Flicker held in pause—before the storm claims it.
The moment vanishes, like the last ripple on a pond—before understanding has learned its name, before feeling clothes itself in speech. It is a sigh trembling on the lips, a tear that shimmers before sorrow names it, a gentle twilight between being and becoming. Every flash fades before meaning takes root, before memory dares to hold it close. Like a photograph blooming in slow light, life reveals itself only when we pause long enough to revere it. To linger is to love; to notice is to nurture what would otherwise drift unseen. Reverence molds the moment; without stillness, existence remains unfelt. To seize that flicker before comprehension—to dwell, however briefly, in the “moment before the moment”—is to to mend what is broken, to love what is small, to rise in grace even when the heart trembles in longing.
But judgments arrive like sudden storms, scattering the fragile fragrance of our peace. We flee the solitude that could save us, afraid of the truth it unveils—that we have always known ourselves, but seldom dared to meet that knowing with open eyes. We grow stubborn, plotting against mortality, blind to the irony that no hand can rewrite the script of its ending.
Whether our ignorance is born of incompleteness or conceit scarcely matters—the cost remains. We turn from our “Niyamat“, the quiet blessings that nourish us. Drunk on haste, we stumble through the lease of life, unsteady, incoherent, restless. The song of life falters on lips too hurried to sing, too restless to listen.
An agitated mind breeds gracelessness, and gracelessness turns to ugliness with no purpose but itself. Echoes of pride and fury suffocate our yearning for companionship. Grief walks unspoken through our days, loneliness spreads like flame—swift, merciless—reducing our inner temples to ash. We shun every hand that reaches to guide us. And then we drift, detached from the sacred now, orphans of our own making—estranged from the gifts of closeness and love. Affection was never lost; we merely stopped turning toward it. The soul fractures; we sink into quicksand. The harder we struggle to lift ourselves alone, the deeper we descend into our undoing.
Making of:
This piece reflects on the instant just before a feeling turns into words—the “moment before the moment” when experience is still tender and unformed.
The pond ripple, the sigh, and the twilight images invite you to slow down and notice how quickly a moment appears, vanishes, and becomes memory.
Niyamat refers to quiet blessings or gifts; the piece suggests that everyday moments are such blessings, often ignored when life is rushed.
The later paragraphs trace what happens when we live in haste: judgment, loneliness, and inner disconnection begin to replace stillness, reverence, and connection.
As you read, you might pause to ask: Where do you feel that “moment before the moment” in your own life—and how often do you allow yourself to linger there?
Note:
Niyamat :
In Arabic and Islamic context, Niyamat means “divine blessing,” “grace,” or “gift” and often refers to bounties and mercy bestowed by God.
In Hindi, Niyamat can mean a rare gift or a precious blessing, signifying something bestowed as a favor.
In Persian, it holds a similar meaning representing blessings or gifts that bring grace to daily life.