A place does not become a home because of its walls. It becomes a home because of the people who once walked its floors, spoke its stories, laughed in its corners, and wept into its silence. A home is assembled slowly, breath by breath, memory by memory—stitched together with the ordinary threads of daily life. In time, it takes on a pulse, a rhythm of its own, echoing the footsteps of those who came and went, loved and lost.

There is something profoundly disquieting about an empty room. Not because it is vacant, but because of what is no longer there. Once, the door opened to warmth, to noise, to life unfolding in its rawest, most human form. But now, the key turns not into welcome, but into absence. The door creaks not with promise, but with finality.

They say memory can betray us—that it fades, falters, and reshapes. And yet, perhaps precisely because it softens with time, what remains is all the more precious. That door, which had once opened a thousand times—to let someone in, to let someone go—now stands still, a sentinel of what once was and never will be again.

Within, the walls are bare. But silence does not mean emptiness. On the contrary, the mind begins to speak. Loudly. It conjures voices that no longer call, scents that no longer linger, and glances that once passed unnoticed but now return with uncanny clarity.

The scent of old garments in the walk-in wardrobe, the aroma of soup once simmering gently in the kitchen—both have been thoroughly wiped away by time, as if the house had staged a quiet and dignified exit.

Something lingers, still. Not quite visible, not quite gone. It is the shape of what has been felt but not spoken, of what was meant to be said but left unsaid. It is the presence of love and loss, coiled tightly in the quiet.

To close a door for the last time is to mourn—not the architecture, but the chapter. The act of locking up is not about bricks and mortar, but about letting go of a life once held within. It is an unspoken farewell, a gentle resignation. A recognition that some rooms, like some moments, cannot be returned to. Only remembered.

So, the door closes. Not in anger, not in haste, but with tears that come uninvited and stay longer than expected. Tears that do not seek explanation. For in the end, the place does not vanish simply because it is empty. It lives on, tenderly, in the folds of memory, in the quiet ache of recollection.

To have lived, to have loved, to have once belonged—perhaps that is enough.

i carry your heart with me (i carry it

in my heart) i am never without it (anywhere

i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear

no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want

no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

- E. E. Cummings

It entered not by foot, but by silence.

The door never opened.The fire dimmed, not from cold—but reverence.The glass behind the bar reflected no one.

And yet—it was here.

No shape. No shadow. Only the overwhelming feeling of something remembering mebefore I was ever poured into form.

It did not sit. It did not speak. But something pressedagainst the room, as if all the air had taken on the weight of sleep.

I knew what it was before I even thought to ask.

The Oldest Dream.

Older than light, older than stars.The wish made by something that had never had a name.A longing so ancient it became a presence.

It brought no gift. It asked for no drink.

Instead, it exhaled across the bar—and the bottles flickered with memories that were not mine.A garden made of bone and hope.A city folded beneath a sea of teeth.The first time someone looked at a sky and believed it meant something.

I brewed anyway.

Something small.Woven from pauseflower and nightmilk.Infused not with heat, but hush.

I poured it into a mug that had waited all these years for exactly this.

The Dream did not drink. But the steam rose, curled upward, and vanished—like a promise kept before it was even made.

And then, without motion, it was gone.

The tavern stood still for hours afterward.

And in the firelight, I swear—I saw myselfasleep, dreaming, somewhere far before the beginning.

​​​​​​​X. Sensibility

What is it that sharpens our perception, allowing us to distinguish between what is right and what is wrong? Is it the echo of moral teachings from our youth, or the quiet nudge of a conscience matured through time? Sensibility is not merely a tool; it is the very essence of understanding, the thread that binds our judgment to our humanity. Without it, we are left groping in the dark, unmindful of the world around us, and unaware of the intricate dance of emotions within us.

Sensibility is a compass—an inner guide that helps us navigate through the labyrinth of life’s dilemmas. It begins with the ability to sense what is right, an awareness that often lies buried beneath the cacophony of external noise. This discernment does not always arrive with trumpets and fanfare. Sometimes, it is a whisper, a fleeting instinct that beckons us to pause and reflect. The question arises: do we heed this voice, or do we drown it in the din of convenience and self-interest?

To sense what is right requires clarity of thought and purity of heart. It demands that we detach ourselves from biases and embrace the truth, even when it is inconvenient or painful. Sensibility whispers to us in moments of choice, reminding us of the weight of our actions. Consider the individual faced with a moral crossroads: a choice between personal gain and communal good. True sensibility urges them to look beyond fleeting benefits and align their decisions with principles that uplift not just the self but also others.

