You won’t find this to be a focused, niche blog. If you’re expecting to read the same topic everyday there are plenty of amazing blogs that have mastered this artform. I have too many interests to single out just one – one – and ordain it the Topic of My Blog.

In my work as a finance and operations professional, I run a tight ship. As a neurodivergent perpetually challenged by societal systems, I created my own systems. Routines of military precision keep my life running smoothly and ensure I drink enough water, get enough sleep, and just cope with the daily grind. They also bore me to tears and trigger obsessive compulsions.

How am I doing so far? Is your interest waning or has it piqued? If you can relate – I apologise.

In my daily life as an impulsive, opinionated person, I constantly walk the tight rope of cheerful diplomacy and satisfying my desire to be honest. I’ve furrowed many a brow and pursed many lips with my unfiltered thoughts.

I don’t have much talent for writing. I only hope that after twenty years, I have moved the needle forward somewhat. Read my first submission in an online writers group, particularly one fellow writer’s frustrated critique and let me know in the comments just how bad it was. Where I lack in talent, I compensate with a deep affinity for expressing myself through words. There is always the right word. Rolling the pronunciation off my tongue and savouring the semantics of a word, marveling at how much better it expresses than the others.

When I switch on my computer to write, I’m not hashing out search engine friendly content. I’m unleashing my creative spirit. Expressing with honesty my convictions on life, love, books, society, and the path of the soul in this awkward physical dimension. Reveling in that delicious after-glow of rearranging the letters of the English alphabet in the order of my creative expression.

The titleFajr, Books & That First Cuppa is an array of my favourite things. The Fajr morning worship is the first of the obligatory Muslim prayers offered just before sunrise each day. It’s a spiritual practice I’ve come to relish and rely on. Helping me to connect to the Creator, the Source of all that is, all that I love, and all that I am. Books represent my love for all things literary; including my long-time aspirations to write my own bestsellers. Lastly, that first cup of strong milky coffee is the best way to start my day. It’s my one thing. Humans are only as happy as they allow themselves to be and I aim to set the bar really low. The robot wars can befall mankind, or a disappointing stay in an Airbnb that didn’t match the pictures posted can test my inner Karen. Or I can simply be unlucky enough to be in the midst of tax filing season, and as long as I can wake up to a good cup of joe, there is still some good in the world. So much so that I pack my own coffee whenever I travel.

Incidentally, I enjoy all three of my favourite things early in the morning. As my interests change over time, one thing remains the same; love them, or hate them, I am one of those dreadful morning people. And my most favourite thing to do, is sit in the quietude of the hour after Fajr, sipping on strong milky coffee (no sugar please, and always in the same mug) letting my mind wander freely and unrestrained. Like it was designed to do. No systems to govern it. No tasks to pin it down. Free of the shackles of the upcoming day.

This blog is about those thoughts.

#Dverse adventure ageing animals art beauty Cape Town comedy conflict crime death dreams family fantasy feminism Flash fiction flowers Friday Fictioneers gangsters humanity human trafficking humour inspiration life love magic marriage murder photography Poetry psychological trauma real life Relationships religion romance roses scars science fiction selfdiscovery selflove society thriller travel true love War

Categories

Blog posts you might like to read:

Flash ficiton: Cold tea and cigarettes

Book review: Jane Eyre – not who you think she is

  • A rose by any other name would smell as sweet

    PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Her favourite flower was roses. Various mediums depicted Dorothy’s unapologetic floral partiality. Printed fabrics of light and dark hues dressed her windows and tables and crocheted patterns draped over her armchairs in stern solidarity. A ceramic, gold-tipped single rose pendant dangled at her throat. Another strange and eccentric old woman…

    Read more: A rose by any other name would smell as sweet
  • Smoke gets in your eyes

    PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu Bhojnagarwala   It was a surprise for Berr. Cooked meat, with a new tool that Eli called fire. Over many moons Kaya’s friend taught her how to make fire. Berries and a fist of boar meat, which Eli gave to her, spread out on the rocky floor. A sound alerted her to…

    Read more: Smoke gets in your eyes
  • Ancestral treasures

    PHOTO PROMPT © Renee Heath Tshepo was silhouetted against the setting sun, beer bottle raised against the dying light. “To our success!” “Cheers to that!” Brenda, Gift and Tshepo tipped their bottles together. “Do you think the police will find out we stole it?” Gift whispered. “Nah.” replied Tshepo, after some thought. “It’s not worth…

    Read more: Ancestral treasures
  • Russian roulette

    PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson   Klaus couldn’t make up his mind if the invention of the sticky, resilient tape was a good thing for mankind or a bad thing. Andrei clicked the safety buckles around his torso. Klaus counted five clicks of safety. He leaned over slightly to peer over the edge of the cliff.…

    Read more: Russian roulette
  • In a Jam

    PHOTO PROMPT © Priya Bajpal As a busy, single mom of four robust boys, organisation was key to handling life. Storage was a major element in the parental organisational plan. Mason jars were Sal’s new thing. They could store anything from bits and bobs, jam, pencils, coins, spices – you name it. Devon had even found…

    Read more: In a Jam
  • He aint heavy, he’s my brother

    Copyright – Adam Ickes He waited for hours, watching. Waiting. Hidden behind a tree. Or pretending to stroll on the park lanes. People didn’t notice Thomas. Not when he asked for coins in his cup, and not as he circled this part of the park. His eyes fixed on the pair of boots abandoned on…

    Read more: He aint heavy, he’s my brother

Subscribe

Enter your email below to receive updates.