Creative Writing





Allegiance To My Only.

The ever-beautiful Nina posted this comment on my blog in response to ‘Growing Up As A Muslim’ and I have found myself reading it almost everyday as a reminder, a means of restoration. 

There are sometimes things that you need to hear or perceive in a tangible form before your brain can recognise, comprehend and accept ideas and views. Maybe it explains why we turn to other people; it's almost as if our bodies feel like they are obliged to somehow validate our thoughts before they can begin to actualise. However, I also believe that the universe has a strange way of bringing words to you precisely when you need them. For example, something led you here, to read this exact sentence. Maybe one day, you’ll draw lines to constellations and remember where this moment led you. And now, for the intricate and remarkable piece in which I hope you will find some truth, a part of yourself, or God.

Mourning Madrid.

How do you leave a city as beautiful as Madrid and not mourn the loss of something inside yourself?

Being in Madrid brought me back to life, showed me that I am capable of feeling happy through abandoning this mediocre existence and everything that I know. I have been back home for less than 24 hours and am already looking at flights to Italy due to the unbearable weight of being in the UK

I watched the luminous clouds change to grey and I immediately knew that we were descending over home; I felt the shift inside me. 

Regeneration of The Dark Moon - Poem.

Sometimes it looked as if the moon was trapped inside his skin,
orbiting to the cadence of his blood flow,
pulsating only with the consent of my fingertips. 

Sometimes the moon illuminated each limb,
transfixed with the spectre of its pirouette
back to glory.

Sometimes the moon peaked through his silhouette,
creating indentations like the carvings of ancient scriptures in a forsaken tombstone.

Sometimes we remembered only in shades of blue black
where we were lost at sea
and the moon could not find its way home.

Sometimes the pandemic in his derma sang the angels to sleep,
tried to set fire to the moon,
(it would not be moved).

Sometimes his incandescent veins changed colour,
illustrated the directions back to his centre of gravity,
found the weeping moon 
(soaked in its own sin).

Save me from him.’

When The Angels Sold Their Souls - Poem.

I wondered what the angels felt like, 
whether they were often blinded by their own light. 
Could they even feel the grandeur of their skin?

Did they recognise the brevity of the space inside their halos? 
Were they able to see its reflection against the lines of their palms?

Leaving The Country.

As you read these words, I am most likely standing in a museum in Madrid, marvelling at the works of Picasso and Dali.

Being able to travel the world alone is a dream that I have had since my father handed me my first atlas. I remember opening up the pages, admiring different continents, feeling captivated by the glory of an omnipresent world. I wanted to see it all, experience the intricacies of every culture, explore each monument of our forsaken ancestors, feel the presence of someone else’s earth beneath my soles.

Birthed From An Incongruous Mind.

I sat at a table in the centre of a chaotic library, adjusted my headphones and dialled into myself. I wrote until I could no longer think or remember my own name. I wanted to share a few short excerpts.

To The Rhythm of The Psychedelic Glass.

There was always something about being able to perceive the world through glass without participating that I found fascinating as a child. It was only later during my adolescence that I recognised this premise to be indicative of how I felt about my own existence. I often described it as not really being present in the room, in my own body, a harrowing sense of vacancy from my own self. I was always watching, advising, guiding, helping, being seen, but nobody was able to quite reach me because I was safeguarded behind layers of decadent glass. 

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