Nawa and I

Borders on the eerie, one would have thought, when a particular theme or an image or a person becomes a type of landmark that is always there at one's defining moments.  At turning points, to the worst often, to the better seldom, or a combination that is the equilibrium at the line where the two cross.

For me, in particular, I dare say that it doesn't come any more spooky, even satirical,  than a certain age-old musical scale, that is as old as Sumeria itself.  So profound that music of East and West have adopted it an unsung hero and invisible pillar in perhaps every single composition, and this scale is non other than the infamous Iraqi Nawa.

It struck me as very odd, this very night, that whenever there was a moment of note, pun not intended, an event of the forever hessian matrix, forever vortex, that is this incomprehensible and insignificant slice in the time-space continuum that is my life, this scale of one form or another is always there.  It was there when I met him a man, having left a child - I was humming it all the way on the plane that took us some 4,000 kilometres from what was once a glorious land, to meet him and be exiled  with him - his tears put the final touches on the quarter-note that is somewhere around the Mi♭ ; there when I walked into an empty house years ago, and the scale would not leave my head all day, till that very moment  of stone cold sober reality;  It was there the afternoon my life turned up-side-down, yet again, one afternoon when I went to collect my precious ones and found them missing - I had been listening to it all day; it was here all week this week, being played on my Oud.

Tonight, though, was the final straw.  My youngest loves sleeping to me humming it, or listening to a recording I made a while back playing it with some friends, followed by my reciting the scale in a way that Baghdadis did for thousands of years - nothing special really, but there you have it - the girl's a natural musician by some fluke genetic programming.

Why tonight? it is precisely because this is the very first night in almost eleven weeks that they are spending a night with me, at their home, having been made homeless and snatched away from their little world at school, by the insignificant cult-fanatic-cum-insect, who is also my grave and unforgivable error to their's and my own humanity, and happens to be their biological mother.

My bubbly Reema slept, as is her usual passionate little self, to the themes of Nawa being played on my iPhone from that recording she loves so much.  I listened to her breath slowing down into a peaceful beat matching the sublime rhythm that is there, but is really not, and watched her little rosy lips smile in delight as she journeyed into quiet surrender to the sultan of deep sleep, being rocked gently on the way by every single note and quarter.

It is at that moment that I broke down in tears, not at the injustice and the endless whys that have come to haunt me all my life, piling up with every single turning point, but at the thought that tomorrow, some time, I shall be saying goodbye to them, and once again the house will be empty.

Q E fucking D

BLANK

Never in my life have I been lost for words.  Not ever.  The day I picked up my little ones' treasures of work from school before end of year, and faced all the wondering faces of their friends and teachers asking where they were and when they might be back.

There's a first time for everything I guess.

QED.

لقد فهمت ..

علق في ذاكرتي من أيام الصبا حديث دار بين شخصيتين من شخصيات "في بيتنا رجل"  ﻹحسان عبد القدوس .

ليس المهم كيف تدور الرواية، على الحقيقة،  بالرغم من كونها حبكة جميلة أكثرها حقيقي، صاغها أستاذ معلم؛

لكن تلك العبارة الجبل هي عندي عمودها: ساعة لاقاه  ورف اليه و أراد أن يعانقه،  لكن شيئا ما في محياه البارد و عباراته الساخرة المتهكمة الشامته فاجئه، سمر قدميه في مكانهما .  تذكرت موقفه  و أنا أحدثه صديق عمري،  أو هكذا حسبت .. أسير غضبان الخطى على أرصفة برلين في ساعات الصباح اﻷولى،  و المطر بلل حتى عضامي،  و لم أحسَّ به،  مسافة ما بين داره التي تركتها ألعن كل لحظة قررت فيها زيارته ،  متوهما وهم الساذج المطمإن أنني أزوره شق روحي الثاني الذي ما صدقت أنني وجدته .. و بين  ذكريات ضهر تموزٍ اللاهبِ في أرض كانت كل ذرة من ترابها تعرفنا معرفة الوالدة الرؤم بولدها الشقي الأسمر الأحرقته شمس بغداد، و بين أمطار برلين و ليلها و أرصفتها،  ضيعني حنيني .

