Maybe it’s naive, maybe it’s childish, but I like to imagine a dream of true joy for myself that is simple. I can see myself listening to the most beautiful melody I’ve ever heard, leaving it to replay while I twirl on the edge of the slope of a juniper hill at the height of spring. I watch myself grow tired and fall, lying on my back with my arms and legs spread as wide as comfortably possible. I hear myself humming along with the melody, looking up at the grand azure companion I’ve made. I wiggle my toes and giggle as we joke about all the nights I spent whispering to my shadow, scheming of a tragic end, betting against fate. I only pause to take a deep inhale to confirm I’m really there, running my fingers through the sleek blades. I graze the tips until I come across a dandelion, apologizing to her mother before I take her from her home and blow her away. Though, not before I can shut my eyes and make a wish for me to never wake up. To remain in pure solace, solemnly in solitude, for the remainder of my existential life. Only sharing my love with the moon for always sharing its portion of the light, knowing it was only ever borrowed. Reassuring the night that it was not only for the star-lit veil it gifted me that won my heart. But for its merciful guiding map that led me back to faith. I maintain that I will never witness a beauty grander than the only dark that refused to absorb the light. Instead, it remained quiet and patient, letting the stars perform their most dazzling choreography, never forgetting the sequence.

I desire, truly, to be free, to exist without expectation or anticipation for performance. I want to breathe in love and exhale beauty, offering it all as recompense for what has been graciously given to me.

I want to hold the tiny hands of a tremendous future. I want to guide it gently to peace, edifying of harmony and hope. I want to cast out hate and speak in a foreign tongue that has no word for shame. I want us to twirl together in dresses I’d only learn to sew for this exact occasion. I want to ask, will you stay forever?

But I know it is only a dream.

Naturally, my friend asked for more details now that we were alone, and I explained why there may have been tension. And honestly, none of that really matters, and this is not about that. I ended up explaining a traumatic experience I had when I was much younger that involved said individual, and during this explanation I had a revelation. I realized that that was the catalyst for the cyclical pain I would endure for years through “lovers” and "friends," for which I might have been slightly responsible. I, with the help of my dear friend, examined all the people who had entered my life and caused me great grief and pain and identified a pattern. Every. Single. Friend. I had cut contact with, as well as all (2) of the people I was romantically involved with, had either belittled me, crossed an insane (trust me) boundary, or betrayed me. That last one sounds dramatic, but it really was just a friend who asked me to confess relationship struggles, only to tell me the relationship wasn’t worth it so she could date him instead. Ha! Naturally, I forgave her and stayed in contact… normal stuff though, right?

Anyway, the reason I’m bringing this up is because after I grieved the younger version of me who discovered early how cruel people can be, guilt began to wash over me. I let that little girl’s fear steer me into the worst possible interpersonal relationships I could experience all because I failed to address the issue earlier. I allowed people to get away with mistreating me, and I always justified it by claiming it made me a good person to turn the other cheek. I always used to get this weird feeling in my stomach when someone would hurt my feelings, because it signalled that I may have to defend myself and I’ve always hated confrontation. Not because I fear people, I wasn’t raised that way. But, I think a part of me worried that confrontation meant the end of a relationship and I was never willing to risk it. I’m still not entirely sure why I was willing to keep these friendships/relationships so long if I always felt unhappy. Maybe it has something to do with my family dynamic, but I’m not really seeing the connection. Although, in the near future I might.

What I do know though, is all it did was teach my brain to reward bad behavior by allowing it access to me. My kind words, my support, my gifts, my love, and my time were all extended to people who did not value them or me or, at the very least, extend them back to me. And no matter how hard I danced and how well I sang, the love was never going to come. Actually, now that I think about it, it was never love that I sought, it was respect. Respect for my existence, my human existence, to treat me with kindness, and to not wish me harm. Why was that so hard to offer? Why was I so stupid to dismiss the major lack?

I read a quote from Sylvia Plath’s ‘Letter to Marion Freeman’ that read: “I have been writing you a letter in my mind for months,” and instinctively I finished the thought in my mind—and then you tore it to pieces.

I want to preface this by saying this is simply based on the quote and not the context of the excerpt in its entirety.

