The Glass Apple

I held it in my hand,

cold, heavy, and clear.

A fruit made of glass,

shining under a single, naked bulb.

It was beautiful,

but it was not real.

I tried to bite it.

My teeth clicked against the surface,

a sharp sound in a quiet room.

I was a man of great character,

but I was starving for something

the world could not provide.

No status, no bank account,

could soften this transparent stone.

I looked at my reflection in the glass.

A face twisted by desire,

eyes searching for a sweetness

that was never there.

I realized the tarbiyat of my era

had taught me to love the shine,

but forget the taste.

I squeezed my grip,

tightly pushing my palms together.

I wanted it to break,

to shatter into a thousand diamonds.

I wanted to feel the grit of the shards

cutting through the silk of my dreams.

I threw it against the wall.

It didn't break.

It didn't even scratch.

It just rolled back to my feet,

silent,

perfect,

unforgiving.

I sat on the floor and laughed.

A dry, hollow sound

that echoed in my empty chest.

"A new life," I thought.

I would stop trying to eat the glass.

I would look for a real apple,

even if it was bruised,

even if it was small.

In the UK and USA,

they sell us the glass,

and we pay with our souls.

But real success is the courage

to want what is real

over what is beautiful.

Your "Grit" is not in the shine.

It is in the hunger for the truth.

Stay firm in your art.

Stay loyal to your scars.

The universe is watching.