Munafiq - Dance of Dichotomies منافق
The morning alights with a heaviness - a hollowness within - an aftertaste of the previous night's meal. A rustic symphony of grained semolina had tangoed with the emerald spinach leaves and vibrant beetroot steaks. As I swallowed this earthy bounty, a peculiar sense of fulfilment coursed through my veins, a whiff of superiority momentarily unsettling the balance of my existence.
Each granule consumed was a testament to radical love, even as it lay pilfered from countless innocents, their lives wilting in the cruel throes of starvation. Yet, in the intimacy of my oral cavity, the stolen grain found its final resting place.
Waves of guilt wash over me as I contemplate the silenced dreams lying dormant in the Bosnian soil's sombre embrace, the haunting stillness a chilling reminder of the Bosnian genocide. Yet, as if possessed by a strange dichotomy, my fingers mechanically scour the internet for cheap flights to European havens.
Gently, I peel myself from the womb of my bed, set to grace the world with my presence. I am a performer on the world's stage, my healing a charade, my peace a treacherous entity. Yet, I dance in the world's mirror, taking my seat before the portal of Zoom, plunging myself back into the abyss of ego.
An encounter with a dried shinjur, the Russian olive tucked in an ancient diary, leads me on a nostalgic journey back to my humanitarian adventures. It is a brief moment of self-congratulation, a fleeting rush of gratification coursing through the marrow of my being.
Images of the displaced victims of the brutal floods from Sindh and Baluchistan flit across my mind. Their despair resonates within me, as do the muted pleas of the Uyghurs, held captive in forgotten corners of the world. My temptation simmers - a desperate attempt to numb the overwhelming pain, a volatile cocktail of lust, devotion, and self-indulgence.
In the throes of remorse, I pause, reciting the opening Surah Fatihah thrice, seeking absolution from my guilt-ridden existence. The relentless pursuit of belonging and identity, all meld into a dissonant symphony of regret.
As the siren song of self-indulgence fades, I wipe clean the residue of my misdemeanours. A cleansing ritual precedes my prostration, a futile attempt at purifying the heart, a futile affirmation of my holiness.
Caught in the whirlwind of my thoughts, I crave another day of heavy-hearted existence. Another day of denial, disobedience, and ego-fuelling adventures. As the rain drums a melancholic symphony outside, I yearn for a pilgrimage to Mecca. Yet, I am shackled by the multitude of egos I worship within.
Night descends, a platter of lentils, barley, and tender lamb threads by my side. My nimble fingers dance on the device, my thoughts flirting with the darkness I harbour. Yet, amidst this dance of shadows, I seek the light. I am a hypocrite. I solemnly vow to slay my inner demons, but they return, luring me into the comforting embrace of ignorance.