I had this ideal image of someone I thought I loved, and in my mind, they could do no wrong, simply because they loved me, or so I made myself believe. The reality was I wanted to be loved or at the very least seen and accepted in my most natural state. I was willing to overlook clear signs of disconnect if it meant I could have a taste of attention. Unfortunately at the time, I didn’t know what I know now. Which is, in order to be seen, one must be known before one can be loved. And one cannot be seen unless they have truly seen themselves first. Because it is impossible to love yourself vicariously through the eyes of someone else. Their perception of you will never be a hundred per cent correct. Mainly because we mostly see people in the way that best serves the narrative we created around the idea of them in our minds, and secondly, because we are basing our reasoning on the observed behavior and characteristics of the person, which could easily be fabricated. In my case it was. My personality was curated to be exaggeratedly pleasant to be around. I engineered my personality so that I appeared as a non-threatening, unbothersome, infantilized version of femininity. Because I knew I was dealing with someone who would not be able to swallow the raw, opinionated, and naturally curious woman I have always been. Even if seen through the flattery of rose-colored glasses, the reflection would always be distorted, shaped by bias and interpretation. And that unnerving feeling will always exist, hauntingly, ensuring the demise of the relationship.

I learned it’s almost selfish being in a state of unknowing of oneself and still pursuing romance. It is so intoxicating to be drowned in the consumption of identity; it leaves you blind to the other person’s experience in the relationship. I remember having these thoughts during my own experience and quickly dismissing it, assuming the experience must be positive for the other person because I had good intentions. Instead, I was more concerned with whether the person was being truthful with regard to their feelings toward me. I was constantly searching for validation, a sign to confirm I was safe to untense my body and just float in existence and immerse myself in the experience of assumed intimacy. That feeling never went away. I was always reminded of the possibility the other shoe may drop and the person would bolt up in bed and be relieved it was just a bad dream and they could just forget all about me—us. It’s like there was a velvet curtain between us, and the only time it would open was to signal me to perform in exchange for love I didn’t even let myself believe was real. At the very least, all I received in return was mediocre attention with a silence I expected applause to fill. Spoiler alert: it never came. I felt like a middle-aged adult who hates their job yet shows up every day with tired eyes and a smile that never fails to meet them. They overburden themselves, leave work late, and come home hunched over, exhaustingly slinging their belongings on the counter all for shit pay.

The truth is, I made myself the victim when in actuality I was the perpetrator. I set myself up for pain when I noticed the lack of curiosity, the lack of enthusiasm that I was met with and dismissed without ever addressing it for what it was. Disinterest.

Love is not work; love is not something you have to debate with your internal monologue. Love requires effort, sure but it should never feel like something you are forced to work through. Attendance and attention are privileges we should willingly, if not enthusiastically, extend and embrace. I shouldn’t feel like I need to muster the strength to perform in exchange for affection. And yet, I found myself believing I was a romantic who was willing to do whatever it took to seek the pleasure of my partner even if that required slow cooking my identity into crisp erasure. I signed up for a role I was not qualified for and was not even sure I wanted, and yet I stayed until the signs were burned into my vision. Although I am not naïve to the part he played in the delusion that was our relationship. Because while I was performing, contorting myself into something consumable, he was watching in silence. Accepting what I offered without ever questioning its authenticity, without ever being honest about his own inability to meet me where I stood. Because I provided a distraction from his own unwillingness to traverse into the realm of introspection. He needed me to amplify the little verve for life he had left, and when I wasn’t providing the only function he required of me, he acted like I didn’t exist.

Although it took forever for me to learn, I eventually realized that I never really knew this person. He never allowed me to get to know him, and a small part of me believes I’m to blame for that. Neither of us fully showed up. On my part, I didn’t show up as my full self, and on his, well, he just never showed up at all. I was so immersed in the act, I didn’t even realize it was a solo performance. If anything, I would say his role was more… stage design. He set the environment that rewarded the version of me that brought him joy and entertainment and offered apathy and neglect when I could no longer maintain the act. I guess in his mind, “the show must go on” meant forever. And in my mind, the show had to come to an end eventually…right? Luckily, I have enough sense to realize that we were both wrong in our attempts at love, and it was destined to fail from the very beginning. We were both looking for an escape within each other without being willing to provide a place for the other to feel safe enough to stay.

Love is a result of understanding, of accepting another’s truth. Love is a choice we make when we decide to know someone, not out of necessity or even curiosity but out of choice. The choice, however, is subjective to us individually. Not because it makes us a good person or because it feels like the right thing to do, but because we want to. We best succeed in love when we choose to love someone who aligns with us not because they are ideal but because they reflect our own ideal, our own potential to exist in truth.

How could I expect to be truly seen when I was constantly reshaping myself into my own form of human allotropy? It became obvious, albeit a little too late, but it came nonetheless, that it was never going to be possible for the connection between us to last. I was already questioning the validity of his intentions, without ever questioning my own. And he never even attempted to get to know me or himself at least enough to determine that we were mismatched. It sucks to admit, but I have consistently played the role of being resourceful in the lives of the many that have come and gone, and I have nothing to show for it. I was good enough to depend on but not worthy enough to understand or fight for. Though the way it ended may have sucked and confused the heck out of me, I’m not at all upset that it ended. It sounds awful to say in retrospect, but I didn’t necessarily lose anything. In fact, it was a blessing in disguise. I now have the foresight to reconcile with the child in me, who sought validation externally because she was so used to existing in her own solitude; whenever someone extended an invitation to her, she thought she had to fight to hold onto it even if it meant losing herself.

