an itinerant observer

I recently revisited One Hundred Years of Solitude —this time through Netflix’s lush adaptation. The series swept me into García Márquez's Macondo with its breathtaking cinematography and meticulous attention to detail. Though decades had passed since I first read the novel, its spirit of magical realism, woven into Colombia's historical fabric, felt familiar. The cycles of time, the endless loop of beginnings and endings, reminded me of Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence, the whirling dance of Sufi mystics, and Taoism's tranquil acceptance of life's flow. But the truth is, like the insomnia plague in Márquez's Macondo, the story had faded from my memory over the years. I don’t know if my first reading of One Hundred Years of Solitude in high school truly shaped me. Perhaps it was that novel, alongside The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende and even The Lord of the Rings by Tolkien, that collectively left their mark. It wasn’t until last week, while watching th...

T oday heralds beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds Regardless, the story must be told. Of rain, sea, wind and rock Nature’s elements gone wild A blessing or a curse to observe Their might and mystery? And yet, only gratitude, that I’m alive! But there’s more… A magnetism An attraction within to the storm without Shall I embrace thee? Stripped to my bare skin Drenched to the bone Shall I walk into thine storm’s eye? Then stand still, very still Slam dunk in the middle Just feel and be Accept chaos without to get to peace within                 Shall we merge tonight, my love? Nature and I, conjugal rite A divine oneness, a solo journey Of darkness unto light My soul’s union Of communion. And that said, esoterica from an insomniac’s dream must come to an end Like the wave front comes to an end at the shore, No matter how calm or agitated ocean o...

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...

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...