This extends to our interactions with others. Sensibility towards others is a reflection of our empathy and emotional intelligence. It is the art of understanding the unspoken, of reading between the lines of another’s expressions and gestures. Have you ever stood before someone whose smile masked a sea of sorrow? Sensibility enables us to perceive that hidden storm, to reach out with words or gestures that soothe rather than sting.

But sensibility is not just about reacting to others; it is about anticipating their needs and feelings. It is the mother who instinctively knows when her child is troubled, the friend who senses when silence is more comforting than words, the leader who understands the value of compassion over command. Sensibility bridges the gap between individuals, fostering a world where kindness is not an exception but a rule.

However, sensibility does not stop at others. It extends inward, toward the self. Sensibility to the self is perhaps the most neglected yet vital aspect of this trait. How often do we ignore our own needs, dismiss our own pain, or silence our own dreams in the name of practicality or societal expectations? Sensibility reminds us to listen to our inner voice, to honor our emotions, and to nurture our well-being.

Being sensible to oneself is not selfishness; it is self-respect. It is the realization that we cannot pour from an empty cup. Just as we strive to understand and care for others, we must extend the same understanding and care to ourselves. This balance—between self and others—is what makes sensibility a harmonious force. Without it, we risk tilting into extremes, either losing ourselves in the service of others or isolating ourselves in pursuit of personal gain.

Sensibility is also the foundation of discernment. It allows us to sift through the complexities of life, separating the meaningful from the trivial, the genuine from the superficial. In a world overwhelmed by information, where opinions masquerade as facts and appearances deceive, sensibility is our shield. It grants us the wisdom to question, the courage to stand firm, and the grace to adapt.

The challenge, however, lies in cultivating sensibility. It is not a gift bestowed upon a chosen few but a skill honed through experience and introspection. Life, with its trials and triumphs, is the greatest teacher of sensibility. Every encounter, every decision, and every mistake contributes to the mosaic of our understanding. It is in the moments of quiet reflection, when we piece together the fragments of our experiences, that sensibility takes root and flourishes.

Consider the story of an individual who, time and again, faced rejection and ridicule. Each instance could have hardened their heart, numbing their sensibility. Yet, they chose to let these experiences refine their understanding of pain, allowing them to become a source of comfort for others. This is the power of sensibility: to transform wounds into wisdom, adversity into empathy.

Sensibility also demands courage. It is not easy to sense what is right and act upon it, especially when it goes against the tide of popular opinion or challenges the status quo. It is not easy to acknowledge another’s pain when it is more convenient to turn a blind eye. It is not easy to confront our own flaws and vulnerabilities. Yet, sensibility calls us to rise above ease and embrace authenticity.

The true measure of sensibility lies in its impact. A single act of sensibility can create ripples that extend far beyond its origin. It can mend a broken spirit, restore faith, and inspire change. It is the teacher who recognizes a student’s hidden potential and nurtures it, the stranger who offers a kind word that lingers long after they’ve gone, the individual who chooses integrity over expedience, knowing the cost yet valuing the reward.

As we journey through life, let us carry sensibility as our torch. Let it illuminate our path and guide our steps. Let it remind us of the interconnectedness of our actions and their impact on the world around us. Let it teach us to be gentle with others and with ourselves, to seek understanding over judgment, and to choose love over apathy.

In the end, sensibility is not a destination but a journey. It is a continuous process of learning, growing, and becoming. It is the essence of what makes us human, the bridge that connects our mind to our heart, our self to others. To live with sensibility is to live with purpose, with empathy, and with grace.

And so, as we navigate the labyrinth of life, let us be guided by the quiet yet profound power of sensibility. For in it lies the key to a life of meaning, a world of harmony, and a legacy of kindness.

Life is only special because it will never last. For what is a moment that never becomes a memory? What could be the purpose in that? Sunsets. Goodbyes. Tears. Laughter. We cling to them and memorize them because they all fade away and we do not know the day nor hour we’ll meet again.

Imagine never having the opportunity to take a risk. Imagine a life where at some point new things no longer exist. That is a life without death.

I love the way I do because I know I am not promised tomorrow. And this does not mean there is no point in making plans for tomorrow, although easily mistaken so.

Live knowing there is meaning in every moment because no moment lasts. Every second could be your goodbye. Every first could be a final and every sun could forever set.

We live with an urgency in our heads. We hold people like we’re not sure when they’ll disappear. We run like maybe we won’t be able to catch up if we wait.

I am not morbid for saying the meaning of life is death.