Circling back to Sylvia’s quote now. I would write letters or poems to express myself because it didn’t feel safe enough to be direct with my vulnerability. At the time I believed we were both young and immature and just did not have enough experience to express affection in the way that I wanted, and with time maybe one day we would. Unfortunately, time had other plans, and eventually revealed who he truly was all along. Or how he truly felt towards me and was just too much of a coward to admit. Which resulted in the metaphorical tearing of the letters I had written. The attention I misinterpreted as admiration was transitory, and time was generous enough to finally lift the veil from my eyes so I could finally see it for what it always was. Convenience.

This is not a sad story; this is the revelation of a girl who was ashamed to exist freely out of fear it would cost her the steep fee of a loveless life. This is the realization, that the love was never even there, and it wasn’t coming. The consistency of attention was misinterpreted as affection, the same affection I denied myself when I allowed years of mistreatment and neglect. This is my reclamation of my self-respect, and I can confirm the stage has been destroyed and the costumes have been burnt, and it is finally time to close the curtains for good.

my mind has become polluted,

a sinking black tar pit of misery,

eroding my consciousness from within,

a parasitic merchant exchanging my iridescence for molten amber.

a crowded prison of external influence,

latching onto every attempt to escape,

tearing my soul limb from limb,

scattering the pieces across the void,

and yet a defiant sliver of light remains,

etching away at the charred borders,

a charitable gift from the divine.

hope calls to me by a different name,

sabr,

one that my ears have grown deaf to,

but it is my heart that listens.

a silver braided rope,

extending from the glowing clouds above,

promising to pull me out

as long as my heart remembers its name,

sabr

and hope will always remain.

It’s not that I don’t believe in myself. I like to think I am a very logical person. One who notices patterns, recognizes trends, and predicts outcomes. I realize I am living proof of my own failure, and that alone is what restricts me from movement. The fear of an endless fall, the inevitable collapse. The world swallowing me whole and spitting out the bones for me to collect and attempt to rebuild myself again. Except with each rebuild I forget what my original form was and which pieces fit where. I end up becoming a completely different person than who I was when I first dared to dream, to try. So it is not that I don’t believe in myself. But I fear I will lose myself entirely to a world of the unknown.

Despite my brain’s natural desire to wallow in hopelessness, my soul remains relentless, reminding me of all that I once loved in the world. Extending a warm hand, refusing to release me from hope’s grasp. I’ve become frayed and meek from every attempt to strive and unravel the years of numbness etched into my sore soul, earned from its time in paralyzing stasis. I remain stoic in the midst of an endless battle between “if” and “should,” waged against my heart. I ache for the light to reach me again, but my feet hold firm, sinking in the quicksand of a weakened core. My heart has grown colder, shrinking in this frozen, merciless plane. I long for warmth. I feel myself grow hungry and desperate, croaking from thirst for the sweet serenity of peace. Something—anything—to quiet the noise of this endless battle, the voice of my ego demanding my attention yanking on the rusted chains of past rejections. Sealing me into an iron coffin and preaching a sermon, ushering me into pride and conformity.

And hope, my dear, forgiving friend, observes me through it all. Waiting patiently for the dust to settle and for the calm of salted rain to wash the ache away. It travels through the torment, determined to reach me. Piercing bones and the sharp of fallen blades tug and scrape at its robes of silk. Still, it traverses through the barren, wrapping me in its warmth, offering me cool aloe for my wounds. It extends its gracious hand, commanding a path of light and ease from where I stand.

So now, I welcome the storm and let it wash over me, firm in stance, refusing to let it drown me. I wait, anticipating reveling at the remnants of souls past washing up at the shore at my feet, regarding it with a newfound sense of perspective. I bury the ghosts where they lay on the battlefield, lighting a match to baptize their eternal graveyard.

In the stillness that follows, I see fear for what it really is… I watch the ash settle, the wind soften, and the echoes fading into the quiet.

I am not naive to think fear will never leave us. I choose now to acknowledge it for what it is. A spirit of a whetstone, sent to sharpen our resolve to persevere through any battle. A reminder to hold firm to position and never abandon our mission. Forcing us to reshape our armour, only melting down the iron if necessary, and having the discernment to know when to alloy our iron with molten copper and steel to forge an impenetrable armament.

