There is a veil, the thickness of which varies depending upon the nature of the soul on which it falls. A masterpiece moves from independent colours seemingly haphazard on a canvas to a glorious expression of the Artist’s being. Stumbling into the musty workshop, witnessing unwashed brushes and the sharpness of terpse stinging the nostrils, the ignorant would be forgiven for seeing nothing but a chaotic confusion of shades adorning the easel. Yet hindsight teaches that the workshop suffers not from disorder, but rather the senses that experience are not in tune with the Creative Power that soothes, should one only tune in.
In contrast to the long summer days that have defined Ramadan in the West for the last few years, my first experience of the blessed month was ( mercifully ) during the British winter, with the sunset prayer no later than 16:30. As a second year university student, I was still familiarising myself with both Islam and living away from my parents, and so my Ramadan diet combined biriyani iftars in the local mosque with occasional late night trips to the nearest fried chicken shop to curtail midnight hunger pains. A Muslim friend, Barbar, would knock on my dormitory door thirty minutes before the dawn prayer, and insist I share the food he had readied ( usually a reheated Pakistani dish prepared by his mother, accompanied by a few slices of bread ) . Another friend, Ali, perhaps inspired by my conversion, utilised the learning process I was undertaking as a chance to gain more knowledge about his faith, and would frequently come to pick me up from my dormitory in ord
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