"I'll be the ground..."

I sat down in front of my computer hoping to write something to break my dry spell. I sat with nothing. So, I plugged in, and asked P.O.S. to inspire me via my iPhone's iPod.

And, within seconds, he told me: "Don't let them choose for you." And I thought: "I hate how everyone is trying to tell me what I should and should not eat for iftar. It's my siyam and my choice--not theirs."

"Goodbye" repeated and my thoughts continued to flow:

"If I want za3tar and 7ummos and khubiz u bes, and don't want salmon and pasta, that's my PREROGATIVE..."

"And if I don't want to go to 3azayim during Ramadan because I think they encourage gorge-fests and bother me and cause stress and take the focus away from spirituality and religion and Allah, that's my choice. Don't get offended. It has nothing to do with you or your house or the quality of your food. It's just my choice."

"And if I want to travel from VA to Jerusalem to pray in the 7aram, and buy makhloota from As-Samman, and then catch the 18 to go to Ramallah to eat Baladna Booza and visit Rajai at Venus, and then pass through Qalandiya, ride the bus passed Beit 7anina back to the bus stop behind the vendors' shops to catch the 75 to go back to Siti's house in At Tour--that's my choice, not theirs...IT'S NOT THEIRS; THEY WILL NOT CHOOSE FOR ME!"

And then the drumroll quiets into a monitoring beat which paces a mellow cadence...and it brings my pressure back down and it sucks the flush into my veins away from the surface of my cheeks and I feel my eyes blink a little slower. I rub my temples with the pads of my index finger and thumb...

Reality settles within me like a spirit from the second life renting my body to communicate a message to the living. It just needs a mouth piece and limbs to gesture with--and I'm just the vessel for this temporary employment.

The message is for me: "Reem, sometimes, the choices have already been made. Try to defy them, and your 'free will' will likely be tied with handcuffs and denied entry. What then?"

How do I choose between defiance and acquiescence when my first choice is that neither would exist? How do I choose when neither yields freedom as an option? How can I choose for myself when I am not free to be myself?

And then P.O.S. dedicates to the brave and the snake, and "to the sweat in the face of a man misplaced who finds his own lane."

A drop follows his lyric from my brow to the edge of my desk, and I see my choice swimming in the salty bead. To be without fear is to be with freedom. I will not be paranoid; I will not care about them. My lane will wind under MY stomping when and where I CHOOSE to place my footsteps.

"Never fill in the blanks/Let 'em hang in the ranks...I'll be the ground/Nobody gets me down."

And I choose to be grounded there again with a "free-range" visa. I'll be leaning against the Qudsy railing, jingling my six shekels, waiting to step on the first step of the 18...again soon. 7ur ana...that's my choice.