There is this unknown vow we take as Black women, a sacred ceremony of protection. A promise we whisper to ourselves to preserve our identities, our souls. We hide parts of ourselves under lock and key to preserve the comfort of our peers. We craft a safe space, a place deep within our minds where our existence does not require permission, a realm with no rules and no rulers. Only there do all parts of ourselves find comfort, free from guilt and the urge to sacrifice any version of who we are. Only there do we cease to exist in fragments and instead live in harmony, every variation of self gathered into one whole being.

Over time, we forget to visit this sacred place, and eventually we forget ourselves. We become lost like a child searching for its mother in a grocery store, unsure where to go for help or where to look, so we stay, paralyzed by fear and confusion. No, we are not strong. We are not anyone’s martyr. We are women who were conditioned to forget our femininity, our fragility. We hear stories of ourselves before we are given the chance to decide for ourselves, denied the opportunity to discover our individuality, and taught instead to carry a single, imposed identity.

“The psychological rule says that when an inner situation is not made conscious, it happens outside, as fate.” - Carl Jung

Previously, I suggested a theory that negates fate in its entirety. However, I became curious about what we may confuse fate to be in the first place. Carl Jung states: “The psychological rule says that when an inner situation is not made conscious, it happens outside, as fate.”

I find this fascinating because he is essentially suggesting that our subconscious remains active, influencing our behaviours and shaping the patterns we experience. It acts almost like a beacon, attuned to a specific frequency, attracting similar wavelengths, drawing in experiences that we then perceive as fate.

We see this pattern in highly empathetic individuals who take pride in being emotionally independent yet struggle to express their own issues and often attract emotionally avoidant partners. When the inevitable breakdown of the relationship occurs, the individual externalizes the fault, attributing it entirely to the other person.

However, on a subconscious level, the subject was always aware of the imbalance from the beginning, only choosing to overlook the misalignment because of the benefit they derived from it. So, when the relationship inevitably reaches its end, they begin to analyze the other person’s behaviour with a false sense of newly found realization, neglecting to examine what allowed them to ignore the misalignment upon its inception.

From the perspective of the subject displaying emotional intelligence, despite their inability to express vulnerability, they receive the advantage of being perceived as emotionally adept through their ability to intellectualize feeling and emotional thought. They are able to support those struggling to understand their own emotions, regardless of their inability to do so themselves. This skill acts as a veil, allowing the individual to present as emotionally available, showing no immediate warning signs to those they attract. They are able to engage in romantic relationships with ease yet struggle to fully connect, often feeling the need to dissect the mind and emotional state of their partners to gauge their romantic standing. Left unchecked, it will gradually lead to the deterioration of romantic and platonic relationships.

And even when they do internalize the issue, they often fail to analyze its origin at its core, instead settling for a surface-level rationalization of the end being caused by some flaw or insecurity within themselves. Although shallow, this level of understanding can act as a bridge to uncovering the true source of the cyclical issue.

Simultaneously, however, it can be detrimental, as it may reinforce the cycle by planting new seeds of self-doubt within the subconscious, continuing to attract similar outcomes if not approached with deeper introspection.

Now from the perspective of the emotionally avoidant subject, they benefit from being perceived as simply inexperienced or unlearned, leaving their partner to carry the emotional weight of the relationship. However, this individual is fully cognizant, and at times willfully negligent, of their inability to engage emotionally rather than logically.

They make conscious decisions to remain stoic in order to preserve a sense of identity they have constructed for themselves. This dynamic persists until something forces them to confront their refusal to engage with their inner world and assess their character.

Though different in their methods, both parties exhibit a limited capacity to exist vulnerably within romantic or platonic relationships. Their opposing tendencies act as a magnet, drawing them together to reflect what each other refuses to confront within themselves.

The parts of ourselves we fail to confront—our unexamined patterns and our emotional blind spots—show up in the world around us, in the relationships we have, and in the situations we find ourselves in. The examples I shared illustrate exactly how that can unfold in real life.

And until the lesson is acknowledged, the cycle continues, repeating itself through a revolving door of incompatible relationships.

To quote Jung again, “The psychological rule says that when an inner situation is not made conscious, it happens outside, as fate.” In other words, he is suggesting that what we call “fate” is the external manifestation of unconscious internal patterns. By examining these patterns and taking responsibility for them, we transform what may appear as fate into a life we actively shape, attracting what aligns with our intentions rather than what is merely projected from unexamined beliefs.

So, regardless of your frame of mind, you will always attract what you project, whether you choose to believe it to be fate or not. Instead of blindly moving through life in pursuit of a hopeful outcome, it is far more valuable to dissect the genesis of your innermost beliefs and determine whether those beliefs truly belong to you or if they are the result of an identity shaped by the world around you.

