an itinerant observer

'awakening' from numinous_flow archive; artwork by Nadia Haroon T oday heralds the beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds  Regardless, the story must be told. The story teller’s subject: mere beads of sweat Forty years into existence, But only now the true story revealed. Sweat oozes out of pores onto parched skin more so at night, when the muggy, warm sea breeze Facilitates perspiration onto a living, breathing, seeing, smelling, feeling skin. Narcissus observes beads of sweat pile On the forehead , face, hirsute chest, nether regions Beads that communicate through a means as ancient as humanity itself. The spiritual aside, it's the physical connection of salty, hydrated particles That merge and pool in all and every crevice The trickling a potent reminder of Narcissus’ virility. Within that context of sweaty beads and beady sweats Conversations are had - fifty shades dark. Darkness that exists in skin, mind, and he

The sun was rising just beyond the cliffs along the sea coast. I was out for my early morning jog; nothing unusual about that. I was making my way along the harbor towards the docked sailboat Sofya. Although the man on deck had his back to me, I could tell from the ponytail and the cigarette smoke that it was him.   It was intriguing that I was able to smell something as specific as Turkish tobacco amongst all other olfactory stimuli at the harbor.   Without turning around Mehmet greeted me. "Salaam-aliekum my friend”. "Waaliekum-assalam. What are you up to?” "I’m fixing her sails”. He said in a rather matter of fact manner. “How long have you been sailing Mehmet?” “As long as I can remember. At times, I think I might have been born on a ship .” “ Why do you think so?”   “ That's the narrative I prefer. I was  born an orphan. I don't know anything about my biological parents. I was found abandoned outside a small orphanage in Ko

I woke up in my cabin. It was daytime. I could tell from the sunlight that came pouring in from the small window. At first, I was confused, wondering why the room was rocking. And then the realization dawned upon me. Per the itinerary, the yacht had set sail early morning. S tarting at the coastal town of Fethiye, Sofya was to sail from one island or peninsula to another. After the first few nights in Turkey spent in the hustle and bustle of Istanbul, I was a bit afraid that the quietness of the seascape, especially on a sailboat, might be too much to handle, with the potential of monotony setting in. Oddly enough, I couldn't remember anything from the night before, past that strange, incomplete conversation with Mehmet. Try as hard as I could, there was no recollection of what he had said in response to my question. Maybe he said nothing. Trying not to overthink what might have happened, I focused on the first meal instead - a traditional kahvalti (breakfast) of bread