Standing at Kafka’s Gate

The dream is dead or dying. I haven’t quite yet decided which one is most fitting of my situation. I never know how to feel. I do know that, despite all the craziness, I still write. I write from a place of desperation now. I write like a man who sleeps in his car. I write like working 7 days a week. I write with bags under my eyes. I write, and there is no glory, no glamor. There is only grind. There are only words, words which force the world to stop beating this writer’s head in — at least for a moment. Like Nas said, all I need is one mic, a moment and a word.

I’ve lived in Minneapolis for several months. During this time, I’ve learned how absolutely disgusting old Somali men are. Whether it’s from laziness, sloth, lack of home training – I don’t know. I don’t much care, either. When they stare me down in the marketplace, trying to stop my heart with their crooked eyes, I don’t flinch. I know what those eyes mean. It’s jealousy of youth – which is ironic because I’m not especially young, besides the fact that youth doesn’t promise life. They think I have it all figured out, that the world is my oyster. They don’t know I’ve crawled through shards of broken glass, blood leaking from knees and palms, just to get to this place. They see the quiet expression on my face and assume I’m at peace.

They didn’t see me three years ago when I was punching metal walls in Somalia, unable to quit smoking, unable to fast one full day during Ramadan because I kept relapsing on cigarettes. No, all they see is the current calm on my face. They don’t know the storm waters broiling my insides like a roasted chicken. They don’t much care about me, which is fine, because I don’t much care about them, either. That’s human nature, that’s life. That’s okay, and I’m learning to deal with it. The sun sets over my shoulders as the empire of the rising sun dances on. The twinkle in my toes is still alive. Watch me run, watch me stand. Watch me place my forehead firmly on the ground and ask my Lord for the best of this life and of the next. Amiin.

I’m a madman / a salesman / a dashcam / a beat the black off of that man / a sodium bicarb chilling on the nightstand / and when it all falls down / I might stand / one foot on my right hand / the other on this mic-stand / Hanging upside down / by my left foot, right, man // Richard Wright, man.

Last week was a level-up type situation & I wish I could save everybody or just my body but we all destined for death anyway, so there’s no use in saving anybody, just myself, myself, my, self. No grim reaper stops because of grandpa’s breath, or babies’ cleft palettes. I got a friend who relapsed a few weeks back. The crazy thing is that he is okay with it. He doesn’t blame himself. He does what he needs to do and tries his best to move on. He accepts his human-ness. That’s peace.

Next week is big for me. I’m taking things 1 day at a time. I don’t get up to pray Fajr on-time most of the time but I’m only human, just like my friend. We all have our weaknesses. I have long days, short nights. Throughout them all, I try to remember Allah SWT. I am doing well. Allah has saved me & for that I give thanks. The changes within me are starting to be noticed from the outside (or is it that how I see myself is moving closer to how others have always seen me?). Ihsan –> Seeking to perfect every aspect of worship, of life. Life: we live it, we live to die. I don’t much care about writing for the sake of it. My words don’t need a light. Allah will guide me to the right place, in time. & I know that all this was meant for me, destiny.

I read a Kafka story the other day. In it, a man went to go see the Law. He was stopped by a guarded gate. The guard at that gate told him that he’d not be allowed to pass, but maybe if he waited, he could see if the guard changed his mind. The man waited and waited and waited but never got any closer to passing that first of many, many gates. Days turned to weeks turned to months turned to years turned to decades. Finally, right before the man died of old age, he made one last attempt to reason the guard into granting him passage. The old man beckoned the guard until they were nearly face to face. Then he asked:

“All these years I’ve been trying to see the Law, why is it that no one else has tried to get past this gate? Is the Law not open for all to access?”

The guard leaned back and laughed a deep, cruel laugh. Knowing that the old man was on his last breath, he yelled an answer that all the heavens could hear:

“The Law is meant for all, but this gate was created specifically for you. All these years you wasted being oblivious to that basic fact of life, and now the gate is closed. You will never enter it.”

And so the man felt his last breath leaving his lungs as his heart came to a slow stop and the light faded from his eyes. As he slipped into the ether, all he thought was, “I knew I forgot something at home. A key.”

And that’s just how the cookie crumbles. People die without having ever reached their goals. What they think they wanted is not what they were destined for. We are all that old man waiting by the guarded gate. Our lives were meant only for us, but we’re so busy trying to live others’ lives that we miss our own. I am that old man. I am looking for those keys. The guard is before me, but the door is behind me. I’ve passed many tests, but the ones to come are harder still. I’m not sure what any of this means, or where it’s taking me, but I believe in God. God will save me. I will work, and God will save me.

And the rest will be inconsequential. And I will write. And the words will be mine. And if I die on a pile of unshared manuscripts, it will not be a loss. The words were mine all along. There was never any point in waiting for others to read what I had written. The words were for me. The words were how I survived, how I continue to survive. The words are mine, and that is all. And if I never share another word with the world, I’ll be fine. That’s not why I write. I write for the sake of sanity. I write for Said, standing at Kafka’s gate.