Pieces of Perfections

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections

it would go something like this:

  1. your love
  2. your angry tears
  3. the love you are given
  4. every mistake you made
  5. everything you say out loud
  6. the anxiety you feel sometimes
  7. everything you say inside yourself
  8. the piece of you that says yes when you want to say yes
  9. the piece of you that says no when you want to say no
  10. the piece of you that doesn’t say anything in case you hurt someone

(maybe in that order)

 

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, and jumble them all up, make some bigger than the other, rename a few pieces when you’re not looking

how unbelievably perfect would you be?

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, take you away from your form, look at you naked, no longer clothed in your hopes and dreams

would you remain perfect? or are you posing just for me?

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, keep one in a jar beside my bed, one to freshen the clothes in my cupboard, and one to spread the jam on my toast

how grossly imperfect would i be? holding on to you pieces of you?

showing you off and using you to survive?

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, i’m sorry. i should never have done it.

 

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Pieces of Perfections

Love: An Essay

“What is love?” in the context of Sufi teachings.

“What is love?” is a question is very similar to Pilate’s question “What is truth?”[1] It cannot be answered with a simple definition. To define such an intangible concept one must venture into it’s different names, attributes, effects and how one can achieve it.  To do this, the greatest thinkers of Sufi teachings will be referred to, who have based their entire Sufi experience and teachings on Love. Ibn ‘Arabi and Rumi are most famous for their vast number of literature on the topic, both devoting their time to engulf themselves in the conceptualising of Love. Also, Rabi’ah of Basra was most famous for providing a foundation of pure devotion to God, to the extent where she decided to live a celibate life as she was wholly in love with God. Ghazali will also be referred to, and has fewer works on the topic; however his take on Love is somewhat different to the majority of Sufi figures.

Continue reading “Love: An Essay”

Love: An Essay

Meet Hordad.

She always liked the fine hairs on her nape. Much like the widow in the village who needed to remarry, she would cock her head in different positions in order to examine her best self. The rusted mirror in the garden was her favourite place to do so. It would mean positioning herself in between the thorny planks of wood and the array of damp gardening tools in the corner behind the shed. She would close her eyes and envision the painful memory of prematurely releasing doves from the straw basket at her cousin’s wedding. She counted each dove that flew above her head and when it got to the last one she would open her eyes. Wherever she found herself standing was, on that day, the best place to stand in front of the rusted mirror.

It was pointed out by Nusret, her friend in secondary school that she has a definite line. They both left their tiffins at the foot of the school shed and ran into the girls’ toilets so she could see for herself. Upon careful examination, they concluded that she had hair nowhere else but her nape. Nusret asked her to check her neck but with sincere regret she tells Nusret she doesn’t have anything there.

She wasn’t very religious nor did she agree with following her own intuition, the age upon which this decision happened troubled her. But she would make her decisions with the help of whichever way her nape hairs would fall after it had rained. Like palm reading, she had noted down every possible way her hairs would rest after it had dried and would, with her own very sophisticated reasoning, attach meaning to each pattern. Her favourite time of year was the monsoon season. She always felt lost during dry season, so she would shower a lot. She knew it was not the same. She felt too in control when she showered.

She learnt the alchemy of soil from her mother, Amordad, who passed when she was 8. The closest she ever got to religion was when she would hear her mother hum to her plants before sunrise. As the sun rose her mum would hum a different tune that went like this; “hmm-hm-hm-m-‘m-hmm-hm-‘m.” It did not follow a natural melody. It sounded calculated and hummed with reason. She paused her hum whenever she would water her plants. It was on the eve of her 8th birthday when she noticed, from her bedroom window, that her mum was watering the pumpkins and in a break between two hums she examined the way the hairs on the pumpkin leaves fell. She thought it was her mum doing something special just for her birthday. When she asked the morning after, she was told – after being told off for being awake at such a time – that the hairs of a plant is the only thing that keeps in touch with the akaash. And as a woman who spends all her time with soil, she must ‘know what is happening with the skies and that is the only way for me.’

Amordad appreciated that her own mother was religious. Amordad was told she was ‘lucky’ to be named with the same type of calculation as her hum. Amordad was given to her as a name because, before she was born, her family lived a life of poverty and names have a way of coming to fruition. Amordad’s mother intended that she would provide them with fullness of heart, but she did not know that the whispers of the woman in labour are the ones that are most important. Her hidden intention was accepted and Amordad grew to provide fullness of the stomach. Her mother did not feel guilt for making her hidden intention known and for moving the stars to make her daughter a farmer.


Amordad decided to name her the same day her father passed away, three months before she was born. As a farmer she appreciated that all life came from akaash. On the day that her husband died she also appreciated that all life goes back to akaash. So she named her Hordad; “wholeness”. She made sure not to force the stars but only to guide them, so she only cried during her labour.

