I was asked what I wanted to write about yesterday.
I stared into the clouds before I mumbled, “I want to write defiant novels in colors that don’t exist.”
I want to write words that heal the messy pains of human hearts, the pains that still linger through your system, the pains that have engraved their unspoken tales in the dilated pupils of even the darkest eyes. It is not simple, it not logical even perhaps, but I feel that if I am able to heal even one lost heart through my words, my soul will happily flee this world when death comes to collect what it is owed.
I was only seventeen, when I saw a leather bound book on my bookshelf filled with the poetry of Jalal ad-Din Muhmmad Balkhi — you may know him as Mawlana, or Rumi. I wasn’t even sure where it came from, or how it got to be on my personal shelf. As I opened the pages, I strangely felt they were meant for me. The works of the 13th century poet of the Balkh were translated from Farsi into lines of English that stabbed through my soul like daggers.
Human souls are just as weak as they are unbelievably strong. His words healed me, and led me to a Beloved-filled outlook arranged as if I was hearing an Austrian symphony.
The floodgates opened for Middle Eastern Literature. Poets stormed in named Hafiz, Saadi, Attar, and Khalil Gibran. The void in my spirit was no longer restless due to the help of enchanted writings from a different land and time. What would have happened if I never found that book of poems as silly as it seems? I have no doubt I would have taken comfort in drinking, and pills, and drugs, and perhaps even empty love — I’ve seen it over and over again with girls who feel unloved, it within our human nature. That is why I you will hear this story again and again.
They don’t warn you though that drugs and intoxicants can make you feel the illusion of being whole as well. They will allow you to temporarily escape reality, but the scary part they have the potential to possess your entire reality. Just like a demon or spirit, they follow you, and beckon your name. Do not mistake this earthly possession for freedom. Whether it is heroin or any other poison, ask the one who follows this path about his former dreams. Watch closely, as he looks at you with the longing face of a jailed man asking about the color of the autumn trees.
Take note of your pain, it a sign that your soul is longing for something you cannot see. I want to write tales this generation can relate to, and let them know they are loved, and whole, and chemical, and eternal, and cosmic, and divine, and most importantly free.
I want to remind women they are not the flaws the television convinces them they have, and that their soul does not have a dress size, and that they don’t need the love of a man to validate the love of themselves. I want to articulate to people this amber filled way I see things through a lens of poetry and paragraphs — not to convert them into different walks of faith, but to simply to show them a color they perhaps have yet to see. I want to paint God’s presence on my pages with a thousand acrylic drops of paint, without ever writing his name.
In this world that wants to destroy us all, what could be a greater act of rebellion than choosing to help build one another instead?
I want to write to make people question what reality is, and why it is. I want to show people there are paths beyond those within the borders of their countries. I want to show them the lines on their terrains do not define them anymore more than the lines on their hands. I want to write to remind my fellow lost souls, that every human they meet has the potential to become their kin — as we are of the same blood, rather than their enemies, or competition.
I want to remind people they have feet, because I am tired of seeing free birds who are afraid to even move.
I want to write the way an Olympic athlete leaps into the air. Jumping with full force into the next dominion, with reckless trust, and a determined stare.
I want to write with the foolish dream that I may one day help to empower and strengthen every woman of pure heart who has ever fell asleep crying into her pillow, because she believed she was not “enough.” Stop crying my love, you are beautiful.
When this shameless realm wants to destroy you, and there is no one to hold your hand, remember you were created unlike any other. You are a jewel, don’t let them cover your نور noor and dazzling shine with their common sand.
That is all, I’m afraid. This is your answer. This is all my soul longs to write: The colors that don’t exist.