Vanity Rebuked

I was shuffling over random files in my laptop and found an essay on Camus I had made when I was in the US last year or maybe two. Time sure goes fast and I really like how fast it went and be forgotten, or not. Many memories, for the weird workings of human mind always puzzled me, will never be gone from our heart and clasped our very breath each time it rekindled like an old flame, bursting, the flower, the red color on the apple of our cheeks which brought shame and regret and the long face, the pout, and then tears. And how lucky was I that never once I shed a tear over those memories now, for as long as I remember after my arrival at home. By which it means that I must have accepted that it had happened and have little regret of it.

What for must I wallow the sorrow those memory brought forth? The lessons were taught and, do believe me, that I had learned. By far, by the writings of Camus again, I have learned to accept faith as it is and once more reminded that life itself will burst so bright nearing its end and then all was lost. For every life started, it will all end in death and that is how the world spins around. For men to accept its faith is the most excruciating of all mission they ever be sent to earth for. I always think why would God sent us here? What was his intention? Every answer muddled my mind even more, so I accept it the way it is and stop questioning whether God ever exist or not, that the Faith was a gift itself and for it I wouldn’t have to question no more.

And I wonder when I saw the tears on my grandmother’s face, of hearing her wails so bitter and caressed her contorted face which shrink and withered in an instant as such a dried plum will, and of hearing my aunt’s shouts of how it wasn’t a proper act a good Muslim woman should conduct on the death of their relative, even their own brother. Standing among those veiled saints was I without any veil nor a single thread to cover my hair, standing was I holding my mother which hold her own mother which tearing her clothes in throes of sorrow, and ponder how inhumane was it to not feel for it is a mean of defying the God. By God’s will that every men must die and such is the time of His choosing, for us, his good followers, the faith was bound to keep us from feeling the pain of losing our kin.

My grandmother is a good Muslim, in my opinion, in my knowledge which perhaps inferior and lacking in many aspects of judging, for it was biased by the link of our blood, but how her faith had failed to protect her from her sorrow moved me. As I saw her trying to keep the waters at bay, feigning a calculated measure; a straight face, for I if no one had told me or she not stayed too long, will never caught the scent of anguish, had my grandmother did not at once let the dam broke free and her measure broken. She, with all her dignity intact or not I never know, went weak on her knees and fell on the floor weeping at last a few minutes after the call informing the passing of my great-uncle.

The shouting started and I, for every ounce of respect I held for my elders, cannot bear the sight of my aunt shouting recitals of the holy book and reminding my grandmother that it is improper to cry, that it is an act which question the God. Then I question myself; what are the tears made for? What is the Faith given for?

Of what, as it is the most vital means of surviving, will protect us from sorrow if Faith fails to do so?

By means that her Faith was not polished to its highest degree, thus proven, that I, myself, shall experience a more terrible anguish had it was my own sister whom passes away before me, for my faith has never been the purest of form. My father, my mother, those I loved and how ugly was I to not shed a tear over a great-uncle whom once, or few times more, had hold me in his arms and praised me for my achievements. The emptiness plagued me and for many times I had pondered on the absent of tears, of how perhaps my ability to melancholy was reduced to a state of—but then again, what for? Shall I, again, shed tears as I have done many times before over the passing of those close to me? For death itself has gained such an effect on my mind, my soul torn every time it gets close by then it mends and heal itself. The death of a friend—nay, friends. Of those I once cherish. Those faces long forgotten now, for never once I looked back and mingle with the memory with great joy, but a troubled feeling of uneasiness.

As Camus had written over Sisyphus, once again I declare I am happy. As I was before, as I am now, as I will always be. Of vanity rebuked and the mind shackled, soon my soul will be broken if I intend on questioning everything instead of living the years life has given me. And as Keats had said, I shall seize the days. For the curtains of the unknown had peered over my shoulder and knocking at my door the hands of the damnedest soul, the fire of purgatory will touch my skin before I ever set my eyes upon the gates of Heaven. And for that, I am thankful.