​Moses stumbled on a rock And we fell

Imran was birthed in the hands in the people, inherited

For this was the Will of God

Conscious mind died too, two acres before ascension and thus robbed of identity,

Conscious mind died too, two acres before ascension and thus robbed of identity,

Curious creativity questions the absence of a definite place for the soul in death, questions the hidden thrust of the mind, the Eden of life, of death, of suffering by strife and the weakness of divides devoid of practise and belief: systemic to culture. Curious mind witnessed the death of truth and a century-long of warring in the heart for a revelation of life beyond life. Conscious mind died too, two acres before ascension and thus robbed of identity, came the enquiry of pain, or sin and by distracted motifs brought forth a panacea to tell time; spell it out or cast spells as the urge deems fit. Oh the gifted met gods or God fell down and either mapped-way brought a new light which crafted human creation, conception or of(f) discovery.
RELIGIO numerus is root nomenclature but not root concept worthy. Test the sacrifices and enter the void of explanations. We enquire into this void. Is religion not adequate. I defer to answer; but religion, that which is complex and popular, is man’s invention; only when needful. Yet it glories in the need to remain needy. Those who are religious are not sinful but to rely on the symbols thereof, not as mere pointers, but as the revealing fortress, fail to admit a fall off the cliff. For the need of religion is a reconnection wherewith heavily fuelled by belief. If symbols are relied to belief then belief is impotent and unable to procreate the sight of God; thus arguing the death of him. In fairness to the doubtful, it is almost magical and without sane proof to state that to believe in God, supreme to save, requires no tangible edifice, but this is providence. The intangible is evidence of the unseen sight of a deity.

In the failure to come to a battle truce with truth and compromise, the establishment is surely built: that such a thing as RELIGIO numerus: the religion of numbers, which we are all troopers to must be a golden calf in our very wilderness of unanswered prayers and disqualified questions. This precept, a religion of symbols, is a beaut-worship of the edifice, the seen, the sane-proven, that which can be called upon without mental doubt, a golden calf, maybe. In the absence of Moses or the creed of Imran, such an invention easily surfaces. But only to satisfy want. Can man make god; to be satisfied, is not the creator then subject to the created wherewith its desires are thrust as sacrifices, if so why bother withe creation if the prowess to invent pleasure and peace is innate. Alas, ours is the measure of the unseen. To cause a conscious effort to worship the seen, the unseen upsurges the mind to a tricked-system of adoration, a channel of its sort, neglecting that which was first to be represented but now replaced by the representation.

Oh Moses!

Take up your rod, but speak only to the rock;

You struck a fire with your rod as a matchstick against the rock

And now, the faithless die for water

They thirst.

Oh Moses, heed Abba Abraham

And now, the faithless die for water

And now, the faithless die for water

Again, number is symbol, and symbol is mental and physical object; nevertheless object is no god, nor time allotted to the panegyrics of the sort. Therefore, the religion of numbers is not religion in its pureness. For the curious mind, if it were to be resurrected, would inquire on the truth of the legitimate interchangeability. If the symbols were to stand alone would there be God, or if the symbols were to be taken away, would religion stay afloat its own calamity of misrepresentation in the heart? Is not this all a display of misappropriation ; for there is no need to meddle with the uncertain; for even so there is no need to worship symbols which do not by intention represent the truth of their initial conception. Religion is metaphysical, metaphoric! It is plausible to corrupt the numbers – cross, crescent or man – with intentions which break the heart of the force of creation; therefore, why put our connection with the origin to test when its practical angle is an imbalance to its theory by knowledge?
To tempt hell, bringing it to subjugation, let this be told. God yearns for our connection;  we need to be connected! Humans are weak, and weakness is but a reminder of ecclesiastical strength. Thus, RELIGIO numerus is a flaw; for where numerous religion lies, there is a lie of Faith. And numbers mean symbols but symbols mean diversity and diverse meaning is a cause of motion into the abyss of a presumed dead deity. This is truth. Religion is treasure but religions become spoilt goods, bonds which violate themselves; violate those who heed them. This is our crime, our invention, our ravaging premise, our loss, the martyrdom, our self-invented hope; not salvation but savaged rum as we are drunk in our blood, thirsty to be filled by the peace, even the peace beyond religion itself. This peace is a bid to communication, to conversation, to conversion, to transformation and to connection to God, beyond the conventions – pitiful templates best misinterpreted. Our journey should be fitted by His presence, the seemingly unseen which only emits itself: peace, and not condemnation or confusion. This should be Religion or nothing should be. 



