and then our exile

time is / how we explain the light

Awoke this morning from tangled dreams sans electricity. Making wudhu to candlelight, marking the wonder of shadows. Realized it is cooler than a few weeks ago--that i wanted to close the window, the air streaming in was nearly cold. Writing on a park bench under pine trees.

A few days ago, going for Fajr, beauty in the near-dawn, the adhan from the loudspeaker, alleycats bounding awae, the quiet before pigeons: parts of people waking up, and i realized the white light of the streetlamps was beautiful on the clay brick, the closed shutters and still corners.

The last post smells like blatant armchair philosophy, but was sponsored by thoughts far from such. i'm probably going to end up back at the university, for two more courses, if i can squeeze in (registration deadline's over and gone). It's 11.13am on my seventh jum'ah here.

edit: zacharia farooq hans wehr and the mu'ajjim al-waseet (2x) all tell me the root of insan isn't really n-s-y, but rather a-n-s, which kind of messes up the clichee. meh.