Hawa*

Hope is supposedly a good thing. Hope broadens the horizons and blah blah blah. Eversince I have been hopeful; ever since my horizons have been broadened; ever since the fog of ambiguity has lifted from my life: I cannot write anymore! There is some kind of barrier that has formed, and it stops the flow of the words; flow of the thoughts, who are trying to reach my hands and onto the screen. It is not so that I cannot think any more. I think, I still think, but the melancholic thoughts have undergone a metamorphosis. The thoughts now are of gratitude, ambition, and willingness to change. I feel my old self is back!

Ever since that epiphany, my rennisance, a certain part of my brain has been dedicated to think about that messiah. The person who triggered this chain reaction in myself. The person cannot be blamed (if thats the right word) for this change in me. The sole purpose of the fire is to burn and set ablaze, and similarly, the wood catches fire; one must not attach stigma to the naturally defined roles of the two; they are inevitable. Hence, I burn!

Like an old oak skin, the accumalated toll of stagnancy is wearing off me. When I breathe now I can, again, smell the jasmines in the air; the bud that has just blossomed into a flower. Taking a walk in the park, I felt the wind caress, through my hair, my temples. I closed my eyes, and opened them to see the dance of sand on the flutes, and then trumpets of the wind. As I drove by, I saw a handicapped, homeless, man on a wheel chair rejuvinated when he was able to tune a channel on his old radio.

A desert has come to life after an astray rain cloud made its way over the dry sands. Invain my attempts are to justify what has happened. It was like a magic. It was Hawa*.






*Hawa is Eve in arabic. Hawa means magic.