why do I always feel like I have returned to my true self when the night is dark and the world grown quiet. when no one is around, not a single sound. no need to perform, or put on a smile. is this really who I am, or am I just tired. is this the only way for me to be me, or have I become exhausted and reluctant of the effort required when I'm with other people. the same effort that will allow me to grow and learn and change.

when i sit to collect my thoughts, and to spill them out on here, i often find myself pausing and reflecting. i find that time has slowed down and i am full of emotion. i hear the crickets and their nighttime melody. every fiber of my body is weighed down with all that i am feeling, so i sit to release it all through these written words. i type and read over them slowly, wondering if anyone who reads it will also do the same; if they will sense what I am feeling. but they don't, and i know this. because i've seen how you are when i show you something that i've put my heart in to. you skim through my heavy words and barely feel the emotions behind them. on a good day you might nod, but otherwise, there is no response. and i am reminded yet again, how i must do things for me. how people won't always appreciate or understand it, but i have to always do them for myself. i can't shed these tender parts of me, just because you aren't able to open your eyes and see them. i can’t keep waiting for you to see them, or seeking validation in your approval. because these parts don’t exist to please you. they exist because they’re a part of who i am.

there is an emptiness that fills up the space inside of me that was once carrying life. a space that was meant to be carrying life, but it never happened. a hollow sort of feeling, both physically and mentally. I often find myself staring in to the dinstance, wondering what it would've been like. It's a strange feeling; to be given something that you didn't really want, and then for it to be taken away when you had begun to accept it.

the warmth of their bodies was the only thing between them. her arms wrapped around him as he faced the other way. then he turned, buried his head in the crevice of her neck; and like a baby he softened, and the tears began to flow. her arms barely wide enough to cradle his broad shoulders. she wiped his tears and continued to embrace him, running her fingers through his hair, while praying in her heart, with tears in her own eyes, that he did not feel embarrassed and only comforted. that he felt relief with her, and that He was witness to it. praying that this was a turning point, an indication of some kind that things would be better. “I love you,” she whispered. he continued to sob; then paused and asked, “how?” but she didn’t know how, she just knew that she did. in that moment, compassion melted the anger and she saw, maybe for the first time, how wounded he truly was.

I’ve realized that I’m not very good at letting things go. When I clear off the shelves of my heart and make room for new things, I don’t just throw the old ones out, I shove them under the rug and let the dust pile up. I’ve got baskets in my closet to prove this. Tiny objects and sentimental pieces of paper, all so meaningless, yet heavy with memories for me. I haven’t been able to throw them out. The ‘Eid card from a childhood friend that I no longer speak to, the small broken clock I bought during my very first trip to the mall with one of my first middle school friends, a nearly empty bottle of perfume given by that same friend that I’ve kept only because it reminds me of being eleven years old and of what our friendship used to look like, or the random little objects I used to keep in my old bedroom. I still have the postcard sent to me by an author I used to obsess over as a child, and I was so excited that she wrote back to me. I keep these things not because I look at them daily or because anyone else will ever understand them. But because they mean something important to me - they bring back parts of my life that I may have otherwise forgotten about. They bring back to existence the old me that I sometimes dearly miss. The energy and curiosity that ran through me. The younger me that wasn’t battling demons in her mind, and knew how to think clearly and confidently take on the days. It reminds me of a softer time in life, when the innocence still existed and life seemed simple. When I spoke my mind and didn’t think of the consequences, and didn’t care either because I knew who I was and I could stand up for her.

“I love you,” she whispered. He continued to sob with his face buried in her neck, “How?” Which was something she did not have an answer for.

how is it possible to have gone most of your life living in a certain way, only to have a few years change that, to the point where you can barely remember what it ever felt like to be that way.

I don't remember how old I was but I remember wanting him to come in the car. I wanted to let him hear this nasheed I loved listening to. He didn't come though, I forgot the reason. It was getting dark out and the barbecue at the park was filled with people I didn't know. I'm not even sure why she took me. Despite being a little extroverted, I was never too social at those types of things as a kid. I was shy when it came to new people, and I sometimes still am. It was getting dark out and we were headed back home. I think she's the one who gave me that nasheed tape. I didn't like everything on it, so I'd switch it from side A to side B when I wanted to hear the one I liked. "Nobody knows, when they'll die. And if they will live to see another day. I must be wise, in the choices that I make, remembering Allaah, when the angel comes my way." I remember most of that thing. & recently I've been thinking about how my entire life, almost my entire life, death has always been something I feared. Death has always been something I knew about, was aware of, and feared. A constant reminder about something I couldn’t seem to forget about unlike most of my friends. A blessing in disguise, I suppose. "It's the unknown future, and Allaah only knows, when we will return to Him, when will we go." I would never listen to those people or those nasheeds again, but sometimes I wonder if through those lyrics, I was taught a message that remained with me for years to come.