كنت ما أزال على وهم يقيني أنني أركض معه نُطّيرُ طيارة صنعناها لتونا أو ندور نبحث بين البيوتات عن بنت الجيران الحوراء،  علنا نجد من محياها مسترق نظرة أو إبتسامة كانت شفقة أو إستهزاءاً، لست أدري، لكنها على كل حال كانت إبتسامةو كنت أتصيدها إصطياداً .  تذكرت كيف أنّني أفزعني طيف في منام و أراني في ذلك الكابوس ألاقيه بين زحام الناس فلا يعرفني، و إن تكن ملئ عيني عيناه ؛  و لا يعرفني و أفزع من كابوسي الذي أرقني ليالٍ،  ليلة فليلة.  كتبته قرضا من الشعر أول ما أفقت و يحملها البريد إليه .. تصله فيكلمني و كلانا يجهش عبرة و ألما.

ثم إفترقنا عقدين و كلانا يفتش عن صاحبه سنينا .  لم أكن أحسب و لو خيالا، و لو شبحا من يقين، أن كابوسيَ سوف يتحقق بالحرف و يزيد فوق الصدمة كل ما دار في الثمانية و اﻷربعين ساعة المشؤمات تلك ، أنني فوق كل ذلك لم أعرفه - لا في زحام الناس و لا في وقع خطاي  و لا مسافات الزمان و المكان و لكن مسافة ما يرتد الطرف إلى العين و هو يتفوه بكل ترهات اﻷرض و تفاهاتها المجنونة .

أواه .. لم أفهم ..
ويحي .. لم أفهم ..
ثكلتني أمي .. لم أفهم ..

"و اﻵن فهمت .. و قد كنت بحاجة ﻷن أفهم"

إنتهى.

Beast of a despicable God

"I realise the tragic significance of the atomic bomb ... It is an awful responsibility which has come to us ... We thank God that it has come to us, instead of to our enemies; and we pray that He may guide us to use it in His ways and for His purposes. Harry S. Truman, August 9, 1945, one day after the Hiroshima Bombing"

I was reading this as part of my ongoing quest, even obsession, to try to digest the mentality of careless hate Americans and their cronies in Tehran continue to dispense on us lesser mortals.

Then it struck me: in 1945, Truman congratulates himself so buoyantly on being bestowed with a higher responsibility from his "God", to handle a weapon of unforetold destruction on his "enemies" to "use it in His ways".  What God is he "praying" to? what creation did this "God" conjure up? indeed, what callous, indiscriminant and reckless hate is this, which can justify the instant vaporisation of some 70,000 casualties in under one second of time, with another 80,000 in the immediate aftermath of dropping the Hiroshima devil?

So reckless is that hate, that the weapon was nicknamed "Little Boy", with the sequel unleashed on Nagasaki being, wait for it, "Fat Boy"; continuation of a tradition that "our boys" do "our deeds" in "His ways".

So here's a very politically incorrect sentence to mull upon: I curse this God and His ways and His beast, and with it all those who stand silent, quietly contented, in the face of the atrocities that this beast and his tail continue to commit in Iraq and world-wide.

And they blame the rest of us for resenting them, their "God", indeed Gods, "His ways" and theirs.

And the ready made charge and excuse to kill everyone else outside of their "God"'s and His white-Anglo-Saxon-Zionist circle? well, it's called "The War On Terror" and "The Axis of Evil" !!

Eeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaa !! "we'll smoke 'em out boys (and I quote Dubya here) !! only this time, they are far more vulnerable; women, children and unarmed civilians all over Iraq, particularly in the West Country, and they could never retaliate to depleted Uranium or the utter slaughter by US, Iranian and Iranian-supported so-called "forces".  Such chivalry and courage; what a day for age-old Persian hate; revenge for the destruction of Ilam; revenge for what went down in Babylon and Sumaria; revenge for a time of men, when men crushed the filth that is Khomaini underneath their heals; avenge the captives of Babylonia, Aseria and Akadia!!

One thing remains constant though: there is a balance and justice in the universe and, I believe, a God that is nothing like the evil abortion those hideous beasts purport to pray to.  A God that will see our very nails turn to knives, to slit their throats and rid our body of the filth that they have inflicted upon our land; He will our babies cries turn into rains of fire that will obliterate them to doom; our women's pleas for mercy turn into shrieks of damnation upon our enemies' skulls, with our very own, very Iraqi hands.  Sooner or later? His will WILL BE DONE; and WE Iraqis, WE alone, WILL DO His ways.

"Hate is a substance that inflicts more damage on the vessel that contains it than the object of it's destruction" (Master Lao).

QED.

و هو يحاوره مرة ثالثة

وَكَانَ لَهُ ثَمَرٌ فَقَالَ لِصَاحِبِهِ وَهُوَ يُحَاوِرُهُ أَنَا أَكْثَرُ مِنْكَ مَالًا وَأَعَزُّ نَفَرًا (قرآن كريم) 

و أراني اليوم أحاور غيره  فيه  و عما جرى الماء عليه  و من اﻷسئلة الملحة اﻷعيت الجواب: إن كنا نحن يوم ذاك رجلين حاورنا اﻵخر فيما لم بنا ، و اليوم - و إن إختلف الزمان نوعا ما و هو على علاته و يزدن، و أحدنا غادر جحيم الدنيا تاركا صاحبه لها - أقول ما زال الحوار هو هو ، فما ذلك القاسم المشترك الذي جمع هذا الثالوث؟ ما هو ذلك القاسم، بل و ما ذلك المانع الأكبر الذي يمنع هذا القاسم من أن يشرك و أن يجمع؟

ثلاثة رجال بينهم عمرا ثلاثة أجيال، جمعهم هم بذاته، كان من المفترض أن يكون هم ما يناهز الأربعمائة مليون عربي، يزيدون أو ينقصون قليلا، أو على أبخس تقدير من يسمون أنفسهم صفوة هؤلاء و نخبة مثقفيهم، و ما ذلك الهم إلا بكل بساطة هم وجودهم على وجه التحديد؟!

مسألة ملحة  على  ما  أعتقد، أو هكذا تقتضي ألبداهة المنطقية و لكنني ، و أقول لكنني حتى  لا أتهم بالتعميم ، على  ما  يبدو ، من فئة  المنقرضات  شأني شأن الديناصورات سيئة ألحظ .. فلا  أحد يرى فداحة  ما يجري  على  شاشات الفضائحيات من أفيون  متوفر وفرة  الهيل بغير كيل ، و تغييب كامل عن عمد و سابق إصرار لكل  ما  ممكن أن  يقترب من حجيرة دماغية على  قيد الحياة في  جمجمة صاحية  و لو بالإسم . و اللهو  الاني صيحة الساعة إسمه  مستورد و جاهز  بالعلب الزاهية على  رفوف الأسواق المترفة في دول الخليج اللا عربي، ألا و هو الربيع العربي، أم هل هو الخريف الجربي؟ - جرب أصاب المواشي و خيالات المآتة الآدمية في أرض عدنان و قحطان و جاء إستيرادا مخصوصا حصرا،  كلاً و جزءاٌ  و سوي اﻷمر ﻻ عتب و لا زعل.

