The prophet Muhamad

Good looking, powerful, strong, kind, wise, chosen. I have always felt akinned to him in a certain way. A sense that my life was also going to be important, this has started to get a little shattered recently, that I’m not actually that important, that I’m just like everyone else and it’s been a slow and resisted grind set.

I blame society more than anything else, and my conditioning to embrace it, rather than sharpen my mind and understand reality. Going along with the common flow so that I can be just a bit better, or be just behind as I probably prefer it, to my friends and everyone else. There is no genuine desire for something pure, like a film maker or a samurai, I have royally not been the perfect, right? I have this new idea of what was perfect and relative to that my past is not that.

I’m guessing this new idea of perfect doesn’t need to exist though, before I just wanted to be special and effortlessly loved by all. Now I also wish to be loved by all, before in a suit now in a robe I just wish to be perfect and effortlessly loved by everyone I come across the way my community would talk about Muhammed and Islam.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

The truth lightens the load, writing this out makes me laugh a little, and I will want it again. Like stretching, but I know I won’t come back for a while. Can I be like this everyday, can I feel like I’ve just had a good stretch everyday, can I feel like this reliving of a load forever. Can I ever not be annoyed about the weight I place on myself.

Do I have to impress my friends with my writing, or success of my writing. Am I afraid of me being better than them …

I have to be better than my brother, I have to get all the love and attention from my mother, there cannot be anyone who will make her laugh or cry more than me. I am the most important thing in the world to her fuck you Namrah, I AM BETTER.

But what if I wasn’t. What if I wasn’t worried about being the favourite. Genuinely, is the idea in my head of the easy life actually possible if I were to no longer be so desperate for the attention and validation.

Is this breeze in my mind, is this man at ease in a field possible, this sweet Japanese dream, is this what life could be rather. Rather than the impossible hell cry that is the image in my head from realising how desperate I am for attention and validation. For protection. How afraid am I of being a disappointment?

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —