On Life’s most important question

The search for truth can take you far in life, it’s a search that can take you to china and back again you or off the map possibly and into uncharted territory, in order to reach those peaks and valleys. To ask what is the purpose of life is a profound question, but how may that answer look? The ability to be conscious and able to ask these questions is profound in its self. what is the meaning of all this?

Are we temporary flames burning brightly for a few seconds in the vast continuum of time, or will we be immortalised with eternal youth, to bask in eternal sunshine the woes of the former life veiled from us because we have become kings. What is our life made of, what influences exist that weave into it its glorious capacity revel and speculate: God, is up to the vicissitudes of nature the conspiracies of fate?

We are glowing orbs of intellect, we have made our mark on nature we have conquered it and subdued, the elements of wind and fire have now been seized. Man has made a mark so large it can be viewed from space. To question is to seek truth, to numb yourself is to die, to stand still is to let go, but what are we seeking, what road will lead us there?

We are trapped between four walls stooped perpetually lost in this square screen if not this a screen of our lives being lived for us watching helpless as we fritter our youth, a life lived without heart.

What is death, the end of consciousness the beginning of a new life? Death is not a strangulation, life is not a race and we have won simply by being alive.

Death preoccupied the greats Edgar Allen Poe said “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best […] vague.” Death and life are merged and woven in together, life itself is then flung unfurled like a carpet into the unknown. At that point that juncture when death and life hold hands when they conspire to lure you in and steal your soul away where will we go, where does the next life begin where does one journey end and the next commence.

Life can be a teacher of neglect, teaching you lessons too late, the timing is not right you know how the story goes. We are abandoned by our own free will by its power to choose, my question is will we chose to compromise, to give in to the distraction of materialism.

Materialism has become the black hole that consumes so many, it is the greatest compromise in life many of us are fighting a losing battle, what can materialism do for us? Heed the question and even more so heed the answer, materialism is a source reserve not of contentment but of short term ambitions of wasted time of compromise, a compromise of fulfilment. it engulfs us without our permission it is priceless time wasted. We are all independent given a right to do as we see fit grip the steering wheel as we try not to collide and govern the countries entrusted to us by God our – bodies, we make decisions on a daily basis.

This is life and lesson number one we have freedom and choice and what does it mean isn’t it an enormous trust the fact that the creator himself has sent down autonomy it’s a significant point, we are honoured with a priceless responsibility we are at once lifted out of obscurity the riff faff of and coarseness of nature to achieve the highest aim on our own merit, we are human made of pulse and veins we are spirited human machines built with intelligence. That has to be highlighted we are stewards with responsibility and choices that have to be made in conjunction with the good – that which benefits and brings about the least amount of suffering. This is the prime aim.

What about truth what about the virtues of life – what make a wretched one noble man is truth, When one is inclined to telling the truth the blemishes that make one human become easier to bare, it is a constant shedding. The truth is not a commodity, but a reality, when one conceals it is a threat to the progress of things an a act of communal neglect and cruelty. We are starved of truth these days and of honesty all you need to do is compare the thousands of news outlets the nature of consumerism allows us to be shmuzed, truth is nestled somewhere hidden away it is secondary, we are also slaves to our ears peace we want our own vanity reflected back at us we hide from the truth, we gasp at realisation hiding all our life from a revelation that could ruffle our feathers. The truth is a scoundrel that needs to be wrestled with it is an object or a rock not conscious of its own weight someone needs to get rid of it.

The truth is pure it is in a realm of its own it is a sacred commodity, needing maintenance and constant polish it needs to be passed down the generations as an heirloom, it is a gift passed on to the next person. Truth has stunned introspection, it has become more than our sensibilities can cope with, truth has become unexplored and foreign that only the truly equipped venture out those with nothing to lose. Truth lies where and at what depth how can we fish it out? What makes a thing true, how can this be measured, where can we pick up our journey after we found it. The truth is not easily manipulated while we seek it watches us, it resists the temptation to be found to make itself clear to be under scrutinising gaze.

The essence of beauty is a pattern that runs deep it has carved out a bank and a river it over flows and it is in staggering abundance, it has broken out in beads of sweat stooped in it’s own muscular weight it sprouts on its own accord, nature preserves its own richness, beauty is self-perpetuating, it lives and thrives amongst us. Beauty in human can be both terrifying and magnificent, staring inside the petrified face of beauty with its rotten core is an traumatic ordeal.

