Not being able to wake up for Fajr is a horrible grimy feeling you can't wash off. And on the asside from the spawner of all bad-feeling-days are thoughts of what has been rearing it's ugly head throughout my week.
How can something trivial and childish have such a great hold on one's life?
How do those little hurts you thought you burried long ago, come back with the immediacy of a paper cut?
How can you flinch over and over again at a single wound?
Sitting here, thinking about the pros and cons of dying young, has made me realise that the worse off are those that are left behind. They have that tragic injustice about them, young deaths. Like something perverted. And that disturbing power to affect and stay, even with those who are not closely related or associated with them.
Why is this on our agenda today?
Because of the culmination of last week.
Because of that disturbing power.
Because years later, the image of an angry boy with bloody nose and golden tan can raise ghosts from somewhere deep down.

Why on earth would I still remember what you looked like?

...
I have no right to claim a share in what only rightfully belongs to your family alone. After everything that came to pass in our lives between childhood and that summer, you are nothing to me. Nothing.
So how do I explain how it is that even though I couldn't care less or give a thought to you any more, your shadow still lingers over things. Stealthily.
How do I kill the you inside me?
This you insdie which makes no logical sense.