Whatever you accept will determine what your life reflects back to you. And only then will you begin to realize that it is not fate controlling how your life unfolds, but you.

Note: My most recent posts differ from my usual poetry and creative fiction writing that I post online because I’m working on understanding myself and my mind before I can get back to what I love writing most. I’m probably going to keep posting in this style until I find myself again. So hopefully until then I can make some pretty interesting self-discoveries! Thank you very kindly if you’ve stayed with me till the end.

The trajectory of my life has been something that has concerned me for as long as I could process thought. Envisioning my future was not something I could do with ease, and that is coming from someone who likes to think everything comes easy to them. (I don’t actually think this I am chronically insecure in my ability to excel in new skills and am actively working on it. I am humble I promise!)

Lately I’ve been replaying my life over and over, and naturally as you may have gathered I have been extremely displeased. The weight of my past weighs on me so heavily. I think it may have created some breathing issues. The thoughts seem to have penetrated my subconscious, because last night I had a strange dream.

I’ve always been an avid dreamer, and honestly, I think it’s one of my favourite things about myself. Though, this most recent dream I had was confusing. I won’t drag you through the full details of what is now a jumbled-up memory of the dream, but I’ll mention what stood out to me the most. I was upset with the people I was with because they were preventing me from arriving to school on time to either complete an exam or submit an assignment. While it sounds underwhelming, the sense of urgency and fear that I felt at the thought of not succeeding in my mission was so intense it felt like I was going to die. I’m going to come back to this later.

Yesterday, I came across a quote that plunged me down a vortex of thought, spiralling myself into despair and landing at… surprisingly enlightenment.

“My brain is only a receiver, in the Universe there is a core from which we obtain knowledge, strength and inspiration. I have not penetrated into the secrets of this core, but I know that it exists.” - Nikola Tesla

It reminded me of something I discovered while trying to learn about quantum physics earlier this year that is related to the concept of dark matter.

According to Newton’s Law of Gravitation, when a galaxy spins, the stars near the centre move quickly, and those farther out should move more slowly, following the same principles that apply to objects orbiting a central mass. Similarly, this is how planets in our solar system orbit around the Sun. For example, Mercury travels faster because it’s close, while Neptune moves slowly because it’s farther. Gravity dictates the relationship, and for planets the pattern is clear.

But, when the same logic was applied to stars within galaxies, the expected slowing didn’t occur. The stars in the outer regions moved far faster than expected and instead of drifting apart or flying off into space, they remained locked into the galaxy as if tethered by something far heavier than what telescopes could detect. And this observation was not a single anomaly, it appeared galaxy after galaxy. This imbalance showed up wherever astronomers looked.

So naturally, they recalculated the distances, improved their instruments, and searched for hidden clouds of gas that may account for the missing mass. As you can imagine, their questions remained unanswered. The numbers consistently pointed to a larger amount of matter than was visible, one that exerted gravitational influence but could not be detected. This missing mass did not behave like ordinary matter, yet its presence was undeniable. It was keeping stars locked in place, defying what the laws of gravity predicted for visible matter alone.

Decades later, astronomers realized that the gravity produced by all visible matter (stars, gas and dust) was simply not enough to anchor stars within their orbits, especially those moving at the high speeds observed in the outer regions. In other words, the cumulative mass of everything we could see should have been sufficient to keep the stars within their place, but it wasn’t. With no other explanation, they proposed the existence of additional, invisible mass. Something that exerted gravity, but could not be detected directly. The invisible mass was coined as Dark Matter, a substance that does not emit light, reflect light or absorb light.

If you’re wondering why I’m subjecting you to a boring recap of decades old quantum physics concepts, just hold on for me, I’m building up to something.

The same logic that led astronomers to assume that the law of gravity states that all visible matter should be enough to anchor stars within their orbit is parallel to my own belief that the life I have lived, and the choices I have made until this point, should have been enough to anchor me in my path—leading me to an expected destination. But it wasn’t.

Something else was guiding me, causing a specific unfolding of events that ensured I remained on a course I didn’t even realize I was always on, for reasons I could not yet understand.

Essentially, there is an invisible substance that, despite the erratic speed, or irrationally slow pace of an object, ensures that it remains anchored so it can continue along its determined path.

And while it is a physical phenomenon, I couldn’t help but see the parallel in my own life. Because despite how chaotic or misaligned my path has felt, I am still here, still moving forward, still held within something I cannot fully see or explain.

It made me question whether I was ever truly “off path” at all, or if I was simply moving through a version of it that I did not yet understand. Was I just moving too fast or too slow?

Then I thought, well, what is the source of dark matter. Obviously, we don’t know since scientists can’t even assess what dark matter is in and of itself. And I thought back to Nikola’s quote.

