“Bigger” than you, and “badder” than you (and… is this all there is? What am I, really?) Carving entire castles out of sand (and yet the waves are coming; doubt it not). Building these stacks and stacks out of money; while it can buy me a house, it cannot buy me a home (and the wind is surely coming; doubt it not). Turn to alcohol to escape it. Why do we find that we are so afraid of silence; of being alone? Try to lose ourselves in the noise, in the very opposite of space; in all that is quite scattered. There is certainly something to fill, here. A vessel, and we find it is quite… immaterial. Beyond reflections of light; light itself. Try to find it in the same place in which first we lost it. I think I have a dream, but… where has it come from? The friends I have, and the things I hear, and look at, and what I am made to make of it all. You are not your bank account; the titles that find themselves attached to your name; a pose for Instagram; your ‘body count’; your… All we are is human, and we are not what is actually outside of us. And what does this really mean? And all we have are these lives of ours; a series of days. And what does this really mean? Imagery and hallucinations. And consequent narrativisations: all these attempts to tidy up what is (maybe terrifyingly) quite messy. In this world, though, we are but travellers. Everything moves; nothing at all can stay still. Not here. But, in some things you get glimpses of what you seek. Home. In Sujood. Not in makeup nor money nor media influences. You are not “better” than me, and I am not better than you. I make certain mistakes; you make your own ones, too. Running away from our own humanity in more ways than one, and, yes, it scares me so. Stage names, “momma I made it,” and then — the truth. Money, and then, what it sort of cannot really do for you. I sort of seek truth in how time moves; in Fajr and in birdsong, and in eyes that are true. Subhan Allah: maybe that’s what it is. I don’t want to seek extravagance; there is actually little to be found, there, in denial. I seek a life in which the intricacies are appreciated. For the acknowledgement that all there is, is the stuff of every day; these things are (more than) enough. Without these, we live within mere walking delusions. In times of activity, in times of silence. No matter what things might look like on the outside, all I experience of it all is from my own perspective. And, yes, I have faith. In times of hardship and in times of ease, I don’t mind: I only really want the truth.