Stranger Or Traveller

﴿ مَا وَدَّعَكَ رَبُّكَ وَمَا قَلَىٰ ﴾

Abū Sulaymān (رحمه الله):

“Show mercy to those on earth, and the One in the heavens will show mercy to you.”

“The moon asks, (while I lay awake again for the 5th night, only half reciting surahs and getting lost in thought just before the end of them) it asks, why I always love things that are no good for me. (أعوذ بالله من الشيطان الرجيم Bismillāhi r-raḥmāni r-raḥīm) I say I do not know. (Qul ʾaʿūḏu birabbi n-nās Maliki n-nās) The moon asks ( while I lay on my back in the dark of my room) It asks, why I am so scared all of the time. (ʾIlaahi n-nās) I say that I do not know. The moon asks, (while I think of you. while thoughts of you come of their own volition. while you come as easy and as hard as water) It asks, (while I think of you but when I should be thinking of me) It asks why I love you, when loving you stops me from loving me. (Min sharri l-waswāsi l-ḫannās) I say I do not know. (Allaḏī yuwaswisu fī ṣudūri n-nās) I ask myself “Who am I when I am finished loving you?” and something very ancient whispers “This.””

“It could also be true, that you learned to cope by not letting the pain subside, so as to not be unprepared for when it arrives again, with it’s bags, with it’s hat, with it’s half smile, and every intention of overstaying it’s welcome. It makes sense that you might be too afraid of getting used to peace, too uncomfortable with it, too anxious that you might forget how to ready your home for it when it shows up unannounced, in the way that it does. So instead, maybe you consistently self generate a little page, so that you never forget how it moves, so that you can keep your eye on it, so that when the knock at your door inevitable comes, you can bring your tired body to it and say, “I am as you left me, come in.””

“You and I, two drifters whose paths had enough luck to collide—two travelers, one miracle.”

“Well, let it pass; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.”

“What is more ‘august’ than the stillness of tree leaves on a calm morning, when they seem to listen to the song of light of the rising sun? The sun assigns shadows and the first shape of shapes emanates from its tender authority. Its designs will become sharp and unbearably clear. As of now it still hovers between pink and gold.”