Something, or rather someone must be actively maintaining the universe, realigning stars and galaxies, all while obeying a subset of rules. There is something that exists that we cannot name, yet calls to us, to those of us who reflect, calling us toward truth.

While science has been extremely helpful in explaining laws of gravity, how matter traverses and how structures like galaxies form; it possesses no tools to assess who put these rules in place.

Thankfully, I’m more interested in philosophy and more interestingly, theology’s take on this question.

Now, both science and theology assert: the system runs consistently because it was established to do so.

In Islamic theology, one of God’s names is Al-Qayuum which is Arabic for the Sustainer—The one who upholds and maintains all existence. Everything exists because He sustains it, and laws persist because He maintains them. To me, this indicates God actively manages space and time and everything within it. It cannot simply be a “set it and leave it” universe.

I may be losing you at the mention of God, but please stay with me.

Then I thought, is He actively, as in, in real time managing reality or has He created the world establishing it to be self subsisting following a pre-designed set of rules for it to follow? Like creating the universe and placing it on millions of invisible tracks ensuring everything remains in its place, travelling to a pre-ordained destination.

Also within this same theological framework is the belief that du’ā’ (prayer or request for change) with pure intentions can alter our present individual realities. For those who do not believe in God, this is very similar to the concept of manifestation, and the law of attraction theory.

So, if we are led to believe our requests can change pre-ordained realities to align with our desires that would indicate that God is in real time changing the cosmos— or at least that is how it appears to us. Because from our limited perspective within time, it looks like something has shifted.

Request -> a shift -> a changed outcome.

But from God’s perspective, nothing is being changed in real time in the way we understand change. It is already known, already encompassed. What we experience as a shift is simply the unfolding of what was always possible within the system He created.

According to Islamic theology, Qadr, which is Arabic for divine decree has layers: what is already written or fixed, and what is conditional. And du’ā’ or manifestation belongs to the latter. This means our requests for change are not breaking the system, they’re built into the system.

Relating back to God’s names, another name of God is Al-Waasi’ the all Encompassing, the Boundless. If God is boundless in his knowledge and power, then the scope of what can exist within His creation is also beyond comprehension. And more interestingly, the scale of his boundlessness could very well be extended and incorporated within the creation of the universe. Thus, creating the possibility that there are infinite, or boundless if you will, amounts of possible outcomes for reality.

So, let’s go back to du’ā’. If it is built into the system, the rules of the universe… Then that means there is no such thing as fate in the rigid sense of one unavoidable path. Because that would suggest there is only one possible outcome at every moment.

Even Quantum Mechanics argues that at the smallest scales, reality is not fixed but described by probabilities. Particles can exist in multiple states at once, meaning multiple possible outcomes exist before anything is observed or acted upon. When interaction occurs, those possibilities collapse into a single outcome.

So rather than reality being a single predetermined line, it appears to allow for multiple possible paths before one is even realized. In that sense, what we call fate may not be a fixed script, but the result of possibilities narrowing into one lived experience. In this sense, a rigid, single-path understanding of fate becomes difficult to justify.

In case you’re questioning the concept of free will, don’t worry I thought about that too. If our actions were already known before time began, does that still count as free will? If our manifestations were taken into account at the beginning of time before all of this even existed, does that still count as free will, if it was anticipated and sketched into the blueprints of all existence? Short answer: yes.

Qadr is the concept that all things are known prior to creation and divinely decreed, but choice is what we decide for ourselves. Knowledge does not equal compulsion.

The existence of multiple possible outcomes suggests that we have the ability to move between paths, even if we are not always consciously doing so. Even if we fall into passivity, even if we let life happen to us, we are still making choices whether intentional or not. We exist within time; God exists beyond it. Simply put, it is a cause-and-effect relationship.

To summarize my point: the idea that endless possibilities exist for our lives challenges the idea of fate as one fixed outcome. While I do believe in destiny, I understand it differently. Whichever version of you becomes your lived reality was always known, yes, but that does not mean that it was the only possibility, nor does it mean it was the best one. It especially does not mean it is the one God would prefer for you as the ultimate outcome because he has created us to discover our own paths, making our own choices and deciding our own beliefs even if it does not lead back to him.

Which is why in Islam we call upon God and ask for his favour using his sacred names. The most highlighted one being Al Hadi the Ultimate Guide to guide us to the right path not just the one we want but the one that would provide us with the best possible outcome and to have faith that that is exactly what we will receive. God is believed to have 99 names (that we know of) and I believe depending on which name we call upon along with our request, we will receive an outcome, a reality that is directly related to said name.

This also connects to the idea that words carry extreme power and meaning, and how critical it is that we think before speaking. Words are born from thoughts, creating an undetectable frequency— a network of paths that shape our reality, and can ultimately make or break our worlds.