هل تسائل أحدنا أو أحد "مثقفينا" يوما عما تفعل علوج ملالي شيطان فينا ؟  أو إلى أي مدى إجتاح دين و أفكار زرادشت المتصهين الموسوم بالشيعة الصفوية كل شعيرة من نسيج شعبنا المنخور من جذره أساسا؟ أم هل إكتتبنا التاريخ و قرأناه يوما عن أحلاف المجوس و يهود الشر مذ كان الزمان طفلا و أسياف سومر و بابل و آشور و أكد تكر تارة و تفر تارة وحيدة وحدة العراق الموحشة يوم بيع العراق بلا و لا حتى رمشة من عين تدمع؟  اليوم أدرك البدو ما فعلوا بالعراق و حتى في لحظة إدراكهم المفترض، فهم أهون من ذبابة في مستحم قذر مليئ بالجراثيم و الحشرات المتناحرة فيما بينها على نفايات فتات اﻵخرين، و أما الذبابة فهي على اﻷقل حرة تطير بجناحيها و قدرتها الذاتية و أما هؤلاء فحتى أرجلهم صنعت في طهران و أوروبا و أمريكا و رحم الله أبا فراتٍ الجواهري !!

أما آن، و أستدرك و أقول، بل أما بات اﻵوان قد فات، لنا نحن سكان هذه البقعة من المحيط للخليج أن يحاور أحدنا اﻵخر و قاسمنا المشترك ذاته ما تملكه الحيوانات على إختلاف أشكالها و تلك هي غريزتها للبقاء؟! أم أنني حتى في هذا الفرض الوجودي البايولوجي البحت خطأن و أكلم الموتى من أرض الديناصورات المنقرضة؟!

لم يزل فيَّ بصيص أمل أن اﻷمر ليس كذلك، على اﻷقل لكي آخذ معي بصيص اﻷمل هذا يوم يحين اﻷوان و أشد رحالي الى حيث ألاقيه وأحاوره  ثالثة عن أمل في أولادي و أولادهم من بعدي .

قَالَ إِنَّكَ لَنْ تَسْتَطِيعَ مَعِيَ صَبْرًا ( صدق الله العظيم ) ..

إنتهى . 

Starry Starry Night

With eyes that watch the world and can't forget ..
Like the strangers that you've met ..
The ragged men .. in Ragged Cloths ..
The silver thorn .. a bloody rose ..
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow ..

Now I think I know ..
What you tried to say to me ..

For sure I know .. God I know .. and I wish I knew .. back then .. I wish I knew 

How you suffered for your sanity ..
How you tried to make them see ..

How I suffer for my sanity .. suffered for my sanity .. as far back as I remember .. back since the days I worked out how insane the world was .. how the lies just crumbled in the eyes of a child knee-high to a grasshopper .. I saw them lie .. and wanted me to lie .. and the only place to run away was within ..
How I tried to make them see ..


They would not listen .. they're not listening still ..
Perhaps they never will ?

For sure they never will .. for they did not love you .. and neither they did I .. and neither will they ever you ..

QED.

Here's to you Marvin

Like a wheel within a wheel

It is a wicked fate, I guess, that us Iraqis made the wheel some time before man even new time and place, and that this very wheel brought prosperity to the world and became our never ending vortex.

Take it from as far back as recorded history of our generous and bereaved land goes - some 12,000 years before the birth of one character they call Christ, who's very existence is in doubt, to date; the wheel continues to bring motion, and with it life to humanity, and bring us doom and destruction - within, in our souls, and out there, in every corner, with every weeping mother and crying child mourning the loss of not only their bread and bread winners, but their very childhood and lives.

The neglected side of this sadistic existence, methinks, is more to do with imprisonment of our souls, in a wheel, within a wheel, in a never ending cycle as the lyrics goes; it is how we love, and how we live and how we look at the world; disillusioned beings; that see a spade being a spade; that are tough even at their moments of utter dispair; never seeing things except for what they are.

And thus, I have come to see this never ending cycle, within the cycle of life, that made our paths cross, and our land what it is, giving life to the world, yet not able to break the cycle and live.  And that, my one, is how it is ..

