Freedom

Freedom has forgotten purpose,

Like wind which forgot to move

Like lungs who forgot to breathe.

Eyes who refused to see

A tongue unable to befriend language

A touch negating to feel

Freedom stands still

Like hope frozen in time

A spirit unable to laugh

A mind without thought

And feet without ability to move

Freedom is lost

Like love amongst hate

Like laughter within sorrow

 

Guarded

Like honey is by bees

Like peace is by tanks

Like lies is by distraction

Like truth is by doubt

 

Freedom is somewhere lingering within you

In fragments

Inside the wind

Within your breath

Inside your vision

Hugging your palms as you squeeze your fist in the air

Wrapped around your tongue

Freedom is somewhere yearning within you

In fragments

Freedom has the ability to breathe and move,

Freedom can speak if it wills,

it can see beyond comfort.

Freedom can run and stand alone,

Freedom is truth without a distraction guarded by god.

 

If you forget freedom, freedom will forget you

If you do not exercise freedom, freedom will neglect you

If you do not speak freedom it will never understand you

If you do not envision freedom it will never see you

Freedom is you in fragments.

Evolving

Things happen and people change. Not at once. There is not a split moment that makes people change, like cracking a code.

A choice, a situation, a person, or circumstances can change people gradually overtime. People break differently. Souls are like glass. Glass can be glued back together as one, but it doesn’t necessarily look the same. People are like that. When souls break, bruise and scar, people do not act the same, they do not think nor move in the same manner. Even after they find peace and happiness, even after they become stronger and more content than before. Some however don’t.

You will see a difference in the way they talk, the way they move, and their behavior. You will notice the shield in every word they utter. Maybe this is evident through how they have become more cautious of people, and maybe it caused them to become more giving and loving. They will see the world differently, you will know if somebody, anybody, perhaps yourself has gradually been changed by circumstances or people. Humans are moving beings. There is nothing inanimate about us, nothing. Our minds expand, our emotions change and mature, our abilities increase. Even our skin, hair and bones ages. Nothing within us was created to be still, and inanimate. Even when people become deceased our bodies are going to decompose, it will adapt to the reality that you no longer are alive so it decays into nothing but bones.

SO how do you expect you, who is alive and breathing, thoughts processing and wandering, and emotions like water, to become still? To not evolve, and not adapt to your circumstances. It wouldn’t make sense. What we are changes through the different stages of our lives. Who we are changes because of what happens to us, the people we meet and even how we overcome these circumstances. You will not always remain the same, and if you do, then you are resisting change, and even that has a change in your circumstances and fate, it has consequences. Humans are creatures that need constant growth and change to know and be better, and that requires big waves to shake us into whatever we are being prepared for. The wave will not drown you, unless you fight it, it will merely push you to the shore of a new island. You will learn how to defeat the wave. Be careful though. You do not become still you not stop fighting. You do not let it overpower you and drown you.

 

“People say to you, ‘you’ve changed’, or something like that, well, I hope, for the sake of God that you have changed, because I don’t want to be the same person all my life. I want to be growing, I want to be expanding. I want to be changing. Because animate things change, inanimate things don’t change. Dead things don’t change. And the heart should be alive, it should be changing, it should be moving, it should be growing, its knowledge should be expanding.” – Shaykh Hamza Yusuf

 

Writing for others can only be done when you write for yourself

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Sarah was not your typical blithe woman when it came to her craft. Her mother was conformed to society’s idea of a dutiful wife, submissive. Growing up Sarah would watch the way her mother would awake before dawn, and perform her daily rituals which consisted of the scrubbing of pots and pans. The house would be polished through every angle and every stain would disappear before noon. She would slave all day in the kitchen catering to her fathers every need.

Her natural curvaceous hips and thick thighs were usually attempted to wither into the size of the models in the magazines which were carefully tucked in the corner of the kitchen counter. She looked salient, Sarah always thought. Her makeup intact after dawn, and her hair usually in a sophisticated up do. Her father always said that those models had nothing on his wife. Sarah agreed with certainty. Her mother’s thick long lashes and high cheek bones, her full lips and flat narrow nose would heave the attention of strangers; but her mother didn’t just conform to these duties because she wanted to. As a teenager her mother was different, rebellious and independent minded. She loved food more than she did exercise and she cared very little for others opinions.