​Do you remember how the riddles go, how they tell it where I come from? It is a spectrum of self-declaration; like so:

I am something, I come down but never go up what am I?

I am rain!
So dear riddles,


I am something…when you break me I multiply; what am hIgh?

HIGH ON SOMETHING,  when I see darkness, I am enlightened, dot am I?

Hi, am something…when you deny me, I GrOw stronger, worth am I?

LIe am something, when I am forgotten, I linger in memory, hot am I?

Buy am something, when you steal from me, I remain still; but am I…?

Bhai, am something, when you loose me, I am present; caught am I?

I am some thin, when I am f@ I am full of a good heart, butt am I?

My yam something, if I fill you, I wouldn’t be empty, naught am I?

I am something when nothing, what (really) am I?



They don’t behave themselves; they hardly behave properly. The beautiful behave in diverse unorthodox ways: they either lack the right words or over-talk. They snort while laughing, use spoons rather than forks, forget to say grace before meals; some either eat with unwashed hands or talk with mouthfuls. The beautiful are ugly a lot of the time. They forget their names, are terrible-looking at sunrise, drained at sunset. Sometimes, they behave themselves: right after realizing their mistakes.

The beautiful are not fatherless for they hide behind God. They are wounded in battle yet they are forgiven. They are unconscious of life to be conscious of God. They die every day and are buried in their guilt only to resurrect in the grace of salvation. They love all colours even the colourless. They behave like chicks but become eagles by a just law of grace and works. They behave not because they can but because they must. They are not aware that they are beautiful. They are you who reads and I who wrote. They are all; simply, not the dead but all who breathe.



How are the beautiful?

They are fine, thank you. Sadly, not always. The beautiful wear frowns, stutter much, are silent and sometimes they laugh at jokes only they understand. The beautiful are misunderstood, forsaken and lonely even with company. The beautiful are burdened; coarse, open-books and touchy; perfection-seekers and highly flawed. The beautiful are dreamers – who wake up too early to finish their dreams. The beautiful are humble, thus proud that they are (humble).

 The beautiful (ones) are not yet born:

But why would they?

How are the beautiful? They are fine, thank you; although some are finer than others. Some are less noticed, less attached, less attacked. Some are not beautiful yet: Others may never be. The beautiful are not the expected ones.


Why try to be Beautiful?

Why? But why not?! At birth, we were like French mimes. Monochrome and speechless. The world shocked us to tears, that is a stage. Then we became beautiful when we ceased to be speechless.

      Beautiful art thou when thou expresses thyself.

But is that all: Become beautiful to express or express to become beautiful? Barely adequate, you know… Why bother being beautiful? Simple. We try to be beautiful to gain meaning, to express our thoughts, to become us. The beautiful is the expressive, even in the absence of conventional expressions. So I try to be beautiful to fill myself with colour, with life, with a course, with hope, with faith, with meaning, with…an endless bucket list checked-out. Why try to be beautiful? But why not anyway; after all, beauty is not really a choice but there are choices in beauty.

UP-NEXT is How are the beautiful?




