Cosmic Dust

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Recently my close friend, big brother, and creative mentor Ty passed away due to the Covid19.

I do not know how to do justice to his memory or even begin to convey the level of heartache I am feeling at his passing. I will be trying to process my grief through writing and some of that may or may not end up on this blog.

Until then I wanted to share this poem. I wrote it back in 2017. Ty had been criminally slept on during his career. I refuse to shy away from this fact especially right now where all of a sudden I’m seeing glowing tributes in mainstream media outlets that ignored him during his lifetime.

He had decided to take matters into his own hands and had pulled out all the stops to do a gig marking the 19th anniversary of the release of his debut album “Awkward” that was released on Big Dada. He had decided to perform the entire album, start to finish with a live band.

Anyone who’s followed Ty’s career over the years knows that he excelled at live performance, particularly when he brought live musicians into the proceedings.

I and so many of Ty’s die-hard fans could not wait for this gig. The gig was on May 31st 2017 and I wrote this poem in anticipation of the gig as I had been reflecting on his music and his friendship.

The first two lines of my poem were inspired by the following lines from Ty’s song “Closer” from his 3rd album “Closer“, the music video for which I’ve embedded below.

“Nobody ever said it was easy
and if they did they’re trying to tease me
I struggle with my demons discreetly
standing on my granddaddy’s shoulder
Trying to see more than I’m supposed ta
Can I get closer?”


The first two lines in my poem are a reference to the 3rd line of the excerpt from his song “Closer” above.

That 3rd line always pained me as it was Ty alluding to something that many of us experience and feel, but only he was brave enough to voice it on wax.

Here is the poem in its entirety

Cosmic Dust

My brother struggles with his demons discreetly
While I struggle with that
The flip side to wearing your heart on your shirt sleeve is you can’t be discreet while you wait for the wheel to turn
It’s jammed right now
And no matter how discreet I try to be
Unpacked emotions spill over in every interaction

I’m embarrassed
36 years on
I still can’t walk without crutches

My mother wanted me to be my father’s strength
I failed miserably at that

It’s all inverse
This prolonged adolescence
I need to snap out of it

Peter Pan syndrome

I was told I wanted to be a man in my 20s
And now a boy in my 30s

I’m a child in fact
I wish I’d inked Corinthians
Don’t care how many mocking & scornful glances it draws
It’s the one wish that has remained constant
It’s my totem now
Reminding me if I’m in that dream-like state the world strong arms us into 
Or if I’m truly awake

When I’m wake
I take long walks 
Powered by the voice of a mortal who was fashioned from the most magical clay & cosmic dust
I’ve shed tears while in the presence of people sharing their light
This person
He made me weep
Uncontrollably 
You’d think my vision was obscured through all the tears washing over my corneas
You’re wrong. 
Now I see clearly 

5th May – 2017

Trafalgar Square, London, UK

Ty – 1972 – 2020

RIP = Return if Possible

failing that

RIEP = Rest in Eternal Power

Surrender to Love

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I’ve grappled with my relationship with my daughter. 

I love her unconditionally. 

However, the first 7 years of my relationship with her are a blur. 

Mental illness and an unhappy marriage with her mother made it impossible for me to be as mentally present as I wanted to be. 

Coupled with my own self-esteem issues rooted in a traumatic and unloving past, I struggled with fatherhood, despite an unlimited reservoir of love that was exclusively reserved for my daughter. 

I bring all of this baggage to my relationship with my daughter. It’s unfair and it acts as a barrier to intimacy.

I need to resolve my issues and I need to do so fast. My daughter is growing up fast and with each passing day, my sense of urgency grows. 

I want to find ways to get closer to her. I’ve had this desire for the entirety of my daughter’s life, and I’ve struggled to find more ways to bond with her. 

If you want a different result, then try something different innit?

My daughter loves gaming and I’ve tried to tap into this by buying her a SNES complete with games such as Super Mario Kart, Streetfighter 2 Turbo, Zelda, and all the classics from the 90s. It worked for a while, but she didn’t connect with it the way I’d wished. Not the plot twist I was expecting, but I decided to pivot. Over the following months, I noticed my daughter and my niece regularly play a game called Roblox on the Internet on their iPads. 

I decided that a good way to bond with my daughter was to ask her if she would let me play this game with her and my niece. Much to my delight, she was open to it. 

Once I downloaded the game, my daughter, my niece, and I logged online, booted up Roblox, and then connected on FaceTime and talked to each other for the duration of our gaming session.