These conducts of her mothers life was passed down from her grandmother and continued down to Sarah heedless to her own cognizant. She would find herself cleaning excessively when she was stressed, and believed that a messy house corresponded to a woman who wasn’t raised better. She hated eating out, and preferred a home cooked meal three times a day. She would find herself picking up the same types of magazines; But refused to starve herself until she felt that her body conveyed a resemblance to those marked rib cages that rose above the little flesh on their bodies.

Sarah’s father was nothing like her mother. He was carefree and relaxed, opinionated and humorous. He was a passionate writer by night and a working senior editor by day. He took life with a sprinkle of thirst for his passions. He would stay up all night writing out the bed time stories to read to Sarah for the next night. After he finished reading out the stories he would put down the large handwritten notebook and glance towards her. His chair comfortable sited near the right side of her bed.

“What did you think of the story Sarah?” They would discuss the characters and she sometimes would even forget that her father knew the characters better.

“Was he really bad daddy? She once asked about an abandoned character who became a mean kid. The character’s name was Bob. Bob grew up as an orphan in the mean streets of London, only having animals as his accomplices. He was never treated fairly nor pleasantly by most people so sarah couldn’t help but understand his dislike towards other people when he became an unpleasant individual to others. Sarah couldn’t help but like Bobs character when he was alone with the animals. He was caring and kind but this behavior was didn’t extend to human beings.

“People are not simple Sarah. He uttered to her. Neither are perceptions.

She learned then that stories have different interpretations depending on different experiences of people, different morals, and views. Each individual experienced life differently therefore they saw through a constructed lens, shaped by the world as they saw it. For what they knew it for. She learned that it wasn’t the writer’s responsibility for justifying the way people understood their work, nor to make excuses for their own views on how they saw this world.

As she grew older the bed time stories changed to quotes of successful people.

“Let’s discuss these.” He would say. And then give her another quote to revel inside, until the next night.

Sarah would spend all her available periods the next day googling and researching and then finally giving her own interpretations. She loved this quality time with him. She enjoyed having a voice. This is what sparked her love for writing. The ability to not be right and completely wrong varying on how she felt.

She would analyse and discuss their points of view. She never ceased to notice how her father would sit by the study table near her bedside and ask, while sipping on his over sized mug containing coffee.

“Well done, but what is your point of view on this matter, what is your opinions in this.”

They would debate back and forth, and she would often discover that she didn’t always agree with her father. Although he was where most of her beliefs were rooted, and with whom she shared many of her beliefs with; she discovered that she was extending into her own branch. She never really understood his reasons and curiosity for her opinions on somebody else’s view on life. When she offered him an answer, he would continue to ask why.

“Why do you agree with him, or her?”

“Why is it that you do not?”

This became a daughter and father tradition, and the quotes hadn’t stopped coming for years to come.

Being a writer is not easy. That was what her father was attempting to implement into her since she was a child. The freedom of once imaginations when reading the stories varied between the reader and the writer. He attempted to teach her that without telling her just how the different perspectives sometimes pointed to the same truth contrarily. She learned that similar opinions varied in content and was rooted deeper than our ability to conform to them.

Writers have a responsibility fare greater than most. They have an obligation to be honest at all cost. They cannot afford to be emotional apathetic about their own voice. Sarah’s father was much too aware of this. He encouraged his daughter not only to be unapologetically honest about her own views but also that nothing was just one truth when it came to the world of print and words. words where not one dimensional.

For every story, article and poem could never be approved by all. It would never limit itself to minds and hearts of strangers when it was never birthed by them. It would entertain them, it was created to be indulged by people. How they then understood it was not the writers responsibility. Some chewed on these letters with vigour, others in delight. Some would spit them out in disgust, and then you had those that would not even dwell in the taste. Swallowing words without meaning; only to feel cheated because they ceased to find the flavor.

Writers cannot lie to themselves without consequences, even if the possibilities behind the truth is endangering their values and moral obligations. When we write it is deeper than just a black ink on a piece of paper. It is not as simple as sound of your fingers on the keyboard after the moon awakens and silence fusions with the cold breeze of the night. It is more complex than the movement of the pencil as it scrapes those pages with voices.

One must be fearless and audacious. Sarah learned that our voices are both truth and false. She watched her mother’s beliefs embedded into her as a child, and even though some of these were passed down to Sarah, her father fought heedlessly against this without schooling her mother on how wrong she was for her beliefs. This would only contradict his teachings. Instead her father gave her the ability to learn without teaching her. Not once does Sarah remember her father teaching her how she should think, or what she should believe. By just this single method she came to know that learning is far different from being taught.

She knew that one required the mental independence for the pursuit of truth regardless of the emotional and moral obligations.

Truth because it is somebody else’s thoughts and feelings, their truth. False because it isn’t yours. A conclusion based on how you felt and what you thought at a singular moment, one particular moment of time. Even if you come to feel different or have a change of thought it was who you was in that instant. And every word writers share bears a weight of who they were, released in print. You cannot change or alter facts, just like you cannot entertain the opinions of others when it comes to your craft. If that was the case then we would be left with nothing. Nothing but letters, articles, novels and poems that replicate the voices of anything but our own truth.

However the truth is, not all of us can be honest in that way; the kind of truth that will force one to look beyond their own comfort for the sake of those who cannot do that. It is our responsibility as writers to tackle everything we feel by bleeding our emotions unto a page, narrating our voices and speaking our minds. Everything we decide to write will remain. It stains, and therefore remains forever to be interpreted, understood and seen by others.

If all writers obsessed and tried to mould their writings they would find themselves trying to please each soul on this planet, they would find that this was impossible and therefore be left with nothing but blank pages. Even if they did attempt at this it would have no value, for they have lost the value of self. Only empty words, of opinions, and halves of the truth pieced together by fractions of honesty. Your words carry somebody’s world, read somebody’s thoughts, and are compatible with somebody else’s emotions. They heal, and they only understand without trying from your honest truth. Your words are far too heavy and carry fare too much value to become anybody else’s reflection of this world, without it first being yours. They should be a mirror and express what you could never say without a pen.

Homeless people are just that..people.

It’s sad. it’s a tragedy when we no longer see human beings as just that. society favours people according to their status, race, gender, and ethnicity, given the circumstances. homeless people are no different. notice how when you walk by most homeless people, they don’t even look you in the eye. that’s us…we did that. we avoid them. Their gaze. We sometimes walk a little faster as though the change we bear in our pockets is more important than a human being. I usually hear the same ignorant words leave people’s mouth.

“if i give them money they will just waste it on drugs and alcohol.”

really? we are in 2015 the year when everyday people can suddenly become homeless due to our messed up economic system, and you still believe that the only way we can suddenly become homeless is if we develop an addiction? we need to educate ourselves on these matters so that we know better than to judge people. This stigma that you attach to homeless people is not a justification for your lack of humanity. even if you cannot spare some change, try to spark up a conversation. i know it might be a bit too much to ask. Depression is so common amongst our society today, imagine a homeless person depressed and ignored by society. Now imagine them watching people walk past them like they don’t even exist as though they are any less of a human being. Even if you are making an eye contact and offering a smile give it. To another person it may be the highlight of their day.

Homeless people are normal people like any of us, They have stories. they bear scars, they may even once have had a beautiful home with the white picket fence.

I challenge you today to offer a homeless person something. A smile, A meal, Water or coffee, A conversation. maybe even just a recognition to remind them that they are a human being, they are survivors, every day. Emotions we deal with in our lifetimes are heightened for homeless people. Frustrations,Loneliness depression. LIFE gets more complicated for a person who doesn’t have a roof over their head, and who may not know where they will get their next meal. Have some compassion, you are a human being, so please don’t forget your humanity.

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My kind of people

I’m infatuated by beautiful people.

Minds that seek knowledge like the thirst for water. People that read you like millions of  puzzle pieces and each fraction  of your small actions and habits was linked to experiences and character that make you who you are so they invest minutes, hours even years taking their time to solve your secrets and fears, what triggers them your dreams and every little piece of who you are.

People that watch your imperfections and conclude them as beautiful scars tattooed by life’s agony as a memory of your strength.

Kind hearts that in the midst of their own pain still try to make you smile. People who despite their failures are rooting for you, despite their dreams coming alive cry with you. People who don’t just utter the word loyalty and choke on their tongues when its ability to even speak the truth betrays it.

People who understand you without ever having been in your shoes. People who will shatter your walls down because they are too infatuated with knowing your bare soul. People who love without misunderstanding love. People who are willing to sacrifice everything for their creator.  People who never adjust to society but rather readjust their surroundings. People who are too opinionated. People who know what they want and are willing to figure out who they are and who they are yet to become.