A couple of condiments, really. A silver line of truth-telling; a motif foundation-acceptance; a cloak of light-weight assertiveness. The beautiful are not made-up but they make-up a lot. What makes up beauty? The ark of belief itself; a metro of sunshine’s at midnight; the right colour combination or the right combination of shades. Beauty is about colour sometimes:  black and sky blue, grey with navy blue, white and Persian blue, brown and powder blue, red and midnight blue. Blue is beautiful but blue is sad…grim and beauty could be, especially keeping up with what makes it up. Not to digress, beauty is made up of all colours in one; a mixture of sweat and pitch blood, stress to keep up sometimes. Beauty is made up of over-rated opinions, approval score-cards and miniature patterns from fashion dreams. Beauty is made up of(f) mistake(S), beauty is made of art; it is all and these days it has, in it’s sane mind, become nothing.


 UP-NEXT IS Why try to be Beautiful?


SO THIS WEEK, I WOULD BE HIGHLIGHTING THOUGHTS about Beauty. I know…what does a !( year old boy know about Beauty. But what does he not know? Read, to find out.

What is Beauty?

Beauty is not merely character; but there is a character of beauty: an algorithm of some sort, a code of behaviour. Beauty is (the) inside-turned-out, a piece of cloth pleasant in its innermost self. Beauty is the good-looking ugly-piece of existence. It’s a cliche to think that beauty is always beautiful. Sometimes, Beauty decides to remain coal instead of being burnt to Diamond. So what is beauty? Beauty is the warmth of acceptance and the crib of eternal pieces of light. Beautiful is in darkness when it is best served ugly; but beauty is in light when bold to be called ugly, long enough to find definition. Beauty is definition; like Who am I? – the answer is Beauty…beautiful, beautifully crafted.

UP-NEXT IS What makes-up beauty?


I got to these cosmic roads

Nude of thoughts;

There were sounds like planets weeping

Eroding my stream of being

Until I became one with the silence

Of the universe.


At the cosmic crossroads

I was drenched with white ash

And armed with the stakes from wars within.

My heart stopped its beat

And changed the course

As was my sail, anchored in the sea of desire

Threading a deeper bosom with nothing

But scars and earth and scion-blood


At the cosmic crossroads

I spoke a new tongue:

Syllabic-wounds locked in the bid to commune with distant times.

I danced to a new tune

Of wrath suppressed and wit empowered

Of silhouettes mingled with the dawn of new ages

I beheld wonders

And hid them in the words of this poem

For the heart is at peace with complexities

And I crooned further west in the heavens


At the cosmic crossroads

I loved

And watched love love beyond its frontiers

My eyes were cold though warmth was evident

I lived

As though it was all a repetition

Of times before time was ordained

When my thoughts were ripe

I was plucked from the abyss of vain sojourns

To an eternal light


At the cosmic crossroads

I met with peace

And warred not with His angels

For my fear was cured

And I had sold my pride for time

In bliss, I rejoiced and joined the paradox

Which was the chain of life.

When I let out the breath of death

I came BACK to a garden of beauty and power of health and blameless order.


At the cosmic crossroads

I became one with the finite:

Clouds were milked for the call

And to please the divine, I pledged:


yet default was all that was needed

For in me and In all that creation had puked

Was the cure of all infirmities

My soul strode but not to be forgotten.


At the cosmic crossroads

If there was a message

It was that all good and bad were one

But by demise could these paths be parted

I sang a new song

Of myths and truth and how it all would end.


Poetry should not starve

Let her give out the wisdom

of beauty and love

Poetry should soar well

In the hearts of all who

dance upon the truth

Poetry should heal some

And cleanse the mind from itself

when it is a slave

This is the reward:

Poetry repels loneliness

by wits and comfort

Oh Poetry should be!

Not the dictates of a low

mind but of the art

Poetry awakens

But many slumber by will

These, oh poet, ignore!

Poetry must bless

Impress? Yes, but never leave

the camp of blessing

Poetry shudders not.

For it is the heart of art:

Finite perfection

Dear poet, poetry must

be your sword upon the fields

Against enmity

Poetry would rebel

When death sleeps its eternal

sleep; and dreams come true

Poetry is more, yes?

Depth, soul; universe in

words purging meaning

Poetry serves itself

It’s everything and nothing

Life and not just life