The beauty of this world is vast, it can be observed in the minor detail of noble plant, in art, music all of this woven inside the fabric of life. We enjoy it, bask in it’s wisdom the wisdom of symetry for example it is a symbol of civilisation of order out of chaos, the stately magnitude is not veiled from us, our senses relay the message that beauty is profound. What of the the perils and dangers then of beauty not recognised left to wilt on the way side, what responsibility do we have. The simple fact is then we lose out. Beauty is significant it cannot be tamed, it rises, it reaches out gives but never takes. Beauty shares of itself, and never breaks. The preservation of beauty is charity it is lighting your neighbours soul, thinking about his most superfluous desire it is not frivolous but it is a want and not a need. When you contribute to this desire you become noble.

The heart can be beautiful; it can contain many of the virtues we seem to be lacking collectively these days virtues: honesty, truth, sincerity, goodness. When one is sincerely truthful, his internal face mirrors his external. Sincerity at its best is a science not an art it is a way to be in the world, it is a process of giving not taking, of offering a part of yourself: your true face. When searching for the truth you lay your motivation bare one cannot lie to one self about the nature of his search, you have to wear your heart on your sleeve.

What can beauty do for us, reignite dead passion, sooth the soul, comfort us in the grip of trying times, strike a cord, ignite the imagination. We are lost without beauty, we are canvases waiting for the last brush stroke of genius, we are incomplete. Beauty is engraved on to our hearts born with internal inclination a permenant biological mold or obsession this pull of nature defies logic it hovers without knees. What is about beauty that sweeps us away what is it about preference it is settling peaceful even to the mind it is a calming remedy. Beauty is the dignity of civilisation it is the embroidered garment that hangs loosely from our shoulders.


What does it mean to change your life it means to shed the weight of hypocrisy to live an authentic life fully, it means to let go of what it is that truly holding you back,  what prevents the soul from flying. The attachments of this world are immaterial they are limp they cannot carry you, they are null, void. You will have a persistent thorn in your side a nagging at the back of your head what is it that I’m sincerely missing out on what power, what pervasive energy, and what fulfilment? When we think about where we place much of our energy where we place our hearts and who we entrust the key to it is disappointing. We are cuffed to this world, we are short changed, we have made a transaction a disappointing one, in place of fulfilment we have transient happiness, that leaves us craving more and dependant.

Two Camps

There is two camp created and the creator, everything created has an expiration date they are zooming towards there destiny it is wound up linearly with time they change. They are not constant this is part of growth towards a perfection. Allah does not need growth, the purpose of change is to yield a better condition, we are moving upwards towards him when we fail we fail to win his face.

On Life’s most important question

Review of “Howl” by Allen Ginsberg

Peeling off the gloom of hoary institutions he led with an unsteady excitability showering with glimpses a self-destructive Armageddon, he is none the less stooped in prophetic study and contemplative silences that narrow in on the soul’s abysmal tendency to rattle the cage capriciously and loudly. “Howl” is a tempestuous delight, generation after generation it reignites itself, the instincts of the youth so ingrained and so above its own ability to function according to norms or walk a straight line causes havoc in the darkness. It is purged of cynicism, light on its feet however flowing with the murky depth of the night. “Howl” takes us on a tour of the bohemian alleys of New York, it flies over Brooklyn it parks itself dismembered across the whole state, committed to this patch.


Excerpt of “Howl”

By Allen Ginsberg

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
Review of “Howl” by Allen Ginsberg

Review of Zadie Smith’s “On Beauty”

So, in anticipation of Zadie Smith’s new novel NW where she pays tribute to her roots in Wilsden exploring the deeply working class streets of an intensely multicultural vibrant community (waiting with bated breath for the amazon package), I have decided to re-read one of my favourites – that’s right favourites, not only of her work but in general!

To begin with what can I say about Zadie Smith, what praise can I give her that hasn’t already been lavished on her by fervent reviewers who regard her as a heavy weight of the literary world (and rightly so), I agree with most of these rave reviews. I mean the women is a giant.

Zadie Smith began her career with the seminal White Teeth, which she wrote furtively in between classes and assignments to then win a Booker for the novel a few year later, what a feat.

But moving on and leaving all the Zadie acclamation aside for a brief moment, I have to give this book the praise it truly deserves. I approached this review, well not a review but a homage, as a kind of long over-due literary dissection of a modern classic. I don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to me before to share with you my thoughts on this novel before.

