| to die (verb) | /muʀiʀ/
Have you ever mourned the loss of someone living? Have you ever bent before a sadness whose power brought you to your knees?
They ask if I believe in God. I say, “I bow before my sadness, and its invigorating madness; its presence holds more power than an idol ever could.”
I do not kneel before an altar, but before the page, finding more comfort in words than I ever could in worship. I read, and I weep. And this corner of my room embraces me like the arms of a mother as my mind churns and churns and churns. How will I ever find the words? Brown-eyed Narcissus, why do you write? Because I can no longer listen to those voices in the middle of the night, asking me to review my life’s regrets and questioning all the loyalties that I’ve kept.
Do I dare? Oh, do I dare to taste the moonshine on my lips? And everyday I wake and sigh. And, yes, I do admit I am surprised to feel the sunlight on my thighs. Such a sorrow should not exist unless it’s teaching me to die.