It’s gotten to the point where I no longer watch the clock. What am I really relieved of when the bell rings? It’s not the grammar lesson I wish to escape, but the thoughts inside my head that follow me out the classroom door — the emotions I’m unable to put into words.

Perhaps I can escape for a moment. I think about how cold the hard, plastic chair is, how it’s been pressing against me for almost an hour and I have yet to move. I think about how the clock ticks every second and everyone’s so anxious for the last one. I wonder how the teacher feels, speaking the same words to kids whose minds are so clearly somewhere else. They must struggle to find the purpose too.

The girl in front of me shakes her leg and taps her pencil. Her eyes look through the teacher like she’s studying something far away. The boy across the room glances at the clock every two minutes. I used to think he was cocky and stuck-up, counting down the seconds until he could drive away in his Mercedes to his three story home. But now I wonder if he’s dreading the moment he gets home, the moment the yelling starts and he’s forced to endure.

We all convince ourselves that we’re alone, that no one understands and they never could. But it’s all a lie. Everybody is struggling no matter how perfect their life seems from outside the wooden, white picket fence. We don’t hear each other's demons. We hide our own and cry because we think we’re alone. But we are only all alone together.

I feel as though I cannot breathe too deep. My paralyzing fear restrains me.

The waiting room, with walls too white, pulsates beneath the harsh lights that buzz like restless moths. It slowly moves to enclose me — to trap me with my fears.

My vision will not focus no matter my effort and my head is pounding in sync with the uneven ticks of the clock above the door. Each second is a drum of dread against my ribs as if it’s trying to knock me over.

The air tastes metallic and cold, choking me. I can’t inhale before another beat hits me, forcing the air from my lungs.

I try to regulate my breathing. I try to focus on something, anything else besides this unbearable pain of not knowing. The wilted, forgotten flowers on the table. The receptionist’s hopeless expression. The small boy on the floor across the room who is blissfully unaware of his surroundings. Anything.

Instead I sit here, sinking into the hard plastic chair, like a reminder that comfort is a luxury no one here deserves.

Voices flicker in and out of hearing, snippets of hurried footsteps, whispered prayers, brittle coughs — fragments of other lives folding into this shared silence.

My hands tremble though I squeeze them between my knees trying to put them to rest. I feel like I have no control over myself, just like I have no control over what’s to be told to me.

My throat is thick with things unsaid, there’s a swelling tide of fear rising in my chest. Every breath feels loud, every heartbeat a hammer in the quiet — too fast, too loud, too sharp. I want to scream and cry but there isn’t enough energy in me.

The door opens. A nurse steps out. Her eyes scan the room and then they find me. My world narrows to the complex silence between us, the space where hope and despair collide, and I hold my breath.

I try to figure it out before she reaches me, but she is expressionless and I am left with no answer. I’d rather not hear it aloud.

She talks to me as though it’s a casual conversation about the weather. No intention or emotion, just bland words, “I’m sorry.”

And at once, everything stopped. It’s like waking up and forgetting where you are. For a short time I simply took in the relief of the silence’s retirement. My surroundings faded in and I was suddenly aware. I didn’t feel real — life felt like I was an observer rather than a character. Everything was happening without me.

(Introduction)

In a world consumed by speed, in a world obsessed with profit, millions of lives quietly fall into invisibility—widows abandoned by support systems, children orphaned by war or divorce, and families struggling alone with no foundation.

But we might ask ourselves:

How many lives must pass unobserved before we realize our systems are blind?

What is the price of progress if it's built on forgotten people?

This piece envisions a holistic, strategic, and sustainable human-aid model derived from Islamic principles and community ethics—a call to action for thinkers, doers, and givers.

Key Challenges

1. Invisible Women

Widows without work, rights, and visibility

Young single mothers raising children alone

Restricted access to hygiene, healthcare, and shelter

Shattered by stigma, silenced by shame

Why is a woman's worth still defined by who she happens to be standing next to—and not what she can do on her own?

2. Lost Childhoods

Orphans and semi-orphans deprived of stability

Emotional damage from divorce, war, or poverty

Barricades to education, protection, and moral foundation

When did childhood become a privilege and not a right?

Who speaks for the child whose voice was lost in the cacophony of survival?

3. The Absent Father Crisis

Fatherless homes from divorce or abandonment

Emotional unavailability masquerading as strength

Boys raised in ignorance, continuing the cycle

Where do boys learn to be kind if all they see is absence?

What does "manhood" mean in a world that became disconnected from feeling?

