Post Update

Hey. Hi. Hello. Salaam. Bonjour. Salut. Ciao. Ahoj. Bog. Marhaba. Ola. 

Hope you guys are all well. 

So I had content equal to three posts in one draft, and night before last, I went to separate them into three individual drafts and lost two posts worth in the process. I usually don’t use the app and this is exactly why. I was literally so upset I had a good mind to just delete the damned wordpress app because it took a lot of time and effort to type those posts and the plan was to put up posts every second day from the beginning of May before stopping for Ramadhaan.

Long story short, I managed to get the unedited version of part of the one post from my… *clears throat* editor. The formatting was a mess and I had to re-edit. By the time I’d finished, I was in no mood to write. So from 3 posts I now have about 1 and a half incomplete posts and slight memories of the the other 1 and a half. But I obviously have to sit, focus, and make an effort to remember and then re-type whatever I lost. Which is just not happening. 

So please bear with me. A post will go up as soon as I don’t get irritated every time I open my wordpress, Insha Allah. 🙄😂 I’m so sorry to make you guys wait.

Much Love, 

Troubled Illusioner. ❤



In the early months of 2016, a wonderful woman was struck by a life-changing idea.

Although hesitant at first – knowing it was risky business – she set about downloading WordPress and creating her own little blog space on the internet, where she intended sharing a story, as is done by 1000s of other WordPress users.

But hers was like no other.

Her story was no ordinary story.

Her little blog space on the Internet was so much more than just a “little blog space on the Internet”.

Hers was a story of unbalanced emotions, of unfair decisions, of selfless sacrifices.

She called it No Way Out.

Time passed and posts were published, each displaying emotions so vividly to the readers, her characters almost became real. Unknown to the readers at that time, they were.

Then one day, real life Fuzzy from the blog stumbled across her little space, a reader who was not to find out.

No Way Out was made private, leaving her readers unsure of the status of the blog.

Would this newfound sensational read of theirs go on, or had the phenomenal writer ditched them, as many others had done in the past? What a waste of talent, of lessons to be learnt, of eyes to be opened.

Meanwhile, the genius holding the pen was finding it difficult to express herself as fantastically as before.

Fuzzy was not suppose to have found out.

She’d have to work on a solution.

A second blog was created and all the content was updated over a couple of weeks.

She called this one Finding My Way.

This is what life was to her, what it is for each one of us.

A journey of finding our way.

Posts continued, the story slowly unfolding.

Perhaps startled at how raw, honest and realistic this blog was, unlike many others, curiosity sparked.

And so began the start of “Is this a true story?”.

Eventually, as it was asked more and more often, the magician behind the keyboard gave in and let out the truth.

This was her story. This was her happiness, her sadness, her grief, her frustration. This is what she felt, what she dealt with, what she fought through.

And if anything, somehow, impossibly, it just made everything so much more beautiful.

What bravery, what courage, must one have to narrate a tale, in hope of someone else not making the same mistake as they did. In hope of creating awareness about anxiety and living life dealing with it.

What a golden heart must it take to try drawing attention to government hospitals, to kids with special needs and different social circumstances.

What a strong heart must it take to acknowledge, that in life you will do things which you will regret, but it shouldn’t make you lose hope. There’s always a way out.

What a conscious and caring heart must it take to remind people who you don’t even know that we need to change our focus and turn to Allah before it’s too late.

But like in the case of every story, there came a time when there were no more pages to turn.

What had to be said, was said.

Now she could only hope and pray that it would hit home, that it would help someone who needed help.

It was time to draw a close, to end a story of brilliance unmatchable.

And so, on December the 13th 2017 the dreaded yet much awaited Final Note was published.

And out of the blogging world stepped yet another amazing author.

But not for long.

SHE’S BAAAAACCCKKKK! (What a way to kill the vibe. I apologize. I’m just excited. Stop rolling your eyes.)

Our dearest author of No Way Out/Finding My Way has once again made the dumb(why would you willingly start writing again?! Clearly the difficulties of a writer’s life didn’t hit you in full force in the last blog, smh) – awesome decision to write again!

You might have seen the link around.

(cringes internally)

(seriously, who names their blog nonamebrand and then ends their post with Regards – how unprofessionally professional)

(i’ll try to stop laughing now)

In case you’re trying to access that link unsuccessfully, it’s because it has been changed (by yours truly. of course).

The new (and much more socially acceptable) link is:

This story is about a pediatrician and is targeted at an older, more mature audience (23+). There won’t be any explicit content so if you’re younger and wish to read as well, go ahead, just don’t expect teenage drama centered around cliche things.

Link to the first post: Welcome!

Happy reading!

Much Love,

Troubled Illusioner. ❤

01.03.2018 – Ghouta

Last night I sat down to write a piece on Ghouta – Syria – and the current… the current situation there.

I wrote one sentence, then I scratched it.

Then, I wrote another. And then I scratched it.

I placed my pencil atop my page, trying to approach it differently.

Maybe third person narrative.

Lifting my pencil again, I scribbled a line.

A rhyming word jumped into my mind.

A poem! That’s what I’ll write. A poem. 

Bear in mind that I am a writer. Not a poet.

I can count the number of poems I’ve ever written, on my hands. Perhaps even one hand.

I came as far as three lines this time.

But then, I hit the brick wall again.

It wasn’t working.

I switched my style again, tried a different tactic.

It didn’t work. Again.

My pencil had lead, but it wouldn’t write.

I wasn’t feeling it, I realized.

And that’s when it clicked.

I wasn’t feeling it.

I wasn’t feeling it. 

