From the arms of Azazil

Alif Laam Meem,

I cannot assemble my grief properly, and so it has not become a coherent person, and thus I cannot address it. I want to love it, speak to it, grieve with it.

But I do not have a person to grieve for or about or with. I have a multi-million fractured pieces.

But for Your sake—for Your sake and for Your Love's, and Your Name's and Your Honor's—I will again let my tears flow, and then I will wipe my eyes.

You have always loved, upheld me, loved me, curtained me, fed me, clothed me, sheltered me, sustained me. I am in terrible need of doing something for You; to lend my existence credibility.

I wonder if there is something terribly wrong with this: if I have chosen the station of being Your helper, rather than Your beloved guest, and as if my chosen station is a terribly lower thing. I cannot say for now, for to speak beyond my current comprehension is a terribly wasteful thing.

I cannot love me and I cannot help me.

I have never heard of another person who has suffered such terrible devastation and compression and destruction and humiliation such as I. How and why does it happen? The reasons are complex and beyond me.

But I have seen You devastate me, and I have experienced a glimpse of Your Awful Triumph, Your capacity to destruct and devastate, Your ability to utterly swipe me, and yet somehow uphold me.

And I know and believe that You can stitch. That You can render anew the fabric of space and time—if only for this sinner, this forgetfulness-full beast, this bestial me. That You are rendering me anew even as we speak.

I will leave this discourse here. I love You, and You love me; and I have hurt You, and You have pained me. We abandoned I abandoned You each other completely brute awful terribly love is love is lovely, I cannot speak out the matrix of ourmyapart searing and tearing beating terribly and goes it there to... something like it like it or not to comprehensive truly out now complete fractured mirror utterly fabulous and comprehensively comprehensible being  do you understand this?

These are my murdered fractures alive still somewhere comprehensively beating alive in the heart and they are speaking! And they are speaking! 

They are speaking. Darling. They are.

Rescue me from this despair, from this falling, from these arms of Azazil, as only You can. Dear Lord, I have no capacity. If it were possible for me, I would like to leave this existence, this fishbowl-entrapment of the soul and senses, and have come to Your Presence such that You'd have slapped me. And then loved me. Taken me within the folds of Your curtains, and, in a flash, disappeared.

But this is not how the Lord acts—this is the doing of an angel. Allah does not flee.

You know I'm foolish. I know You're Kind. And the bones that I have broken in my skull and spine, and the chest that I have here seared with pain and grief, and this old age that has suddenly descended upon my head, and this twisting of the spine and eyes, and this corruption—this acidification—of memory... this is nothing but a speck for You to repair, reprieve, heal. Yes, I do not deserve it, but whenever did I?

I only believed that I was someone especially in love with You, and thus I felt dearly loved and held by and cared for by You. I believed You were Precious to me, a God Who needed my help and company, and thus I tried to make myself worthy of giving You that company, that servitude, that representation-on-Earth that I could through my being. I tried to be Your friend, Your obedient listener, Your companion in a manner that even transcends my own comprehension.

I reckon I wanted to let You be, through me.

Is this blasphemy?

I am deconstructed beyond imagination at this point. 

Let me return to this. Aameen.

Or let us proceed. As You wish.

Aameen.