an itinerant observer

T oday heralds the beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds  Regardless, the story must be told. Narcissus was fond of looking into mirrors, That perhaps comes as no surprise. But recently his attention had moved to photographs Unlike images in mirrors, photos didn’t talk back (as yet). What great photos! He marveled at what he saw: A plethora of well-dressed young pretty women and handsome men Smiles, frowns, joy, mirth, silliness. All captured for eternity “Ah! The unending possibilities of youth”, said his heart “But wait! Did you not notice that there was something missing?” said his head. For you see, there was a dearth of old people in the photographs Where did they go? Were they whisked off to someplace momentarily? Maybe a nursing home? One voice inquired, the loudest in the cacophony. His heart mused but for a few seconds and then kicked in, “More likely that the old folks have been relegated; To dark corners of the...

'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. Lately an inexplicable Iztirabi had taken hold Could it be because Shams had left the house? As unexpectedly as he had appeared, Shams was gone Like a will-o’-the-wisp. Narcissus felt like receding into his shrine; Unsure whether that space existed in mind or heart, he agonized. “Damn mind tends to over analyze and over think; it does not want to be simple!” Heart, disregarding mind, rejoiced; Like a child seeing a unique flower. Iztirabi, however, could not be ignored; it needed to be heard More often than not it was a voice at the back of the mind   Encouraging further exploration. He couldn’t let go of that thought. Had Shams not entered his shrine momentarily Narcissus would have stuck to his narrative about flying solo. Dark or light, uplif...

'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...