity was defined by riches, based on wealth and power and monopolies and leaders.

Oh and what of that time when humanity was nothing but a succession of wars and weapons and guns and bombs and basically humanity was the name given to the eradication of the humanity.

Perhaps it’s the same as power and riches and monstrosity.

All his self acclaimed notion of humanity and nobody ever found out the actual defining nature of it.

Except a select few. The beholders. With time in their grasp of understanding, and they themselves in the grasp of time.

Well there I go rambling on about humanity now.

I was beginning on the vast concept of me.

But I can’t do that now can I? Not without sounding conceited.

After all who am I to put the entire definition of humanity within one lowly body, within one moderate creature, within a single existence? Who am I to self contain the great idea of humanity, the idea that we have spent centuries defining and redefining?