The writer in me made its appearance in 2015.

Since then, in the two years that have passed, I’ve learnt a lot.

I’ve learnt a lot about writing and the way it works.

And from all the things that I’ve learnt, one that always stands out starkly, is how easy it is to write when I feel strongly about something.

If I’ve experienced it, the words flow, the emotions peak, and I barely even have to make an effort.

And when I get stuck, I put myself in my character’s shoes.

I imagine how I would feel in that situation, how I would think, what I would do, how I would react. I make my character me. I make me my character.

But let’s come back to the point.

I digress. I’m sorry.

What I’m trying to say, is that I realized the reason for being unable to produce a piece on Ghouta, and it was simple.

It is simple.

I can’t feel what they are feeling.

And unlike what I do when I get stuck with my characters, I can’t comprehend, I can’t possibly even imagine what it would be like to be in the situation the people of Ghouta currently are.

What would I say? What would I do? How would I react?

Would I even survive?

Probably not.

My Imaan compared to theirs is like the strength of a baby lamb in front of an adult male lion.

It’s like a house without a foundation in a tsunami.

Like a child being commanded at gunpoint.

Can you imagine how unshakably strong their faith must be, to see their house disappear in a cloud of dust in front of them, to see their children bleed to death in front of them, to see their siblings being pulled out from beneath rubble in front of them, yet they still believe. 

Can you imagine how unshakably strong their faith must be, to constantly hear their children wail out of starvation and thirst, to constantly hear gunfire and bombs explode all around them, to constantly hear people screaming in fear, running for their lives, yet they still believe. 

And us?

Cold? We complain.

Hot? We complain.

Food we don’t like? We complain.

Not even no food. We get food. But still, we complain.

How pathetic have we become as humans. As ummatis of Nabi صَلي الله عَليهِ وسَلم.

As I’m writing this, I’m questioning myself.

Who am I to point out other people’s faults when I have countless myself? Does this make me a hypocrite?

Why I am writing this article?

Because everyone is writing about the gore in Ghouta, and I have to, too?

Should I use the excuse of “creating awareness”?

But, are the people not aware enough already? Surely, they are. We’re up to date with the celeb news, we’re aware of what’s happening in the western world. Surely then we must know what is happening to our fellow Muslims. To our brothers and sisters.

So let me tell you why I am writing this.

I am writing this to remind you.

To remind you, that next time you want to complain about the food your mother puts on the table, the people of Ghouta are starving to death.

To remind you, that next time you forget your jacket at home and the weather takes a turn, the people of Ghouta are shivering in fear.

To remind you, that next time your child is throwing a tantrum and all you want to do is yell at him, the mother’s of Ghouta are watching their children bleed to death.

To remind you, that next time your husband doesn’t do as you request, the wives of Ghouta don’t even have someone to listen to their requests.

To remind you, that next time your father doesn’t buy you what you want, the children of Ghouta have absolutely nothing.

To remind you, that next time you lift your hands in duaa, wanting to pray for something that will only give you worldly benefit, make a better duaa. Make a more needed duaa, a more crucial duaa. Make a duaa for the people of the ummah.

Make dua for the people of Ghouta.

Pray for them like you’ve never prayed before.

It’s the least we can do.


May Allah guide us, this sinful servant first. May Allah grant us taufeeq to change our lives, to become better muslims. May Allah grant the innocent Ummah of Nabi صَلي الله عَليهِ وسَلم relief and ease, verily He is the All-hearing, All-seeing, All-knowing.


*A little something written by a very talented friend of mine.

Gripping the rails of the staircase, I rush forward, feeling the early evening breeze hit my face. I pay no attention to it, focusing on easing my breaths instead. All I can hear is your voice, but I can’t trace the sound. I close my eyes and sigh inwardly. It’s been too much. It was always too much. This race, this constant fear, the anxiety that has embraced me completely, the sadness that remains with me continuously – it’s all too much. I sit down on the stairs and stare into nothingness, my mind mocking me. I’m chasing a dead human. I’m chasing a human who lies six feet under the ground. My demons have created an imaginary you. I can hear your melodious voice ringing in my ears – it’s louder than my heartbeat. I can feel you, but when I look, you’re not there. When I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I see sullen eyes – I see your eyes, powerful grey, stormy like the sea. I can smell your fragrance – a mixture of perfume and washing powder. I hear the sound of your car, reversing out of the driveway. My heart leaps but when I run to the window, there’s nothing there, no one there. They say I’m insane, that I’ve lost my mind.  But I know, I know that if you were here, they wouldn’t have reason to call me that. I would embrace you, and listen to every story of yours. I would smile and laugh at seeing you smile and laugh. I would have asked you every question that I want to ask you now. I would have served you in every way possible. I would have made your tea for you just as you liked. I would have inhaled your scent again and again, I would have bought your favourite chocolates, cooked your favourite meals, appreciated our conversations more. I would have loved you like how I love you now. I would have appreciated your existence like how I appreciate my very own breathing. I would have loved you, I would have loved you just like how I love you now, if not, even more….

Post Update

Hey. Hi. Hello. Salaam. Bonjour. Salut. Ciao. Ahoj. Bog. Marhaba. Ola. 😀

I’ve got some not so great news. But sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do and this is one of those times. So I’m just here to let you guys know that there won’t be any posts till I don’t know when (probably just for the next two weeks) because I need to study and meet my deadlines and goals for this year. I feel so bad to do this (honestly yall have no idea) but I’ve really got to. I hope you guys will understand and anticipate my return patiently. Please remember me and all those writing exams in your duaas.

Much Love,

Troubled Illusioner. ❤