Ramadan started this year on a bad note, and being that I judge a month from its first impression, I kind of thought the rough start gauged the tone of the upcoming days. Started bad? It’s going to remain bad. I was wrong, thankfully.
I tend to forget how effective those thirty days are on my yearning soul. I had only wished for the days to become placid again. I do not fuel on drama; I burn out and cry behind closed doors.
Being in the company of family on a daily basis has kept my heart full, and sometimes yearning for more. We’re only 12 days in the month and I am already acting nostalgic. Trust me, in a blink of an eye, Eid will come and this would all be history.
I always forget that holding back from certain practices or holding merely my tongue can bring me such good fortune. I feel blessed every single day in Ramadan; it’s as if God is protecting me from everything caustic. Just writing this I feel crying because I do not deserve this niceness. I am overwhelmed… the good kind of overwhelmed.
For thirty days, acidity is crossed out from the schedule. It’s all good habits, good company, long nights, and a liberated heart. I request God to allow me a wish during Fajr; I wake up in the morning with a wish granted. And you ask me why I don’t want this month to end?