I grew up with Super Mario Bros and Streetfighter 2 Turbo. I couldn’t wrap my head around the games my daughter enjoys and Roblox was no exception. I couldn’t play this game at all; I was rubbish at it. Inept. 

The whole experience of trying to play Roblox was humbling. My ego took a battering. 

But in a strange way, I loved this experience. I got to spend time in my daughter’s (online) world. She took the time to patiently help me navigate the controls of the game and figure out what I was doing. She loved every moment of it, and we engaged with each other. This Saturday afternoon was not what I expected, but the outcome far exceeded my expectations. My heart was full. 

Sometimes fatherhood is about just turning up. It’s also about surrender. You have to be willing to meet your daughter on her terms. 

I am learning to surrender to love.

It’s terrifying.

It’s also fucking beautiful.

Chemicals In My Brain Are Liars

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*Trigger warning* *Contains references to suicide*

This has been one of the most incredible weeks of my life.

I opened my heart to someone special. I did it without wanting anything in return, other than the desire for a more honest friendship.

I poemed the fucking shit™ out of people.

I grew closer to my daughter. 

A lifetime (almost 39 years) of performing for the validation of others is closing. I shaved my head to mark the milestone. 

I wake up in the morning and I’m happy with where my life is going. I take pleasure in my creativity. It’s where I’m at my happiest. When I’m writing my own story. 

This past week I have asked for what I want from people and I’ve done it respectfully. I’ve been firm but gentle. But the key breakthrough is that I’ve done it unapologetically. This didn’t happen overnight, I had to learn to do this, I had to give myself permission. 

As I began first drafting this, I was 4 hours away from turning 39. 

Without any warning, I turned suicidal.

Now let me preface this. I have ADHD and autism; I likely have Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD) too. I suffer from chronic depression and chronic anxiety. I have grappled with suicidal tendencies most of my life. 

You’d think I was prepared for this sudden suicidal turn? Not even close. 

This was one of the most violent suicidal mood swings I’ve felt since……shit….too many instances…but I remember one back in 2017….it was bad. So yeah, what I felt hours before my 39th birthday, it was the worst instance in almost 3 years. I had felt I’d banished such feelings, but no such luck this evening. 

It’s mad, there are so many suicidal turns I’ve taken in my life, but I find it fascinating that I’ve chosen the one in December 2017. I had just finished producing and project managing a music video for Eyes Open by Ty. 

This was a huge milestone for me. I had helped realise a music video for one of my favourite artists of all time. 

Just like the week preceding my 39th birthday, I reached a previously unexperienced peak moment in my life. Yet moments such as these are brought to an abrupt end with me shifting all of my energy and focus on fighting the urge to kill myself. 

I have to avoid the kitchen because it has knives. I have to hide my house keys so that I can’t go out and throw myself in front of oncoming traffic.

My solution to wanting to kill myself hours before I turn 39? I went to bed immediately. I can’t kill myself when I’m asleep. But also, when I’m asleep I can’t feel the sadness, despair, and pain.

That’s what suicide is. It’s a desire to turn the sadness, despair, and pain off. Permanently.

I went to bed and it helped. Early the next morning I got a message from a friend in Taiwan. She is a successful artist and grapples with mental health and suicidal ideation. She reminded me that I’m not alone and that I need to double down on my purpose. To inspire others with my art. 

She reminded me that the chemicals in my brain are liars. 

I’m here to remind you of this truth, just like my friend reminded me.

If you’re reading this, I appreciate you and I love you.

Thank you.



* The poemed the fucking shit™ is owned by the poet and writer Acafella

How I Wrestled My Ego to The Mat (And Won)

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I cut ALL my hair off. Shaved it to be more precise.

That must sound like the most ordinary thing you’ve read in a world saturated with Internet think pieces. 

Tell anyone who’s known me for a good chunk of my life that I just shaved my head and they’ll choke on their cornflakes.

Let’s jump around coz linear narratives aren’t what I’m here for, not today at least. 

During the Covid-19 crisis, I’ve been sitting here, like many of you watching my bank balance dwindle, with no income in sight. I took a break from that soul-crushing past time to open up my e-mails. I received a message from my hairdresser to say they’re shut until further notice. Problem is, my hair grows faster than a field of weeds drowning in horseshit. 

No one can cut my hair, and even if that weren’t the case, I now can’t afford it.

Let’s jump timelines (again). 

I’m no stranger to shaving my head. I used to shave it during college and the first half of my undergraduate degree. Then I grew it out. All of a sudden, people told me I look great. One cousin told me I look “100 times better”. Women started giving me attention that I wasn’t used to receiving. Shit, even my grades at university improved. 

