ifada in a nutshell (1)

I.

there are things that I miss from the past and things that I don't. I miss myself when I'm full of wonder but I also don't want to return to that time. I just need to pull 'wonder' I had in the past and fill myself in the now with it. I have little motivation these days, so I come here to remind myself how it feels to dig into my mind and pull something out: one word, two words, three millions something anxiety that creep inside my head. well, at least I'm mapping something. mapping is a hope. mapping is making me move from bed to pen, from worry to words, from cloud to clay, from chaos to order. perhaps wonder will birth from it. maybe I'm not hopeless after all.

II.

I thought wonder could heal my numbness —what is inside me that feels like death.

III.

my father passed away a year ago after six years of suffering from liver cirrhosis that had evolved into cancer in his last two months. the same illness his mother had, and the mother before her. this family has a history of diseases.

IV.

sometimes I need two days in a row waking up to heavy rain. I need to name something inside me that is unexpressed and unspoken but I come up with 'sometimes I need two days in a row waking up to heavy rain' instead. I need the universe to cry for me. please cry for me because I forgot the reason for my tears.

V.

I hate sickness. I hate death. I hate suffering. I hate impermanence. what is life? please tell me what is life? There are millions of reasons I can say: and yet, life is still beautiful. I remember I waited outside the ICU with my brother. we sat on the hospital floor in the hospital corridor with no light. it was dim and cold, and unbearably hard. the nurse was pushing a big defibrillator machine inside I thought it was for our father (later I learnt that the doctor instructed the nurses to not use a defibrillator because inside my father's chest was full of blood). there were only three patients inside the ICU, my father was their latest addition. he came that very morning and was gone after the sun set. It was Friday night. It was Friday night on November 17th. A week ago was November 17th and I was sick all day that day.

VI.

there are enough worries and clouds, anxiety and tears; I numb myself with endless scrolling, fake laughing, nonsense fantasy. I'm coping, I'm coping: I'm painting, I'm writing, I'm rewatching The Mandalorian from season one to three —I rewatch and reread everything in my pocket box of wonder to lure 'wonder' out. I thought wonder could heal my numbness —what is inside me that feels like death.

VII.

we lost our house; we lost our father; we lost a place that was attached to every memory of him; everything happened in a span of a year. there were times when waking up was the hardest thing to do; when memories of my father’s dead body lurked inside my brain; when he was vomiting blood on that Friday morning; when he said his last wish in the ICU; when he stopped breathing.

the funeral took place on Saturday morning. there was a splash of rain during the procession of his burial, the same thing happened during my grandfather’s burial —my father’s father. maybe this family has history with rain.

VIII.

there are things that I miss from the past: a street lamp seen from my old room, a moon sight in Ramadan during a short walk to the mosque, my father's back & his bedroom; and things that I don't: the elephant in the room.

Ifada
November 2024