It disintegrates from the front row,
And shifts abruptly to the back,
All I take and absorb,
The chosen is kept,
The remaining is left for a time better than the present.
Thus that which remains goes to the back of my mind,
Incomprehensible and unattainable the remainder becomes,
Until my consciousness rummages through the ravines of thought,
And finds millenniums of contemplation lost track of in the ticking clock.
The consciousness is barbarous to the unspoken significance,
That the remaining is hurled to the back of my mind.
There it stays in patient longing for a chance to be held again,
To be touched and embraced by its chosen vessel.
They long to be whole again,
To not be a part of this anonymity.
But To be or Not to Be.
– Imaan Siddiq
The Genres of Life 