For the past 15 years I’ve been paid compliments about my hair. I’ve (questionably) attributed my positive turn in life down to having nice hair. 

Hell, even my ex-wife said she wouldn’t have given me a second look with a shaved head (what would that timeline look like???). 

Now, I’m not the most religious Muslim. I have a complicated and tempestuous relationship with my faith. I can (and will) explore that with you another day. However, despite the seesaw relationship I have with Islam, I’m fascinated with it.

There are pilgrimages called Hajj and Umrah, major and minor pilgrimages respectively. Men are required to shave their heads as part of the Hajj and Umrah. To me, it symbolises the shedding of one’s skin, renewal, and rebirth. But also, the humbling of the ego.

The past 3 years as my divorce painfully edged towards the finish line, I’ve known I need to honour this ritual. 

I began reinventing myself ever since I broke up with my ex-wife and filed for divorce. That work has never ended, I now realise it’s a lifelong process. However, my divorce finally came through in late January this year, it took 35 arduous months. When I opened up the e-mail from my solicitor I wept profusely. Tears of gratitude. Tears of joy. I’d kept so much inside and it poured out, literally. But I refused to cut my hair. 

It’s taken a pandemic, isolation, a shortage of eggs (seriously, we’ll revisit my love of eggs again and again) to make me explore my relationship with my ego. 

The Covid-19 crisis has forced me to become more pragmatic. Breakfast is now measured. When I have eggs (they’re worth more than gold bullion right now), I just have one, not two. Like you, no doubt, I’m having to figure out how to make everything last, including money, food and my sanity.

Pragmatism has its place, especially given the constraints that you and I are currently living under. But my ego, that’s something I’ve wrestled with for most of my adult life. The past 3 years I’ve known that shaving my hair off is a necessary and unavoidable spiritual and symbolic step. Yet a combination of fear and my ego has gotten in the way. 

I’ve become attached to the attention my hair has received and started subscribing to the belief that my relative success in life has come down to my hair and me “looking good”. So much so that I’ve become addicted to the validation and I fear that my life may revert back to how it was before, when I shaved my head. 

It’s a limiting belief and the only way I can move forward and live a fuller life, a life that is free from dogma and fear is to kill any such belief. In this instance, it requires me to cut my hair. 

So, I charged up my clippers and hacked away until there was nothing left. It was fun. It was humbling. 






I had to wrestle my ego to the mat. Luckily, I pinned it’s shoulders down for the 3 count. 

Vote for the Society You Want

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This morning I woke up and all I could think about was my recent visit to the supermarket.

During my visit, you couldn’t find an egg or a loaf of bread. The shelves were so barren you’d be hard-pressed to find a bread crumb or a speck of lint on them. 

I was disappointed, but not shocked. 

That is until I approached an employee at the supermarket, and we got into a conversation:

Me: “Hi, I’m just wondering, what time do you get deliveries?

I’d love to come around that time and get some groceries.”

Employee: “We get deliveries at 10 pm daily.”

Me: “Brilliant, I’ll come back then.”

Employee: “Sir, we normally open 24 hrs a day, but we close at 10 pm when the deliveries arrive. 

We open at 5 am and get greeted by 3,000 people who clean out the shelves.”

I tried to hide my reaction and no doubt failed. I’ve never been great at that. Why would today be any different?

I thanked the person for informing me, wished them well and walked away. 

I was beginning to process this. I was beyond disappointment at this stage. I’ll come back to what I felt later. 

I made a point on this trip only to buy what I need for the next few days. Maybe I’m dumb and I’ll suffer later. 

But I see things differently in 2020. 

Every action I take is a vote for the person I want to be.

Every action I take is also a vote for the kind of society I want to live in. 

If we all just took what we needed; everyone would have enough. 

However, I no longer judge or blame people. During my life, I’ve learned that it’s institutions, structures, and ideologies that govern our behaviour. 

We suffer from a zero-sum game scarcity mentality that capitalism has instilled into us. 

We’re like a rag soaked in kerosene. The fear that the Corona Virus / Covid19 has unleashed is the match. It is burning through supplies in supermarkets. 

When I woke up this morning, I recounted this anecdote to my friend Christian, and it hit me. I realised the feeling I’ve been grappling with, watching people buy up everything in sight at supermarkets without a second thought about the vulnerable in society. 

It was rage. I felt rage. A numbing rage. 

In spite of the rage, I will continue to vote for the person I want to be.

I will continue to vote for the society I want to live in. 

It will begin with my own actions at the supermarket in the midst of the current chaos.

