Where memories fold, we hurt because we know the contours of their faces...
Where memories fold
We hurt because we know the contours of their faces
It is wise, though, that when the world turns
That we turn with it
We may fall back into the depths of time
Eyes cast backward
Perusing our series of memories, now
Death has an uncanny way of slowing us
In our tracks
We cannot move faster than time
We cannot speed up the velocity of our tears
Nor can we slow down the speed of decay
Of bodies of memories of struggle •
I write a lot about death. Mostly because, well... it sucks. But life is not only existential, it is transcendental.
As previously stated: no one knows what happens when we die. But I have beliefs based on some past experiences, and it serves me and my sense of security well to believe that there is an existence after death. That all of those deeply loved ones whom I have lost, that there will one day be a beautiful reunion, made all the more beautious as the many passing years carried longing alone with them. Longing, which only deepened with time.
Life is more beautiful than that it is painful. So we stay throughout the pain in anticipation of greater things to live for. Some of those great things are our dear relationships with loved ones we know we will lose one day. We try not to think about that part, though.
Indeed, each new death brings along with it a new series of pangs. New stormy waves on the ocean as we try to stay afloat. Sometimes we feel as if we are drowning, but we remember that while the waves will never truly stop, they decrease in intensity over time. Our pain from each loss decreases in intensity over time.
Yet, we stay for the beauty — the deep love we have for the ones we still have in our grasps. And each day, it is worth it. The pain of loss is worth it because of what we still have left remaining. If we experience many deaths in our lives, we are lucky. Lucky, because that means we had many people to love. I have lost 3 people dear to me in my short 30 years. I live for the memories of them remaining, as memories and mere trinkets are all that I have left. But those memories will hold us over, until — as we can only hope — will be our own return to that from whence we came. •
Poem from Ether & Toil, not yet available, however click the button below for first two books
© Aisha Tariqa Abdul Haqq Publishing
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