In that jerk of black

For all the times you stood by me,
For all the truth that you made me see,
For all the joy you brought to my life,
For all the wrong that you made right,
For every dream you made come true,
I'll be forever thankful.
You're the one who held me up
Never let me fall
You're the one who saw me through it all.

The air gushed in through the tiny space at the edge of the door. My head was infuriating with pain, soaring like the mouth of a sacred place upon congregated prayer. My heart was a a very heavy one for the ribs to support. For the first time in my life, I played the song, "Because you Loved me", sung by that time's common trend: Celine Dion. Her voice was said to be mesmerizing, her persona enigmatic. For me though, it was beyond the power of her voice, the strangeness of the lyrics, something metaphysical- a substance, fistfull of it, like a whole yellow, furrowing moon on a bowl of skyash.

You were my strength when I was weak, You were my voice when I couldnot speak, You saw my eyes when I could not see, You saw the best there was in me, Lifted me up when I could not reach, You gave me faith cause you believed, I am everything I am, because you loved me.

Even today, a calculated three years after that first encounter with the metaphysical treat, I try delving on the words, on the tone, on the crushed and streched rythm that stirred in me a fervent passion for life. It was the scratch, the zero degree initiative from which I started to try and understand the conditions of expressing yourself through the depth. To provide dimensions to your emotions. To build them into soft and brittle bones. To complete the lacking in their structures or just accept them for their obnoxious selves. It was more than a song a tribute to my emotions. It found me.

You gave me wings and made me fly, You touched my hand and i could touch the sky, I lost my faith you gave it back to me, You said no star was out of reach, You stood by me and I stood tall, I had your love and I had it all....

What can be the most important inspiration of a life? A sudden flicker of hope like burst out toffees from a party pooper. The cajole of a cherished memory on the back of life's shoulder. I found my inspiration, the inspiration to create sculptures: out of words. This passion of my mine as helped me so much to live a life I confront to at the end of the day and utter, "You were challenging, now be soothing!". Every time the meaning of life is loosening it's rope from my grip, I write a wacky piece, I write complains, I scribble unrealistic things, later feeling like I have lost tension on my head. Writing became a part of my identity, by which i mean identity, not my name, namesake or any other whereabous that can exist for a human being in this practically hopelessly hopeful world.

Suddenly, the aura of night made me speculate the first times that really inspired me to find myself. The first times. The first times of hearing this enigmatic song. Nowadays, I am afraid to write. Afraid since I do not want to write if my emotions are not given their individual voices, not even individual voices, but at least a voice. I feel tangled up, my tool to expression all ready to slope down the hill. I just do not want to write, to activate my keypad or to bring down the ink bar of my favourite pen. I want to write, when I can right nothing, but I feel good about it. What is writing then if it cannot move the burden of proud, arrogant mountain over your conciousness? What is writing if it cannot light your darkness even for a few seconds?

You were always there for me, The tender wind that carried me, A light in the dark shining your love into my life, You've been my inspiration, Through the lies you were the truth, My world is a better place because of you.

Tiredness is crippling me. Like the churning pain of blood clots on a paralysed leg. The straw of motivation cannot make me drink more tears. Scarlet ones. Disappointment. Depression. An ointment, providing a slippery play bench for the innocent thoughts. Light down the edge of the cavern, hope between two walls of a war: between oneself and the world. I read this anecdote, where the narrator ended with, "You have two choices in your life today. You can either choose to live or to keep grudging, that life's not fair."

I have two choices.

To live. To grudge.

I choose to live. Because you loved me. Ar-Rahman, Al-Amin. Allah.