For those of you who haven’t read the novel and hoping to gain a flavour, you have come to the right place. On Beauty is a superbly layered piece, which revolves around a family (The Belsey’s) in any-town suburbia USA, and to a lesser but important degree about the conflict and tension between two families.

At the head of the family Howard Belsey is a professor at a renowned college looking or waiting with appropriate middle-class patients for a tenure, he is an academic who has gained a few supporters and also a few detractors over the course of his professional career, the most prominent figure being Monty Kipps.

Zadie creates a superbly delineated character, a figure of great loneliness who having reached middle-age is propelled or propels himself into a very dark place. Alienated by the busy rush of modern working life, with a wife who is working as a busy hospital administrator and 3 grown up children he lets himself be led into an emotional and physical entanglement, he gives and loses himself in the process.

He starts an affair with one of his close friends and colleagues, a petite blond who teaches English at the college, by contrast a polar opposite to his wife. The novel is a testament of the perils of the fast-paced, driven allure of professional life and what happens when things stop happening for you, when you have come to a juncture in your life where you are essentially stuck and out of fuel.

I can testify and tell you now that the reviews are on the money, Zadie Smith is a natural with dialogue, she creates beautifully observed realistic conversations. They are the same conversations you hear on the bus, they are the same talks you have with your colleagues at work, she delivers them with almost an envious lightness of touch. There is an authorial voice, who comical interjects and makes pertinent observations.

Zadie Smith has a knack for setting the scene her description of buildings and houses is inspiring her attention to detail is what makes her characters come to life, she has a natural flair for scene setting, the scenes speak a thousand words the history of the family come to life, we come to learn that the house was inherited by Kiki from her mother who by a stroke of good luck inherited it from her boss.

The rivalry between the two families is what I found delicious. Monty Kipps an imperious Caribbean conservative with a knack for stiring controversy in the college with his denouncement of affirmative action comes into conflict with the mild Howard by his piece on appreciation of Rembrandt which Howard considers retrogressive. Howard unable to move forward with his own book, seems stuck, paralysed by inaction or lack of progress, and sees in the successful Kipps an undeserving individual.

He soon starts an affair and then another affair and this time with Monty Kipps’ and his son’s estranged love a beauty whom he lost his virginity to, a slow descent into moral confusion and disappointment ensues. While this takes place Kiki Belsey and Monty’s wife form an unlikely friendship which ends in her untimely death, and Kiki inheriting one of her beloved art works.

This parallel is poignant and emphasises the fragility anf fickleness of human relationships, the two families are linked in more than one way. Zadie tell this story with deftness and stunning creative dexterity, pick it up if you already haven’t.

Review of Zadie Smith’s “On Beauty”

Opinion statements / miscellaneous / verses / sayings

Even the rose must lose its leaves but patience is waiting for spring to come and faith is knowing it will.

This world is a mountain and all we can do is awe at its beauty, dig for its treasures and meditate in its caves.

I don’t see why the “mother” label should be frowned or demeaned, a woman can be both a woman and a mother, I don’t see why career women the like should be guilted into self-hatred and avoid a beautiful fulfilling part of life.

The American dream is a carrot dangled from a stick, it always has been, the government wants to portray fairness and equal opportunity but we can see by these failing communities producing a generation of dreamers intoxicated on lies and myths deluded by an all-pervasive ideology of that individual rings supreme, these slums and ghettos collapsing slowly down a gutter, a downward spiral into abject poverty, the price and sacrifice of higher education, the lack of social mobility, the deluded sense that we live in a darwinistic individualistic jungle of competitiveness, a dangerous “every man for himself” mentality decaying rotting everything that is good about human nature. The stench of misguided ambition, talent flushed down the drain decomposing on porches, in the shallow misdirection of youth, in the neglect of pensioners, in the shunning of immigrants we can see Americas so called dream turn and mutate into a nightmare before our eyes, and politicians dress the wound lazily, and unnecessary apply pressure until you let out a little gasp of resignation and say “maybe my children will have it better”.

When your president advertises like coke a cola this is when you subconsciously assign him to the ubiquitous brands and u don’t question their presence.

you can’t imagine how it feels for an African like myself to watch helplessly as your country and continent your fellow brothers and sisters are left to starve and die on the way side while foreigners buy up land and resources without contributing nought to the infrastructure or without creating jobs, the the few are stealing substantially from the majority it needs to stop.