There was nothing neither whole nor godful about her.She liked to eat enough for two, when she changed her clothes she would strip completely and she did not want children. Her Uncle’s wife would tell Hordad to wear a vest and underwear when she walked in on her having a bath completely undressed. She said the devil enters the pores of a woman unabashed. When her mother passed, she had baths everyday for two hours at a time because her mum must know what’s happening with the skies and bathing was the closest to sky she was going to get. She would drink water excessively so her mother could know what’s happening inside her. Her Uncle and his wife thought she had lost her mind since her mother died. They did not listen much.

Meet Hordad.

I see you sat there and I love you.

She’s sat there with her hair waving towards the grit between the kitchen tiles.

Her £15 manicure tapping against the marbled worktop.

She says she sees UFOs in the marbled pattern and watches him speak; with passion; about the flat earth.

What she really sees is the faces of ghouls that visit her dreams.



She is his.

She has dirt under her nails and they both know it,

and she wants to not care and she is his.

The grey is starting to fall beside her mouth and she wants to not care. But she is his.



As he speaks about making her the best breakfast ever

The green for her red blemishes has failed to blend into her blush.

There is nothing in the fridge,

and he wants to care but she is his.



The morning puffiness beneath her eyes has grown because he loves it and she is his.

She has tried sleeping less so it can look – puffier – she has tried sleeping more so it can look – puffier – she has tried to sleep restlessly so it can look – puffier.

Her winning result is: restless. Because he looks at her and she is his.

And he will see me sat there and he will love me.

I see you sat there and I love you.

seeking help

my dreams in no particular order:

– my man in blue.
– the hole in my back.
– the skin graft I perform on myself – from my clit to my chin.
– the empty box of Chinese that I would like to fill with my vomit, to see i am made of something. and I am rejecting some things. and I can decide what I need. and what I do not. is that you?
– the wet sock merging with my skin.
– the context: my sister had a dream of giving motivational speeches on beaches. I counter-dreamed. I saw a green monster shitting on every beach she gave a speech. a fight she didn’t know we had.
– the fireflies dying and the horrible feeling of seeing city lights instead.
– the one where your eyes droop towards the dirt.
– the possibility of me being not-all-there.
– the yellows I touch turn grey. or milk coloured. depends on my mood.
– the old boxy tv saying ‘I told you so’ while drinking fizzy orange juice. it doesn’t scare me that a tv would drink juice.
– the new plane I will never attain unless I kill myself. (I’m sorry you had to read that)
– salman rushdie hugging me. this definitely is a bad dream.
– the people missing me. and having ‘the people’ in my vocabulary.
– the missing poster.
– the reward (or just the beginning) of a complete end.

now that the list has been put forward to you all, you may tell me what is a good dream and what is a bad dream. I dream so much that I don’t sleep. I am tired, so very tired. please tell me what is good and what is bad. I would do it myself but I need to get some shut eye. I know it may seem like an optional task but I would like to emphasise that it is necessary and important. I need rest.

seeking help

the post grad

she moves the shelves three.two centimetres to the right, a sign of progression, she believes. the amount of years.2 she spent underlining ‘how to pool your life work into gridlines’, calculating how many yearsx7 she will spend in hell and highlighting the steps to ego death.

she removes zero.four centimetres of dust, a proud moment, as she expected a lot more before she started cleaning. she kept her windows open during the winter and a glass of water by her bed. a subconscious decision to not self sabotage.

she set her duvet one.one inches below her pillow because she feels like she deserves to breathe at night. she puts her underwear two.seven millimetres to the left and opens her cervix for two sets of three lines on her fingers. a reward for cleaning.

she sleeps for seven.five hours and stays in bed for another ten minutes contemplating whether she has enough kcal to achieve her goals. if she had finished her oats yesterday-breakfast, she may have had an additional twenty nine percent chance, upon her existing sixty one percent, to sift through her unopened letters to herself.

after two minutes of watching one man talk about the significance of light – and taking notes – she rested. she argued with 4 doubts. 1. is she good enough. 2. does she delete her essays. 3. is her heart made with/for gold (and how much gold) 4. will her children understand.

at eleven:fifty she takes a picture of her shelf, drinks five hundred millilitres of water and reads an article of the authenticity of counting sheep as she falls asleep.

the post grad

my dear

tired breaths, rasp; you’re tired of the mugs of veins gone cold on your bedside table; rasp. you want a warm bed and bottomless expectations.

just leech onto gravity, my dear,


let it spin you into criminal activities, let it strain your knees, let it hold you by the feet. dear. let your heart meet your intestines. no more sky, wake up with root dents in your cheeks.


be brave, dear. the clouds are the coming together of his&her sweat. do not take interest in others. learn what you touch. dig, dear. soil your knees, lament the good deeds, drink wine from ice trays. do not, at all costs, watch rivers flow. it is pitiful, seeing how many waves are needed to get one across. stand alone. if you must be around rivers, dip nothing but your knuckles. groom the lump in your throat, starve yourself of all anecdotes.


trust gravity. be weak dear, i’m here to help.

my dear