british born and bred

walking around this past week i’ve had many ideas for what i want to explore in this blog. i want to do a post on hijab and how the justifications for it are shit, but how i love it anyway. i want to do one on the conversation i had with a couple of friends on thursday night about company and productive time-keeping and faith and functioning as a practicing muslim in london, here. i want to to talk about how “suicide is stupid” but enough to kill you. i want to talk about small things that happen almost in reverent silence: the bus driver playing the harmonica sweetly every time the bus stops at the traffic lights when we came home, his face cast in orange and red and white and yellow from the cars and lights illuminating in the dark. of everything quiet as my sister and i walk into the mosque, having watched some boys being escorted out by the police with their hands handcuffed together, to the side i hear a mother’s soft sigh heavily soaked in pain as she embraces her husband, burying her face into his chest. about seeing the sea in the night time, how dark it is, how it keeps going.

perhaps i will talk about all of this soon. what is apparent, so very obvious, is that it is a lie to think that this depression is “curable”. six months on medicine and hey presto? i don’t think so. i’ve been on medication for eight months and my depression has not left me. so i have to live with it. and it is just one more disaster life has concocted for me. and if i have only one life on this earth then i might as well embrace everything that this life has to offer me.

 

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