Like the circles that you find; in the windmills of your mind.

QED.

To my dear dad ..

You once said that I had taught you of late the meaning of being akin to your own father.

Know, dear dad, that wherever you are, in all your struggles; the ones told; and the ones only you and I knew of to this day; know that it is you who never ceased to teach me, and only today I realised how hard you fought for your sanity; know that I too have been, still am, fighting for mine; that I know if you were not victorious, it at least never got the best of you; and nor will it of me.

QED.

خيوط الحقيقة في يد معتوه

قبل الف قال قائلهم: " إني أعلم أنك تعلم أنَكَ و الله لكاذب "¹

وتمشي تلم شَتاتك ۔۔

على رصيف مل خطاك ۔۔

يعبث ريح الشتاء بوجهك ،

يمسحه على مضض ،

يصفعه حتى يستحيل الدم المحموم في عروقك ،

لوح جليد ۔

*******

مَعتوه مَعتوه مَعتوه ۔۔

تطرز الوهم قلائد في جيد يقينك ، تُلبسه ۔۔

حتى يستحيل شكك يقيناً ،

و تسير أوهامك بالحاضر سجيناً ،

و تبقى تفتش عن أمن اليقين في شكك حيناً ،

و في مطر بلل حتى العضام في جسمك حينا ،

مَعتوه مَعتوه مَعتوه .
*******

تتوسل الموت أن يأتيك و ما يأتي ،

تستفزه تارة و يهرب منك ،

و تركض إليه تارة  و ما يأتيك ،
لا يأتيك ۔۔

و هو الحقيقة و معنى اليقين في روحك الثكلى ،

و ما يأتي ،

هل يأتي ؟

و لا يأتي ۔۔

لا في ضوء الصبح الباكر شق سَماك ۔۔

و لا في عتم الليل البارد ضم خطاك ،

جفاك ۔۔

مثل الكل جفاك ،

كنت تعلمه مُرَ الحقيقة في وهم دُناك ،

جفاك ،

و ما يأتيك ۔۔

يأبى حتى الموت إلا جفاك !!

معتوه معتوه معتوه ۔۔

*******

تطرزه الشك قلائد دُرّيَّة ۔۔

حتى صار يقيناً ،

و سار وهمك بالحاضر سجينا ۔۔

أواه ۔۔

ها قد مِتَّ أخيراً ،
آن لك أن تستريح ۔۔

مَعتوهاً مَعتوهاً مَعتوه ،،

فقد ضاعت منك خيوط الحقيقة .
----
1: ما روي عن عبد الله بن الزبير في مساجلة مع يزيد بن معاوية بن أبي سفيان

Numbers

I made a point of reading everything he wrote; or, more precisely, everything he wrote that I could get my hands on; alas, being cursed with an evil memory, I had also remembered everything he wrote.  Right down to what he told me when I asked what brought about a particular piece of poetry or another.  I was proud to be his biggest fan; still am.

One particular piece, amongst the many, keeps hounding me, in the most hopeless of ways; he once said to her: "you never knew the art of numbers.  Had you known, then you'd have also known that any number becomes zero when you are taken away from it".

He left.  To a better place I'm told, and I hope to be;  he left me grieving for him for the rest of my days, and left her dead in the world of the living.

QED

You'll love me at once ..

How does the song go? as hopeless and as ridiculously fictitious as the story is I guess; of a form of love so pure, that it would actually bring back the dead, or the almost so; of the girl that has it all, and the boy that wants it all, and the whole cookie crumbles and everyone lives; well .. happily ever after.

Alas the never ending cycle that intersects reality with dreams, hope with utter disaster and a 'pick-the-pieces and go' kind of outlook with the grim surroundings of this thing enforced upon us called life.

And that, as they say, is that.  The only constant I've ever been able to see in it all, is this ever lasting, bitter sweet pain that I'd miss if it ever went away, and hope every day it'd end, and if it did end I'd go seeking it again add infinitum.

