Tripped into the office at 11:45 today, snuggly-bugging nose into the-opposite-of-goth scarf my mommy bought me. Now, I Sit at my desk, pissed off at a certain individual sitting across me, and I'm still wearing it- security blanket like. Which is funny because until now, I thought Nyamy was my security blanket but turns out he's not. Turns out he's my little-thing, who I can't mother right now because i'm in pieces.

And from the dark depths of goth-despairing, I wonder if this is a good thing. I wonder if everyone of us needs to be pieced apart every so often, throughout our lives, so that some greater wisdom and realisation which only comes with pain, can penetrate between the gaps while they are still raw, and when the pieces weld together again, we may mend into something better, stronger...and though perhaps less pure, more in search of the purity and truth we have lost through realisation. And in finding it one day, we may become something heartbreakingly akin the once perfect, innocent beings that were complete and did not know it.

I know now what this means: 'When I was a child I used to cry when night fell, I have travelled far since, only to reach the same point.'

--a badly reconstructed rendition of something : by some Sufi sage whose name I can't remember.

And because it is relevant,
Here is the story of my first realisation of tawheed...
or for those of you who are not muslim:
Here is the story of my first realisation of the oneness of a single divine entity, which has to be within yet beyond everything of our world...

When Elest was very little and she was Sevim Ceren in blue fluffy nightgown, pink, bare feet and milk bottle dangling from between her teeth, she didn't speak much. She would silently go about her buisness of being little between the things which happened in the world which still belonged mostly to grown ups. In her solitary little-ness, and bare-footed-ness and silent, wide eyed observation over the pacifier, eventually she began to grow very attached to her milk bottle, from which she was never without. So that, upon the note of security blankets, Sevim Ceren's bottle was that and a thing she had come to depend on for comfort without conciousness, because when you are little very few things are concious.
Until one evening...
Sevim Ceren's mommy was emptying out the dishwasher after dinner, in the kitchen of their home in South Carolina. Sevim Ceren, bare foot and in blue robe as usual, was silently following her arround the kitchen, waiting for her milk bottle which her mommy had taken away to wash and re-fill. This time however, mommy had put the (little did she know, but was about to find out) dish washer un-friendly milk bottle in the dishwasher. When the matter of the bottle's dish washer un-friendliness was revealed to them both in a shapeless, lava-lamp-wax form of melted, milky plastic, mommy was surprised, but little Sevim Ceren was devastated. And the wide dark eyes which oridnarily observed above her pacifier were stricken with something between grief, betrayl, and absolute, frightening loneliness.

...

Yesterday for the first time I did something I could never have imagined doing. I regretted this, and for a split second I wished I'd settled for something else some time and place before. And now, I still regret but not everything. And I do not wish, because of the pieces I am in. Because if I had settled then, i would be living in comfortable ignorance, while now i am hurting, but the pain is the same as being awake...like washing with water so cold it hurts, and it's good.
And if I had settled then, I would not know now that the only consolation is in non, the only comfort and company is in solitude, and the One is between the lines of the clear cut, the shadows of what is blaringly obvious, and the gaps which are still raw and which will weld together and mend soon, so that I will forget this realisation i saw through the shatterred window of my inner mirror which distorted the world before everything else could make sense.

'look ma! No strings!!'