BECOMING SHUAIB
The Boy is Finally a Man
I was born screaming
because silence felt dishonest.
Agony arrived early,
not to hurt me,
but to register my name correctly
while everyone else guessed.
Love showed up late
and overconfident,
smiling like it had never ruined a man before.
It promised eternity
with the enthusiasm of a salesman
who will not be here after the contract.
I signed.
Of course I did.
Hope is my most expensive vice.
Love burned the house,
called it growth,
then asked why I kept the ashes.
Destruction is not chaotic.
It is organized.
It files your failures alphabetically
and leaves the important ones highlighted.
Walls fall.
Illusions survive.
The mirror finally tells the truth
without asking if I am ready.
I tried being good.
God watched silently,
which is His favorite response.
I tried being bad.
Evil wanted consistency.
So I settled for being human,
confused enough to pray,
aware enough to doubt,
tired enough to laugh at both.
A voice in my chest said,
Stand up.
I stood.
Life pushed again.
Lesson repeated.
In a small, unremarkable room,
men like me mistake suffering for depth
because shallow pain feels embarrassing.
We call our wounds identity
and get offended when they heal.
Somewhere, a monk is laughing,
because the joke is obvious.
We keep asking life for meaning
as if it is not enjoying our confusion.
And still,
between unfinished prayers,
between love that failed politely
and faith that arrived late,
I survived.
Not out of strength.
Out of spite.
I survived like a religion
that lost its miracles
but kept its rituals.
Like a man who knows the world is cruel
and shows up anyway,
just to see what it will try next.
Agony trained me.
Love miseducated me.
Destruction clarified everything.
Survival made me arrogant enough
to keep breathing.
I am still here.
Which means something went wrong
with the plan.
Tomorrow,
if existence knocks again,
I will not beg.
I will not run.
I will open the door,
look it in the face,
and say, Please.
Be original this time.
shuaibyakoob@gmail.com