The way you did once upon a dream ..

QED (for now)

Disastrous Love

This is the tale of hopeless and disasterous love of poet with one beauty in the court of Sultan  Abdülmecid I, c1850.  He suffered and was imprisoned for her sake, only for her to reach him at his death bed with only this song and lyrics witness of a tale of love denied.  The poet and composer's name is Haci Aref Bey, and this is just about the most famous classical Turkish/Oriental pieces on love ever sung

It's been a year ..

To the day, and there is hardly a man more proud than I that you are the one that has his heart in the palm of her hands .. and no one else.

QED

Just say ..

Today I had this thought that kept bothering me.  A revelation, more than a thought.  What does one do in the face of utter silence? in fact, silence is a far more powerful expression than all the words in all the language.  One can respond to words in a variety of ways; some words wound; some comfort; others are outright venom; others still are comforting.  There must be a million and one things and subjects one can say with words.

Silence, however is a different story.  It is incredibly difficult to decipher for, amongst other reasons, the mere fact that you can go back on a silence a million times.  Whatever your counterpart recipient may think, you can simply rebuke it - no words were said, so any deduction is a presumption, and presumptions are a trap for the unsuspecting fool ...etc. ...etc.  You deduce ignorance, your counterpart accuses you of the same; you deduce lack of interest, and guess what? right back at you comes the table kid !!

So .. not ever being a man that's scared to say my mind, how about you say yours? say you hate me; say you love me; say any nonsense; say things that make sense; say whatever it is you would say .. just say 

SOMETHING !!!!

QED

Christ Post Mortem

'tis a lonely night, like another, and the day breaks.  He wakes up, Jesus of Nazareth, knowing it is his last day, knowing he is to be no more, that he is to depart, that he is to go back home.  "Before the cock crow twice, thou will disown me thrice", and he broke down and wept.  And as sure as anything, the crow crowed twice, and his loyal student denied him thrice.  It has all been in vain, and it is time to go.

'tis a lonely day, all day.  He knew he was to be killed.  He sent them to get all the ingredients for the last supper.  Even the lamb to sacrifice.  It was farewell.  And he had to say it, and he had to fulfil his all too clear, all too tragic and all too controversial destiny.  Though, I would suspect, he had a certain peace and clam deep down inside.  She was always there, that much he knew; she was always there, and there she will always be, true to him, and he true to her despite the odds.

'tis a pleasant evening that night, as they ate, and said their peace, and there he was, the Judos Iscariot , his most devoted student, or so he thought, till that night, and he knew all about it, that night too.

And the sun rose on yet another day, and he was crucified; and that's when it all begun, and she to him as you to I my  one, though I am no Jesus, and you, my love, are as pure as the sun lines and the morning breeze, and a tender, cold winter's day.

And it is you, my one, that called me from the cross, like she did when she wept at his feet that miserable afternoon they left him hung out there.  You gave me life, and for that I am in your debt forever.  You gave me love and for that there is no repaying you.  You gave me my breath back, and with that I shall always be with you, with every breath I take; you are with me in my very being.

Know this: I will always love you, always.  Nothing can change that, nothing ever will or will even come close.  You are my fate, my destiny, all the good in me and none of the bad for that is mine and mine alone to carry and answer for.

What remains, my love, is the day when the secret will be exposed for all to see, of Christ the lover and the man he once was, and of this insignificant being that is I.  One thing unites he and I, across the times: we are both lovers, and our secret shall be found the moment our hearts are cut out open.  Post mortem; and that, my darling, is that.

QED.

Humpty Dumpty

It would be hard for anyone not to know the infamous Humpty Dumpty and of his great fall sitting on a wall.  Even different cultures have this, or a very similar, character by different names.

What brought Humpty Dumpty to my thoughts today was that my two little princesses, the twins, came home from nursery insisting on singing the rhyme over and over and over again and, of course, I'd have to sing it with them.