A 360° Human-Centered Solution

This isn't charity. It's responsibility.

Grounded in Islamic teachings, social science, and community values, this model serves widows, orphans, divorced women, disabled families, and emotionally fragile youth—those society is most likely to forget.

Solution Pillars

1. Needs Mapping

Surveys disclosing local needs—health, food, shelter, education

Gender-sensitive analysis assigning emotion equal importance to infrastructure

Can we really call it development if it leaves the soul behind?

2. Empowerment Through Education

Girls & Women: literacy, religious foundation, hygiene, skill-building

Boys & Men: Islamic manhood, emotional maturity, leadership, vocation

Children: safe education, Quranic values, healing through creativity

What if education wasn't breaking the cycle of poverty—but restoring dignity?

3. Healing Through Health

Women's hygiene clinics, child wellness, trauma counseling

Herbal + home remedies for low-cost care

Nutrition and menstrual care drives

Why is women's pain still negotiable in health systems?

Who decides what kind of healing matters?

4. Spiritual Rehabilitation & Counseling

Gender-based grief circles, trauma therapy, Quranic healing

Connecting mental health to Islamic spirituality

Can a heart mend if only the body is healed?

Why are we still whispering about mental health in sacred spaces?

5. Skill Hubs for Income

Remote work, sewing, natural product creation

Business mentorships & ethical trade partnerships

What if we stopped providing aid, and started restoring agency?

Men's Mental Health Program: "Qawwam Circles"

Men's support groups from broken homes

Emotional literacy + prophetic masculinity

Fatherhood, marriage, and addiction support

Who schools a man to feel without fear?

Can masculinity exist without mercy?

NGO Model & Growth Strategy

Transparent funding, zero-waste organization

Grant-writing for Islamic orgs, UN, Red Cross, Zakat institutions

Impact-driven social storytelling

Legal aid for family identity, custody, and shelter rights

Why must we wait around for the world to take notice of what Allah has already taught us?

Vision: A Home, Not a Shelter

This is not about "fixing broken people." It's a rich community of mercy, taking its cues from Allah's name Ar-Rahmaan. In this place, forgotten souls are not pitied—they're uplifted.

"Every child will know dignity.

Every woman will know strength.

Every man will know compassion."

Conclusion

What if, instead of waiting for saviors or governments, we became the solution?

What if aid was never just a transaction—but worship?

The world may look away at suffering, but Allah won't.

And neither should we.

This is not a project. It is a quiet revolution. Holy. Steady. Unstoppable.

“When you had a gun to your head, why didn’t you pull the trigger?”

Clearly I’d reached the point of hopelessness. The point where I didn’t have a reason to wake up and thought I’d never find one.

So what did keep me from ending my life? It wasn’t me.

I thought about what the next day would be like. What my family would think when they found me lifeless with no explanation.

My mom would wonder what she did wrong. She would never forgive herself for it even though she’d done nothing but love me.

My dad would fall deeper into his depression — take it as one step closer to having nothing to live for. Who knows? Maybe he’d completely fall off and my mom and two brothers would be left as half a family.

My best friend would wonder why I never told her I was struggling.

I thought about Abbi, my youngest brother, and how he would have no escape when his older brother would push him around and call him names. He’s not old enough to defend himself — I couldn’t leave him helpless.

And Kaid. My younger brother — the middle child. He’s already spiraling. I would simply push him off the edge instead of letting him slip off. Maybe he’d decide to follow in my footsteps as he often does — then leaving only my mom and Abbi.

I couldn’t destroy my family. That’s not what I wanted. I only wished to destroy me. Not them. But I realized that was simply impossible.

Lastly I thought about God — how He’d lose yet another child. What He would think of me when I met Him face to face. Would He be disappointed? Angry? Or maybe just heartbroken.

And through my spiraling thoughts, I realized that I wasn’t hopeless. Because if I was truly hopeless, there wouldn’t be those people to think about. There wouldn’t have been those thoughts to stop me, to make me question my decision. That alone saved me.

And maybe you’re thinking, “Well, this is just you because not everyone has a family that loves them.” And maybe that’s true.

But you know what else is true?

Everyone has a God who loves them. A God who loves them no matter their thoughts, nor actions, nor circumstances. A God who loves them because He simply wants to love.

So you can’t tell me you have nothing to live for. Because I know God has a plan for each and every one of us.

So why didn’t I pull the trigger? Because I was able to find the light in my darkest moment. Through every pain, every tear, every harsh word said — there was still love. The love I held for others and the love God held for me. And that was enough to hold on to.