I hope you’re still with me, because I’m finally ready to relate this back to myself.

The dream I had caused me such distress most likely because in my waking life I constantly find myself regretting not pursuing literature in university. For letting my ink well dry up and my papers crumble to dust, for letting my hands forget the weight of my favourite books, for letting my brain rot with beliefs that time is my enemy and my thoughts are not unique enough to share.

I let myself believe that I chose the wrong path, and therefore I was being punished and exiled to live in a version of reality where creative writing and thinking is a crime punishable by death.

And then God led me to this quote by Nikola, that led me down a rabbit hole of thoughts of possibility, inevitability and confusion. Thankfully I emerged on the other side with something clearer.

This is not the only way my life can look.

I can decide where I go from here, I can build my life as though I’ve only just started living and no one can prevent me from doing so.

There isn’t one reality, and it doesn’t have to be this one. I don’t have to settle for less simply because it is what I am currently experiencing. I can choose differently. Choose to alter my reality if I so please, and life will reward me for it in bounty.

Any love I’ve lost, any friend, any opportunity, none of it was the end. It simply redirected me, propelled me onto a different path. One where I am still capable of meeting new people, creating beautiful memories and becoming exactly who I’ve always wanted to be. I am happy to embark on a path anchored by the unseen, moving toward the unknown.

The only thing stopping me from doing that… is me.

P.S Through writing this, I just had a eureka moment for one of my favourite stories I began writing at the end of last year and had shelved due to lack of inspiration. I began writing other stories that did not impassion me as much as this one did, and I always despaired at the thought of never picking it back up again. Thankfully, my inspiration has been lit with a violet cosmic flame, and I am excited than ever!

P.P.S You may find that most of my thoughts come across as rambles, because I was fleshing out my thoughts in real time as I wrote this and I’m not confident I fully expanded my thoughts here. Some ideas may feel underdeveloped or not fully explained. If anyone is curious to know how I connected my conclusions please ask me I love talking about this topic, and sometimes I get too carried away to the point where I stop making sense… forgive me.

I’ve been wrestling with this concern for a while now, and when I say a while, I mean the better part of the 20-something years I’ve been living. I have always known deep within my soul that writing is my passion, and I’ve always longed to pursue it as a full-time career. Though, as the story goes, many a thing hindered me from pursuing it. Bear with me while I list my excuses. My ethnic parents telling me to pursue an education that would lead to a more profitable and realistic career path (despite the expected post-secondary education to marriage pipeline they had preordained), my inner critic being more vocal than my own creativity, and the biological clock striking 29 telling me I’m doomed to fail… and well, that’s all I can think of for now.

Recently life has been so kind as to disrupt my reality and unravel everything I’ve worked toward and every relationship I’ve built over the last 9 years of my life. I think it’s safe to say I spiraled and decided to quit my job and retreat back into myself. Through this process I recalled all the story ideas I’ve conjured up over the years and left idle in a file on my desk, collecting digital dust over the years. It’s not that I think my ideas aren’t great… I think they’re fantastic, unique, and refreshing. And yet, I find myself constantly wrestling with the idea that maybe I’m just not good enough. Do I really have what it takes to execute these ideas? Do I have the tenacity to reach the finish line that is so beyond my view I don’t even believe it exists? Over the past 3 months I’ve started writing 2 poetry chapbooks (and completed them, although they aren’t my finest work), created an Instagram account with quite a sizable following in my opinion, and begun writing four completely different novels. You might be thinking, "Okay, so what’s the problem?”

Well, the problem, dear friend, is that I have not completed a single novel. I haven’t even gotten to the halfway point for soul’s sake. I got the idea for a new story about a week ago and am still in the planning phase. I received the courage to begin tackling the first chapter, and I am proud to say I have a full… page. Did you think I was going to say chapter? If so, you haven’t been paying attention.

Anyway, I realized my problem might be that I need to start reading more sci-fi and fantasy books again. I’m so used to reading biographies, poetry, history, and philosophy books that I’ve lost the art of sinking my teeth into some good old-fashioned fiction. Fiction is where I first planted the seeds for my love of writing when I was just 8 or 10 years old. Honestly, I’m not great with time or memories really, so I could very well be lying and not even realize. Forgive me.

In addition to this revelation, I found myself reading fewer educational articles on Substack and more personal blog-type prose written by women who are experiencing the sort of identity crisis similar to mine, and it has been so refreshing. Not the part about them suffering, of course; I’m not a sadist. But the part is that this experience is not isolated; it’s universal and almost fundamental. It is an element of growth, a sign that we are shedding the design of our reality’s creation. We have allowed ourselves to remain idle, automated machines sifting through life like a Reader’s Digest manual. Speaking, acting, thinking, and living how we assume we should be. Based on observation, experience, living on the sidelines, and tallying up all the advice, facts, and lessons we’ve learned and kept in our back pocket to one day look back on and reference when we finally decide to actually do the things we’ve always wanted to do and live the way we desire to live.

