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. 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...

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...