♫ Listening to:“Rainymood”, my study-sessions’ soundtrack. ☺ Mood: still working hard for better days, a bit antsy now though.
✉ Reading: my notes, over and over again. That’s reviewing for you.
☡ Desclaimer Sabr is an arabic word whose root means to bind, tie or restrain. It is an islamic virtue that is often translated into “patience”, “endurance”, “perseverance” and “persistence”. (Wikipedia)
Sabr is the truest when it’s your first reaction to trouble and tribulation. The more it is delayed, the less calming is the effect it has on your soul. It shouldn’t come after you’re done getting mad and complaining, it should come instead of that, and make you think “hey, it’s not a big deal, things are better this way, alhamdulillah (thank God)”. And when you let go of the things that hold you back, that’s when you’re able to move on and accept the better things that Allah has ready for you. An attachment that doesn’t let you walk away is always, always unhealthy, even when it really doesn’t bring any apparent harm. Knowing you could have to sabr for anything on this world and that nothing is essential to your existence except for Allah is what makes your connection with people and objects really healthy and durable.
But then, sometimes your sabr depens on someone else’s. Sometimes you’d like to make sabr and let your heart un-swell, but to forgive your own mistakes, you first need to be forgiven. What then?
✒ this piece is about good listeners and smooth talkers. I was always fashinated by how some people seem to have the innate capability of listening, and some just don’t. Same thing goes for speakers. I often meet people that have such a power in their speech that they leave me mesmerized. Oh, and also: I guess I was a bit inspired romantically when I was writing this, ’cause it came out a bit soppy but in my defence I can say that I wrote it the night I watched “La la land”, so I should be partially justified, shouldn’t I?
● You might not know, but you have the face of somone who’s got a lot to say. And yet you prefer to keep your speech short, hiding yourself behind a diplomatic: “What about you?”.
Sometimes I think you’ve probably figured me out too well, and that your short answers are due to the fact that you already know I’ll end up speaking if you remain quiet for long enough.
Even now with just the input of your simple question, I could start telling you about how I sketched in the park yesterday, hands freezing but refusing to leave until the drawing was complete; I could tell you about how the trees were naked and about how I put clothes on them in my sketch; about their trunks’ colors, black on the left side of the road and white on the right side.
I could tell you about the joy of returning in a familiar place and the bitterness of finding it different. I could tell you about how I recently watched a musical at the cinema, and how I walked all the way home singing in the rain, in the middle of the night.
I could surprise you with a portrait I did of you last year, or the previous one. Or I could chose not to show it to you, and simply tell you that somewhere, in a place that belongs to me only, I jealously keep the footprint of your face.
I could whisper in a language that you don’t understand, and tell you it’s the language of my thoughts. I could tell you about how I once dreamt of lying on a desert beach, the laptop on my lap and the charger anchored to the bottom of the sea.
And while telling you all this, I could stop for a minute between one word and the next, just to observe how your expression changes while you try to imagine the end of every sentence. I could steal your time and silence you in thousands of ways, leaving you all wet eyed and mouth agape.
But you have the face of somone who’s got a lot to say, so this time I’ll just scroll my shoulders, reply shortly and say: “It’s your turn now”.