After reading this particular blog post, I realized I’ve lived so long and have never actually acknowledged that I’m alive for God’s sake! What the hell am I doing here? I wasted so much of my life not experiencing, not attempting to be the version of myself I always thought I’d magically end up being “one day.” Well, today at 3am I’ve had an epiphany. Since I couldn’t sleep, I decided to read a blog post from some random girl and it radicalized me. She wrote so… colloquially. On a platform I conditioned myself to believe was… I don’t know, professional? As if each post should be eloquently written, tactfully phrased, and sometimes educational. Because of all the types of literature I’ve become accustomed to consuming, I hadn’t realized there was room for all types of writing styles and different diction to digest. There is not one size fits all writer. There is someone for everybody, and I am not meant to be perfect or liked by all. In fact, I don’t care if you think I’m a shitty writer! No, I did not study literature in school; no, I’m not a published writer, but I’ve read enough to know I know what I’m talking about. So, it’s time I let the little pretentious sweater vest-corduroy trouser-wearing bug of a critic out of its barbed-wire cage and free it from my mind. I hereby refuse to allow myself to become a pretentious writer who is so wrapped up in the cadence of prose and the word choice of a writer to determine whether a body of work holds its weight on the scale of good vs. bad writers. It’s exhausting, and it does not pay.

P.S. to me, and me only. This is not a promise or a vow, so don’t be too hard on me if I may or may not end up in the same thought cycle in the near future. I love you, moonshine.

In truth, that peace is little more than an illusion. Atrocity after atrocity, and yet all we do is switch the station, change the channel, and swipe to the next video in search of a dopamine hit to forget reality. We forget time exists, even as our internal realities remain fixed.

Greed and self-preservation cause us to be easily swayed in whichever direction absolves us of responsibility. Passivity, ignorance, and indifference become tools against the very people whose suffering we claim no responsibility for.

Our strength lies not only in awareness but also in reflection and resolve. Our power is in unity. Yet those who claim to wield the “real” power depend on our failure to recognize our own.

We are pawns in a game we are forced to play even when we convince ourselves we have opted out. Our voice, our dollar, our mind, and our compassion are weapons we forget we possess.

It’s time we remember.

Before the suffering we ignore becomes our own.

How Do I Taste?

you sink your teeth into my flesh,

but only until you reach bone.

you carve your initials with my own blood,

and remind me I am not free.

you use my back as a platform for better reach

hand me sweet fruit and tell me stories of hardship.

you blind me from sight and then explain the world as if I never could see.

you rewrite my story and force me to recite.

I ask for mercy and you rip out my tongue.

and demand I repent.

pride towers over your humanity.

leaving you in the shadow of desire

you feed it, leaving sacrifices of the weak at its altar.

innovation as a means for brutality.

civility becomes a caste of righteousness

only the affluent can afford.

difference becomes indifferent.

the desire for understanding a distraction,

while pools of suffering overflow the streets

waiting for you to drown.

until it conquers you.

Recently I’ve been having a lot on my mind, and experiencing way too many changes for my brain to process at once. I’m going to share a journal entry that inspired the following essay. Please bear with me, as this will be my very first Substack post. (yay!)

Some days I like to sit in quiet reflection. I stare into the blue sky, feel my shoulders relax, and sense the noise in my mind begin to subside as the clouds drift slowly, making way for the sun’s beams to probe my thoughts. I am reminded of God’s graciousness, of His ability to envelop us in a blanket of hope. That is what I feel whenever I look up. I know that there is where my soul belongs. Only then can I feel free from the prison of this realm, from the quicksand of my mind, curated by the world around me, dragging me toward despair. I find myself hopelessly clinging to crumbs of joy I experienced what feels like a lifetime ago. My existence feels partitioned into seasons, my identity an unfinished puzzle, its pieces either too small or too large to fit the board. I avoid mirrors, because the truest reflection can only be found in the still ripples of the lake in the park near my home. Each step I take pulls me closer to remembrance, reminding myself to remain grounded in presence. I am ever evolving, ever changing. The ebb and flow of light dancing on the surface reflects the carousel of my experience here. I am reminded of my past, invited to glimpse at my future, both gifted to me in this present moment.

Who I am is not who I have been, but who I have become along the way, and what I will carry as I continue this journey. The hum persisting in my eardrums anchors me in the now. It promises to pull me back to center if I ever dare drift too far from home.

What do you reflect on in the quiet season?