Quiet

Lately, I have been running out of things to write. I am drowning in my own daze. It’s almost peaceful, like death. I guess it’s one reason why people drift towards it; one less word at a time. Until their radical thoughts have dumbed and their wildest imaginations cowered into utter silence, or whimpering Yes, sirs. I’m not talking about the physical death here, of course; it’s not a choice anyway. But the death that most of us meet in our lives; that stills us, turns us into observers, into the audience of a fascinating match, of a scrolling screen, of a rolling routine, of a mindless race that never ends before its runners.

Bukowski’s thundering voice just got me this weekend. Loathing life is, perhaps, not enough of an excuse to stop living it.

You can’t beat death but

You can beat death in life, sometimes,

And the more often you learn to do it,

The more light there will be.

So I have decided to write more frequently about anything that catches my attention, intrigues, bores, repels or fascinates me. I’m no longer seeking to write a blockbuster poem or a scholarly essay or a literary piece anymore. It only inhibits the process of expressing which was also the founding idea behind my blog.

Today, I want to write about Nadir. He works menacing afternoon and night shifts. People are mean to him. He gets plenty of mouthfuls at work. Yet that doesn’t seem to impact the positive energy he carries around him. His cheerfulness has miraculously survived the most discouraging of circumstances. He is original, straightforward, and not afraid to speak the truth. He is a true embodiment of what my grandmother says about happiness, Don’t search for it; it wells within you.

Yesterday, I ran into him while his afternoon shift was nearing the end. The sun had long set but he was in his usual high spirits as he greeted me with a powerful, singsong salaam. I could tell it was not like dozens of other loud, constipated salaams that my subordinates had reluctantly showered at me during the day to confirm their servitude. It was a genuine greeting that one extended to someone, one was pleased to meet. After signing off some documents, I asked him what date it was. He said, It’s 6 Oct, sir. My birthday.

I was startled at his openness. He had turned 31. We were age fellows. I did not tell him that I was surprised to see in him the remarkable positivity a 31 year old, working menial shifts away from home could preserve. He gave me hope in myself and faith in my grandmother’s wisdom. I sent him a cake wishing that he would save his light from the darkness that engulfed us. Just like the bright half-moon illuminating the sky outside.