My Name Is Haroon and I’m An Artist

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Far too much of my adult life has been shaped by what others wanted for me.

My parents wanted me to have an arranged marriage to a (British) Pakistani girl. I did that. It ended in divorce. Badly. 


My parents wanted me to get proper qualifications and do “respectable work”. So I got an undergraduate business degree, then an MBA from London Business School. This was followed by a decade of working in startups. But something didn’t feel right, I never thrived in any of the jobs I did. 


It led to low self-esteem and a lack of direction and purpose. 
There is definitely a dissertation waiting to be written about the pressures South Asian parents heap upon their children to conform. It has a detrimental effect on their mental health. I attribute a lot of my own issues with mental illness down to this pressure to conform. I’ve made it my life’s work NOT to repeat this cycle with my own daughter and I think I’m doing alright at this parenting lark….so far!


However, I’m not here to blame others. I mean, there is blame to apportion to my parents, but still, at this stage, my gaze is fixed firmly in front of me. 


I played my own role in the above incidents and many more I do not wish to catalog at this point. Poor mental health, low self-esteem, these and many other factors played a role. But, I made choices. 

Choices are powerful. They create vectors that can take you off on adventures. Or can take you down paths that are jarring and unfulfilling, creating a sense of existential angst that will cripple you. 

My choices have largely taken me down the latter path. But there’s always time to change. To make new decisions. 

What I love about the new path I’m taking in life is that I make decisions that favour:

  • Inspiration
  • Creativity
  • Joy
  • Self Awareness

I’m currently reading James Victore’s book “Feck Perfuction”, a book full of wisdom and inspiration. It’s essential reading for creatives, artists and anyone wanting to live a more fulfilled life. 

While reading the book, I was struck by a section he has titled “Artists Sign Their Work”.

For my entire life, I’ve signed my name using the exact same style as my father, simply substituting the first letter of my first name with the first letter of his first name.

It seems like such a simple decision, but I feel this choice had massive implications. I chose to let my father influence me with his signature. What started as a small snowball turned into an avalanche as I made decision after decision to please him and win his approval.

As I read this mini-chapter, I asked myself the question:
“As an artist, how do I want to sign my work?”

Here’s the answer:


This is my name “Haroon” in Urdu, the language spoken by Muslims in the sub-continent, where my ancestors came from. 
I have chosen my own signature. 

I have chosen my own path.

I have chosen to be an artist. 

What will you choose?

Love Is An Act of Sacrifice

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“Love is an act of sacrifice”

This is from my favourite poem I’ve written over the past 3 years.

It was inspired by the closing lecture given by Robert McKee when I attended his Story seminar in May 2019.

This line is poetic. Beautiful. 

But now I have to put it into practice.

I’m sitting in a cafe trying to arrange a coffee with my ex-wife. She’s received a lucrative job offer that will take her and our 10-year-old daughter out of London.

Where exactly? I don’t know yet. My ex-wife wants to discuss the details over a cup of coffee. It’s apt. I don’t think I want to have this conversation on the phone. 

But I’m feeling very emotional. I’m sat in a Pret a Manger just off Berwick Street in the West End and I’m crying. The pain is too intense for me to have any success in fighting off the tears. I let out my emotions but occasionally scan the room self-consciously. 

I need to hear my ex-wife out and carefully listen to her. Process what she says and then figure out what’s best for our daughter. 

It may mean that my ex-wife takes the new job and I’ll have to make the compromise of not living near our daughter. 

I feel like I’d just got my life back on track and now this development has knocked me off centre.

Over the past 3 years, while my ex-wife and I navigated our divorce, I hopped around from one dwelling to another. Eight times in total. Each place in which I lived was not suitable to bring my daughter back to when I had my weekends with her. 

Then in November 2019 I moved to Morden in South London to be closer to my daughter. Finally, I’d found a place that was suitable for her to come and spend time with me.

My daughter currently lives a short 15-minute drive away. I’d managed to engineer the perfect set up. However, several weeks into settling into Morden, my daughter and ex-wife told me they’d be moving to Kingston Upon Thames.

My daughter wants a shorter commute to her school. Her mother wants a shorter commute to the school she teaches in. I can’t knock that. 

This required minor adjustments and I wasn’t bothered. However, now, I’m sitting here, speculating over today’s development. This isn’t a slight move around South London, this move will mean I can’t just pop down the road to see my daughter.

How far away will my daughter and her mother move?

Can I put what’s best for my daughter above my own selfish desires?

Assuming I’m able to do that, how will I adjust to this new dynamic?

The only way to find out is by leaning into the change. I must learn to trust myself.