Ramadan Journal '19 | Week One
18:40
Hello, old friend. How happy am I to see you visit. Relieved, too, actually. I wasn't sure I'd be home when you came knocking. I've been waiting, my restless soul anticipating the sweetness of your arrival like a parched throat desperate for a drop of water in the heat of the desert. You come bearing gifts, I see. I can only hope I am fortunate enough to unwrap them and hold on to their virtue for as long as time will allow. You are full of hope and sacrifice and promise and I feel their warmth bury into my bones as you step in to greet me. Please stay. I know it's early days and maybe your days with me are numbered but please stay the thirty that have been pencilled in on the calendar on my wall.
You take your place in the space reserved just for you at this time of year. You silently study me as I sit across from you. I watch, as you appraise me from head to toe, as you pick away at my mind, as you observe my surroundings and psychoanalyse my actions. There is no judgement. Just a mild curiosity. You cast me a thoughtful look and I know that your eye for detail has missed nothing. You are an architect with the mind of an artist; the renovations you are imagining cast a mirage right here in the barren land of the desperate hopeful and the illusion is so beautiful I dare not breathe in fear of breaking this unimaginable, possibly attainable, vision of the future.
You have come with the promise to restructure my home. To re-lay the foundation and strengthen its pillars. The blueprints flicker with what could be. A new floor plan, reinforced steel, marble pillars set in stone. To be unshakable even when the strongest of winds blow. A solid roof to weather the wildest of storms. Walls of glass for the light to ward off the dark. Gardens of peace and fountains of blessings. A library of knowledge. The softer, intricate furnishings to make it feel like a home and not just a house. To make it a place I'd want nowhere else to be.
I am sold. I want it. I want it so much that it physically hurts. I want nothing more than to rebuild these worn and torn walls, to wipe the dust off and breathe fresh air into this vessel, to not just purge the old but to give way to the new. My gaze meets yours and while I am wearing the beseeching eyes and forlorn look of a desperate beggar, you are wearing the look of a king who has come to give, hand outstretched to feed the hand that begs, slight smile that meets your eyes because I am asking the silent million dollar question - and you have the answer.
You take your place in the space reserved just for you at this time of year. You silently study me as I sit across from you. I watch, as you appraise me from head to toe, as you pick away at my mind, as you observe my surroundings and psychoanalyse my actions. There is no judgement. Just a mild curiosity. You cast me a thoughtful look and I know that your eye for detail has missed nothing. You are an architect with the mind of an artist; the renovations you are imagining cast a mirage right here in the barren land of the desperate hopeful and the illusion is so beautiful I dare not breathe in fear of breaking this unimaginable, possibly attainable, vision of the future.
You have come with the promise to restructure my home. To re-lay the foundation and strengthen its pillars. The blueprints flicker with what could be. A new floor plan, reinforced steel, marble pillars set in stone. To be unshakable even when the strongest of winds blow. A solid roof to weather the wildest of storms. Walls of glass for the light to ward off the dark. Gardens of peace and fountains of blessings. A library of knowledge. The softer, intricate furnishings to make it feel like a home and not just a house. To make it a place I'd want nowhere else to be.
I am sold. I want it. I want it so much that it physically hurts. I want nothing more than to rebuild these worn and torn walls, to wipe the dust off and breathe fresh air into this vessel, to not just purge the old but to give way to the new. My gaze meets yours and while I am wearing the beseeching eyes and forlorn look of a desperate beggar, you are wearing the look of a king who has come to give, hand outstretched to feed the hand that begs, slight smile that meets your eyes because I am asking the silent million dollar question - and you have the answer.
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