It’s scary that a few fat cats at the heads of these cheap immoral retailers for throw away garbage have the wellbeing and interest hands and workers livelihoods at their disposal. The top of so many industries needs reform and fast.

It’s useful for those in power that there should be a perpetual tension between the police and citizens. The police will play their role and will mould themselves into an unpleasant stereotype and the citizens will be in perpetual irrational rage against the police so there will be no compromise or leniency in crime. This is how “they” keep us in check by putting an artificial gulf between the police and the people.

Opinion statements / miscellaneous / verses / sayings

About me

I’m a writer, full-time student. I Live in London, and my activities generally consist of watching films, writing, reading, being shy, a little neurotic and anxiety ridden, no but honestly in the extroverted introverts reality (a rare breed) our motto is may peace reign and may good vibes live on (I am bit of an oddball character must admit). If you finished reading my inarticulate babble congratulations, I sincerely commend you! or maybe you’ve fallen into a light comatose slumber, who knows. I have no autobiographical flair so I will leave you to trawl through my blog.

About me

“He asked to see the face of God he was refused so he made the world his grave.”

He asked to see the face of God he was refused so he made the world his grave.

He was plagued with sin and doubt – vices that stirred under his fingernails, he yearned for pleasures that were sewn into an urn, for a life that was flung far out into the sea, for a thing that was not his. He distrusted the world, but still he was on his knees asking, imploring for it to give him something back, and a little more please. It is shameless to be black in the face, to be knee deep in a constant compromises to tug at the hem helplessly, to ask for an inch and be refused. In this state the mind, the mind does something it creates crude masses of waste it creates images that are tortured and grotesque, images of you in your suit sodden, ill. To see your life blurs of it as if watching it kaleidoscope together, watching it at night troubled before sleep tugging not sure where anything goes hoping for an realignment hoping to do something right. Life withholds itself, it liked to see him squirm keenly operating under many guises, bruising the ego and then showing up at his door step without a mask begging for an embrace, it did things to the heart. It was playing games with him, it was playing a strange game. He was internally wounded, scarred almost stranded on the verge of an abyss, waiting, for something that would aid his survival, something to clutch he was cursed by the intangibility of his needs.

Unravelled by witchcraft of many women, their beauty was both terrifying and magnificent. Staring into the petrified face of beauty with its rotten core – it was a traumatic ordeal. These women stately matriarchal figures in his life he lived in their shadow, sleeping in their cold shade waking up wearily with a thorn in his side, suffering. He suffered always from a kind of desperation to forge something authentic, to raise up from the barren land that was his love life something living. He was a ghost hovering on the peripheral of their existence, he was in their pockets neatly folded, an attachment, as if he was a boy not a man. These women didn’t scar him it was a ritualistic peeling off of the skin with every love affair, a unique suffering of the deepest kind. He woke up nostalgic some nights unable to erase the memory, weary and gone in his heart. There was no gradual winding down, his coming to terms took place in a tragic way, a cold deathly finality. An abrupt shutdown took place outside of him, inside he was screaming for air watching his life as if looking down from a glass ceiling limply gesturing trying to manoeuvre telepathically. Things happened without his permission and in his own affairs he had no say. These women they were assigned now to his dreams or nightmares perhaps in them he asked for permission, to be born, to be alive, to stand steady on two legs, to walk the manifestation of dark symbols.

The excessive weight of a bankrupt life lies in its shallow emptiness.  The disturbance bred a strange longing for reconciliation. He trembled at the thought of peace between them and the entreaty that would ensue from a night of cold sweats, would they bat an eyelid how would a last and final rejection feel. It ate him out of sorrow how they mistook him, he was not a full person in their eyes. It was an ache that wilted him. It filtered the energy out of him, His instincts were wound,  his spiritual impulses were barren, emptied he was vulnerable.

A broke artists hovel, grey with the stench of countless cigarettes, tired abandoned books gradually tearing itself away from the desk as if to tidy itself stretches of unruly coiled wires extended itself across the floor, on the walls the paint was peeling of the floor bloods creaked the radiator bled. A damp chill was deep set in this place it was part of the architecture. After work he had to brace himself before walking in it made his house inhabitable, a dull prison of the dead. In the evening he’s be stooped solitary figure perched on the tip by his desk alone shaded in the night’s gloom, counting the number of lines he’s written or scribbling down notes for his next chapter.

“He asked to see the face of God he was refused so he made the world his grave.”