People who love people even though they really hate the company of people. People who believe in more than what we see and hear and truly feel. People who wonder too much forgive too much. People who never forget and teach us their memories pain. People who want to see everybody win. People who know people’s lies and deceits but will still give them the benefit of the doubt. People who are scorned but not bitter. People who are strangely interesting. People who travel everywhere for no reason. Like the wind. Laugh for no reason. People who are genuine, who don’t just talk about being real but ARE. I like classy people. People whose class shows in their Manners and values not their Chanel dress or fancy suit. Independent souls that are crazy enough to do strange things and follow crazy dreams. I love brave smiles that shield tears and brave tears that refuse to hide their pain. I love people who are more than just another personality, who truly understand the value of humanity. Compassionate and giving people.
Find me those types of people. May we meet them, may we acknowledge them and may we become them,

Would you question why?

Would you question why

If there was a world without discrimination,

No racism, and greed no supposed evil or good. Just a single nation

Imagine if our leaders could be trusted, and nobody could be bought.

People smiling for no reason, and happiness weren’t sought.

Famine didn’t exist, and money was never an issue, or reason.

Everybody cared and nobody knew of treason.

Friends stayed the same and didn’t change with seasons

Imagine no kids growing up surrounded by hunger, and violence, fear and drugs,

Countries knew better than terrorising innocent people, by dropping bombs.

What if the media was honest and only displayed the truth and reality.

What if having more meant giving more to those in needs.

And nobody would confuse money and fame with their dreams.

And nobody was okay with paying for war and death.

Because war is war, its kill or be killed

Innocent war victims taking their last breath

Is that really a mission fulfilled?

But the truth is discrimination does exist and greed is the tradition that’s consumed our life times

And this isn’t a nation anymore just a world ruled by lies

What if humanity cared about the Child who only looks forward to death, waiting in line to die?

But overtime people became statistics and not lives,

Change isn’t happening, and the reason is clouded, yet nobody asks the question. WHY

Like why aren’t we doing what we preach and try to reach the impossible such as peace?

Why do we forget to seek, gods help, and instead reach for trouble to then solve instead of just spreading love?

Why do we seek, perfection, but instead find more flaws, why do we look for love but confuse it with lust.

Why do we forget to be grateful for what we have and instead weep over materials we’ve lost? Because a few papers is suddenly all were worth.

And chasing our dreams now means chasing money,

Desires are sweeter than honey

And temptations are fixed on our minds

Why do we replay life in our heads wondering why our mistakes doesn’t rewind

But instead all it does is remind.

I’ve learned that not seeing is not the same as being blind.

Sometimes we don’t even look, but instead over look, in fear of what we might see, and find.

I’m sick of these four invisible lines

Which keeps our potential boxed in,

But we have the keys to open the locks the locks within.

They have our minds enslaved and equipped in a way that we may never finish because we’re too afraid to even begin.

So we just throw our dreams in the bin.

Because dreams can’t pay the bills so wondering what’s the chances that you’ll succeed and win.

Society has us enslaved mentally,

If you observe the way the majority live, you’ll find that we are all victims of modern-day slavery.

It has become a world of madness and sadness, and, an ugly bad mess.

And greed is not generous enough to share, just like power is no longer humble enough to care

-I.J.Y

Prisoner

I am a prisoner

My lips are sealing words yearning freedom my mind is caging thoughts that overcrowd the silence when the night falls.

I am a prisoner of my thoughts and my thoughts are prisoners of my body.

My body is kept hostage by my soul.

My soul a prisoner of this world, and this world will never be content with a soul like mine.

I am a prisoner, of emotions pressed like a forbidden button filled with ideas.

My ideas moulded into locked boxes with opportunities inside.

I am just a prisoner.

Prisoner of skin forbidden. I am a forbidden fruit, picked and left outside in the sun to rot, but blossomed into a black rose in a garden only embracing red roses.

I am a prisoner misplaced.

Prisoner of the moonlight that follows me at night.

Prisoner of sunrays which engrave initials of fingers that attempted to own me at day.

I am a prisoner of burdens that aren’t mine but welcomed by my shoulders to carry, while I am a prisoner of hands once held and palms closed with rage.

I am a prisoner of false hope and long kept disappointments begging to be released.

I am a prisoner of the ocean that never seems to wash my guilt away, of the sea that never rinsed my cries with salt.

I am a prisoner of rage that stays, and smiles which fades.

I am a prisoner of words that stick and sticks that wound.

Of pens that can’t stop moving and of pages that won’t stay blank.

I am a prisoner of a mind that won’t stop wondering, and of hands that won’t stop consoling.

I am a prisoner of an imagination without a guard.

So free me. With words and ideas,

Free me with gifts of black roses being planted wherever they wish and being embraced like the red roses.

Free me with ideas and kiss the colour of my skin with your soul.

Free me from burdens of mine I do not want to wish to return yours for I will carry them too.

Just free me.