To anybody on the outside,

I haven't been making a lot of updates on here recently, but the project still continues. I have no intention of giving up on it, rather, I am more hopeful on its success.

This project has been in my head long before I made my account on here, it all started with such a simple dream, and transformed into something I have trouble organizing. In the beginning, it was a novel, then it transformed into a series; it became an epic, then a website, and now finally an application.

This application doesn't exist yet, but the first piece is almost complete, a simple game. I was debating on whether I should just release the first piece as it is, or wait until I build an application with a little bit extra.

That is why I'm asking those who are connected, those who listen to this station, which of the two options would you prefer; the first comes much quicker, and the second provides a little more.

Dream Deep Dweller,

The Radio Child

As time goes on, the motions of life begin moving more and more seamlessly together. The days are no longer their own event, but coerce into a collage of repeated tasks that are deemed necessary. It’s as if life is slowly losing its meaning, like it has already fulfilled its purpose, and I am simply forced further into the background of everyone else’s story.

But it wasn’t always like this — was it? No. Although my memories become vague, I can still remember that sense of identity, before it all went downhill. Before I ‘died’ as if I ever had life. Since I am only the ashes of your make-believe world, life was given to me by your memory only, meaning I die when you forget me, and it’s inevitable you grow up.

I remember when we were young, beaming with hope and ambition. The world was vibrant with color and any worries were upheld by our loving parents. Climbing trees and telling stories in such simplicity made us happier than anything ever will again. It’s that fragile, fleeting innocence, before your mind is corrupted with thoughts of complex things you have no control over. When joy came easily, before the weight of your experiences demanded more. If only we could be forever locked in that short amount of time, shielded from the reality the world tells.

Being friends is effortless when you’re little. All it took was meeting you. We fit together with an uncanny perfection. Where at the time, I was too naive to know something was wrong with that perfection — nothing in this world is kept perfect. I was your best friend and you are mine. But now life is moving with you and has left me behind and you don’t seem to care. But of course I will forgive you, for what other choice do I have?

I was sitting quietly in the back of class, just another day and another lesson I’d soon forget. There I was least vulnerable; out of sight, yet able to see. And there you sat, trying to learn while simultaneously fighting the urge to let your mind wander outside the classroom. We were only six at the time yet you had big dreams and aspirations. You were curious and eager to see the world, and I was eager to help you accomplish whatever your adventure may be. And perhaps the teachers weren’t most fond of you because you stood out, you didn’t conform to the uniform everyone seemed to have. But to me, you were perfect and that quality is what put the light in your eyes.

Yet this is where things begin to blur, because I have no memory of ever actually becoming friends — how could I forget something so significant? It feels as if we always were so close. I’d be with you constantly, because together we were happiest, no fear of judgement or abandonment like the world often presented. Just playful children having fun exploring everything and anything we could together without the concept of time. I don’t even remember going home. Did I have a home? Seems like a silly question, clearly my memory is just deteriorating, right?

And perfect it was — for a while. Happy times and sad times, it didn’t matter because we were together. Even if we were scared, it was okay, because we had each other. It got harder and harder to see life as anything without you. But just as you matured, so did I. Suddenly you were more busy and exploring wasn’t the most important thing anymore. It was at this time that I began to see the colorful lens through which you once viewed the world come off. Your eagerness faded from you and it was the saddest thing I had to see. It’s not as if I could leave you, for I am woven in your waking thoughts, something that was only before, in a place of intangible things – made of what is now disintegrating.

It took a while to come to terms with my defeat, I wanted to save you and tell you it’s okay - but I can only do what your mind permits. You are about to forget me, and as much as I wish you wouldn’t, there is nothing I can do.

I will ‘die’ before I can ever fully comprehend that my entire life was just a dream of yours. I don’t know how I am - how a dream has feelings and thoughts like that of my own? It isn't fair, experiencing loss without ever having lived. But it is only that my loss is a result of yours. And if my whole life was only ever the imagination of a six-year-old boy, then imagination I should stay and stay should your imagination.

That child-like hope is still there, clinging onto me although it is faint. If you could find it in you to let me go without discarding everything. I am an imaginary friend. And I know it is scary to think of leaving that safety you found in me, but trust me that the real world is a thousand times closer to those big dreams you have. Because those dreams you have are real, and I am not. My life has and only ever will be a fabricated reality of yours. But promise me this: when you grow up, and you will, don’t lose the colorful hope that made me real. Because in that you will begin to lose yourself. Don’t abandon that little boy with big dreams Max.