Thoughts

It pulls me, tugs at heartstrings – no, soulstrings –hidden so deep inside my being, my truest self, me. With every pull, with every call, the pain increases. Its magnetic pull is just so strong.

How do I answer?

I am scared. I am not worthy. If I answer the call, if I stop and submit, I will be ripped open and I will have no choice but to search and to witness. If I answer the call, I will have to face the blistering dark within. I will be exposed and I will be the lowest of the low. I am terrified.

But I yearn to answer, to submit, to bow, to surrender. My soul pleads with me to give in, to find solace in the bittersweet pain. For it knows and understands far better than I do – this call is not one to be ignored forever. I may run, turn away, refuse, again and again, but I cannot shun and hide for much longer.

The Call is always there, always waiting, that soul-rendering pierce of light, that infinitely welcoming seclusion, that ultimately irresistible source of forgiveness and redemption. It is for me to turn my face in the direction of deep ebony command, to submit my mind and my soul and my heart, to stare deep within and start on the terrifying yet inexpressibly joyous journey through and past myself to the True Radiance.

ThinkingFeelingMusingWordsTumblingSpillingStreaming

When I think of Bin Laden, and over the last decade I’ve been forced to think about him quite a lot, I always imagine him to be unreal. A made up character like Santa Clause without the giving nature of course, come to think of it Mr Clause doesn’t have much of a giving nature either, he tends to let our religious differences divide us. Anyway, back to Bin Laden. Ever since his departure from popular culture, I’ve had a strange kind of feeling. It’s as if something quite close to me has gone missing. It’s a little difficult to explain and a little strange but through all the thinking I’ve done about him and his crew, Al-Qaeda, I’ve somehow managed to make him a part of a family.

He is/was the hated Uncle, Uncle Osama. A bit of a black sheep, what with all the nuisance he created and the threats he would post in that calm almost soothing voice, there was clearly a soft spot for him. Even the children of Osama, not his actual children but mind you some of them could well have been, but the children of the Osama years. Those who were born when he first hit the popular culture scene, they too seem to share my strange love hate feeling. It was clear from their ‘Find Osama’ games that there was a bit of love for him. He hardly ever suffered the play death that so many other playground characters have to go through.

And now he’s gone, in a very anti climax kind of way, and I’m left wondering whether or not his replacement, and I’m sure there will be a replacement, will be just as much fun interesting.

I’m surrounded by suits, all reading papers. He’s reading the Times – the business section. He tears a piece from the paper. ‘Mind-games’, calculating, Soduku. A persona builds up: the way he engages with his belongings, calm and collected. Almost too sure.

I make a judgement, involuntarily perhaps, but a judgement nonetheless. “City worker.”

He’s awoken by his phone ringing. Answered, he’s quickly engaged in conversation – in Arabic. Familiar words. That accent. I glance over, issuing a re-evaluation.

This time someone else will form a judgement. “Foreigner.”

With the prize finally in our hands we do nothing but boast. No amount of modesty can hide the smile of achievement forming itself on our proud faces. We forget the turmoil it took to win. We forget the love we swore we would shower upon it. We forget the harsh lessons we had to learn to succeed, especially those that we swore never to forget. Instead the glorified prize sits in the display cupboard, talked about and dusted often but the significance of it is never really remembered and very rarely celebrated.

I remember the times of which I never used to care. I didn’t cry when people hurt me. I didn’t let anyone in enough to hurt me properly in the first place.

I never truly connected with any of my emotions. Always looked past them as if they were childish and unnecessary.

Nobody can hurt you unless you let them.

The way my mother and father both view emotions.

When I cried rather than sympathising, I was always told to forget and move on. Because in their eyes, emotions are pointless. The more you think about the issues you go through the more confused you become – You rarely reach a valuable conclusion so why bother.

I used to hate my lack of ability to let people in.

I used to believe I was cold hearted and would never be able to connect with people.

My wall was broken down.

I showed how much I care.

I showed how much I was hurt.

I let the tears fall.

And to this day, I can’t help but think maybe my parents were right.

I like the idea of a revolution. Every now and again I like to talk to the people I love about the changes I want to make, aspirations I want to achieve, lives I want to touch and heal. Every now and again I’ll take a step closer to these dreams, a very minute step but a step forwards is a step forwards even if you do end up taking a few steps back as a result but only every now and again.

It makes me wonder if I had those talks, those thoughts every single day maybe I would achieve a lot more but instead I have an ongoing internal dialogue. I talk to myself. About my world. Non-stop. I talk to myself about the things I need to do at work, the things I need to do at home, the things I want to do for my lover and so the day passes with this internal dialogue centred around my world. More often then not the choices I make in this internal dialogue are the paths I end up choosing for my life. It makes me wonder if I could stop the internal dialogue maybe I could make progress at a faster speed?

What if I changed the thought of thinking about what I want to eat to a thought about feeding someone else (aswell)? Someone who is in great need of food but in short supply of cash. What if I changed the thoughts that constantly replay moments with my lover to thoughts of people in need of love? What if I changed the thoughts of buying tomatoes to ones of growing my own? What if…