Then, this struck me: it would seem that I have for a very long long time, been sitting on a wall. An anticipation; a hope; a longing, and visions of the green fields  and the roses and the riches in the King's garden.  Not knowing that all the time, it would seem, the king and his queen have had this massive interest in Humpty Dumpty as little more than a curiosity.

So, when Humpty Dumpty fell, all the king's horses and all the king's men came rushing; the queen had lost her amusement, the king is furious, for there is no more an Humpty Dumpty to focus his anger upon, and so rushed the men, on their horses, in an attempt to pick-up the pieces.

The sad bit is that ..

All the King's Horses ..

And All the King's Men ..

Couldn't Put Humpty Together Again.

He's been shattered, and what's done is done ..

QED.

I WISH

I wish I could say I hate you

I wish I could forget all about you

I wish I could run away from the shadow of your your eyes

But the harder I run, the more eyes I look into, the harder I try to forget about you, the more I punish myself, in every pair of eyes, in every pair of heavenly breasts, in every kiss, in every taste, of every lips, there is only one woman, and that woman is you.

I curse myself a million times every slow, painful hour of every day, to the point of damnation, to the point of blasphemy, to the point of utter degradation, and in her desperation, my soul seeks absolution in no other arms but yours.  My body seeks refuge in no other body than yours; my manhood can be in no other female than you. You are in them all. In all the blonds and all the redheads and all the brunettes and all the young budding flowers, in all the mature roses, in every leaf and every breeze and every smile and every sigh and every tear drop and every miserable morning and moan and every laughter and every smile, all not my own, all falling on a numb soul.

I wish I could say you are gone .. I wish I could bring myself to abandon you and all hope with you ..

I wish ..

Then I remember, that there is no escaping the truth with a lie, and that truth, my one, is that I love you; with all my sins, and all my mistakes and all my contradictions, I love you, and there is no escaping that and no lying my way out of it, and the only sadness that is greater than all of this, is knowing that you are crying deep down and I am not there to wipe your tears.

QED.

CRIME

Did he ever think of a particular crime when he, one Fyodor Dostoevsky, set about shocking the world with his master piece? does it ever strike you that the book is a perfectly balanced monument not only to his genius, but also to the perfect chaos and interoperable contradictions in human soul?

This has been on my mind for a while.  Of crime.  Of what it is to commit one in the first place.  Of the definition of the same.  Of what is it, and the source of it; all of the above being completely interchangeable.  A crime, by any other name, is, well let's hold back for a moment; the more one looks into either or both, the more blurred the boundaries become.

Unlike all my earlier postings, I find myself overwhelmed with a ton of emotions to the point of inability to write.  I keep having flashbacks to some days, and things, and words that were said and tears that fell and smiles that shied away and the whole nine yards.  Far too many of them to be able to keep a clear stream of thought or consciousness to put what I have to say into words, and make it make sense.  It is the trait of lateral thinking taking its toll to extremes, to the point of utter flatness and destruction.

Where is the crime in loving? I would submit that this is a massive crime - against one's self for instance;  where is the crime in wanting to pursue that love once one stumbled upon it? to pursue it against all odds, against all others, and for one particular and for no other? is it society that is doing this to us, or is it us that are doing this to ourselves, or is it simply a foolish act that, despite whatever we may do, will forever be a burden?

And that burden, my one is the point .. for it is the one crime which I will commit over, and over, and over again add infinitum, against every odd there is, even the odd of you totally losing interest for the sake of one other; of my fear of knowing I have fallen in love with you the day we uttered a word on the phone;

And that, my one, I will hold dear to beyond the grave;  and that, my one is ..

Punishment

QED.

Never have I felt this empty in my life.  Never, in my lowest moments, in my hardest moments, at the time I lost a dear, dear loved one and buried him with my own two hands.  Never .. and I will grieve you forever .. and nothing you can say or do can ever make it better or make me change.

QED.