Hearing the takbir really pulls you back to being that kid who sat on the alleyways in some childhood neighbourhood. Makes you feel like you're missing out on this something that you can't really name but it floats heavily over. You were always the one living near hills and slopes, treacherous and steep, unbalanced and crooked. Her teeth aligned like constellations in her mouth. The takbir is an epitome of something you desperately want to get back minutes after it solemnly slip from your grasp. Just asking for myself, does every takbir really sounds the same or is it just me? Must be the static tone of it that made me feel so, and, it's psychology, I hear it every year and each time all these chemical reactions mixtures of hormones induce this melancholy emotions in my heart even though my heart is long gone.
The green slime mossy walls surrounds, absorb the echoes of festivity. It was morning but it was darker than nights. The sharp corner place a little kid in fancy shoes, not knowing what the fuck was the deep wrenching embedded in her chest, that killing sensation that was savoured, though she continued twirling in the dark. It was Aidiladha when she recognize that aching was seasonal as it come and go with the kindreds she was surrounded with. The hills, the rooftop, ferris wheel, she could've fell from any of it but someone were always to stop her. To a kid, she had always felt it was her veins instead of that sheep in the mythology. Spared.
Her mother sat in the passenger seat, her shoulder leaning into the dark synthetic.
"I would've ran away if I weren't worried sick of you."
Classic.
A skipping stone.
A burden on.
Anchor. Let me know.
Reminds me so much of the soft face I saw between the patterned grills of a window at grandmother's house during Aidiladha eve. She didn't have a voice but if she had one, she'll say the same thing, I'm sure. I wonder if she should've hold back. Why let a kid stop you?
The tar hill whisper omens through scraped knees and her blood, it smells like pipe-water chlorine or viscous alcohol I can't differentiate but within her heart, nothing quivers the walls more than the callings she missed purposely as she sit in another placement of a crooked alleyways, listening or maybe even waiting to jump at the callings again. Wanting to twirl again.
