Re-think-ing

I didn't sleep last night thinking how ignorant I've been about my religion, Islam. I have been adopting the so-called-modernized Islam that I've neglected its rules and regulations. My way of life, the way I think and the way I approach Islam. It had always been my religion, not my way of life. Sure I pray, I fast but there is much more about Islam I've neglected because I thought I can't reach success if I fully practice it.

I've been judging and moderating Islam the way I want it to work. I stood up, basking myself on the morning's sun feeling ashame of what I'd done since puberty.

Surely, there is more than Islam than praying 5 times a day and attending the Friday prayer. Much much more than that. There is more than Islam than covering my aurah. There is more than Islam than its proclamation on my ID card. There is so much more.

I've been praying five times a day, reading Al-Fatihah which I have no I idea what it means. It was only out of habit. I didn't know what I'd memorized and read in the Quran. I have no idea what I'd recite while reading the Yassin in a congregation. Imagine that, I'd been mumbling a foreign language in which I failed to understand for the past 10 years. Truly, I am ashamed.

My intentions or niah had always been materialistic: to be successful and rich, to own an expensive house, to have other people to respect me. What have I contribute to my way of life? to my giver? Have I ever planned to help the ummah?

I have to rethink on how I should proceed with life. On the intentions in which I will spend my heart and soul on. On my life goals. I really have to rethink everything. To go to the roots of everything. I must prevail in this intention. I must.

The vicious cycle

The phone vibrated. It is a feeling you get before a storm. An impending pain. It is not my first time. It is like a papercut where I flick through several familiar pages and get my fingers cut repeatedly. I answered the phone, slumped and used my weakest tone of voice in favour of the speaker. Dreading the moment of the cold icy conversation, I held my breath and sighed from inside my lungs. Like every similar phone conversation with the speaker, she would hung up. Like choking my throat with a bottle full of guilt pills. It will last a week, maybe more but then again, the speaker wouldn't know about it. I, in the her opinion, have a heart of a stone.

So I switched off the phone for good. 'Good' is a moment that I feel appopriate for my excruciating pain to mend. I will switch it on again, when I'm ready for another papercut.

Everybody should know that what comes around goes around. It is cycle nobody can't deny. I will, sooner or later be in position similar to the speaker. And the cycle will begin. The same cycle. The same experience.

But I won't.

Because I would like to learn from it. To learn that pain is continuous, sometimes heridetary. To learn that as a human being, I can manipulate my emotions and experiences. To learn that the most beneficial and most harmless pain is realization.

It is a difficult journey. It is a journey where I have to get into the root of my behaviour. A journey no one would like to revisit. A point in life where I 'died'. A part of me. It is about forgiving myself, forgiving everybody that had inflicted the vicious cycle.

A journey I will have to endure to get rid of the heap of burning, balmy feeling I can't describe everytime the phone rings.

The Beckoning

For as long as I can remember, I read magazines backward. Not because I like to favour the good stuff but the reading experience will be more thorough and full. And precautionary.

To think about it, what if I cound the years of life backward. Assuming I'll die of cancer by the age of 80, I should be 61. 61 more years to live. Maybe I'll live a more full and thorough life by that psyche.

Maybe.

Raymond

An old white man who lives nearby Nael's condominium had been bringing guys my age to his home. Some are baby-faced malays and others are age-defying chinese teenagers. He'll bring his companions home for a cup-of-tea and relaxed with them by the pool. Apparently, Rymond had bought his home to spend the last moments of his life here, on the shores of the Pearl Island.

Rumours has it that he has a wife and children whom he had left in Britain. Rumours also has it that he sleeps with young boys to invigorate his vitality. In other words, to live longer. Could it be that sodomizing and fondling young adults is the elixir of youth? He is also the Chairman of Welfare of the whole condo and had used this oppurtunity to decorate the entr ance with rather untasteful objects.

I met him a few times in the elavator and to be honest, the few seconds in the entrapped space is torture. It is not much of what he did but what he had done. The thought of his 'secret escape' exerted a few drops of nervous sweat.

marry a whiteman lah

Ah, malay men.... Sure I can't generalize them but I CAN sum predictions for a major portion of them. They will win your hearts with endlessly flowing poems and song lyrics during their first spurt of interest. They will later try tease you and lead you on a romantic roller coaster. They'll marry you, proclaim their husband-ly status in kenduris and will work their ass off for your domestic needs. This is the peak of your relationship; when hardships and fruits of labour are shared. And when your first baby is born, you'll go through another hurdle of temporary neglegence. A few children later, you will be practically be a queen who is in control of your household but no, not your husband. Your husband, whether you'll realize it or not will spent a quarter of his salary on mistresses. When your age goldened-seasoned-blackpeppered, he'll come back to you with a heap of burdon, some of them being terminal illnesses. An unforgettable trip to Makkah and he'll die a few years later.

But if you marry an englishman: you'll spent several years of cultural tolerance and absorption before marriage, a simple (cheap) and romantic marriage and honeymoon and a few years of wild social exuberance. From there on, you will find yourself a full time companion who revitalizes your 'fire' every now and then. After a few children, you will be pampered by their tendency of sharing your domestic loads and after all the children are able to live for themselves, the journey you had during early years of marriage will embark in full engine.

So malay girls... marry an orangputeh!
or malay guys who thinks like an orangputeh!

My assumptions are made from personal observations so please mind my rather shallow perception of marriage sequents.

try typing elgoog on google and click i'm feeling lucky.. trylah

drinking

Minumlah... why should I be bothered?

Drinking alcohol is haram because its bad for the health. Same goes to smoking cigarette. Everything than endangers human life is haram. So why are Malay muslims making so much fuss of others' haram deeds? Backbiting and gossiping are also haram. Touching women that are not related is haram. So why bother picking on others when all of us know for a fact that we have a fair share of misdeeds?

I rest my case.

What if I tell you that today religeous calamity is another version of the Crusade, a newer, economy oriented crusade that had longed plan to make the very few jews rich and the many muslims poor so they'll destroy eachother. And the crusades will pick up the carcasses as treasures. The long alliance was broken and now we muslims practically hate Jews; but the real enemy are the crusades, crusades under Christiandome that disguised as peacekeepers.

for real~ I'll do more research on this.