Tabula rasa


Erasers are one of the best things man created for his feasibility. They let you rub out the bluntest of mistakes, and the darkest of errors; giving that fake impression of a clean, blank sheet by actually putting ‘originality’ (if such a thing exists) at stake.

Can a word re-written have the same effect as the Written Word?

The problem is, that even after erasing a blot of black from your sheet of white, you don’t necessarily forget what was there before. By blurring that image over there, you kinda make it more prominent on your mind’s slate.
They are awfully good at keeping such memories, by the way.


A Tabula rasa is a blank slate in Latin. Or “the mind in its hypothetical primary blank or empty state before receiving outside impressions”, according to Webster’s. Clicking on the image will direct you to the T.R. theory (which isn’t my point anyway).

My point is: Humans make mistakes. Mistakes make humans human. But erasers keep you from acting responsibly, at times, by telling you that it’s OK to do that again for even a hundred times if you may blinding you from the fact that this would eventually tear an otherwise precious paper off in the most brutal of ways.

Youth Arts & Literary Exhibition, Khi.


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5YALE, the Youth Arts & Literary Exhibition, was held in Karachi yesterday on 13th April 2014, with its superb vision of fostering creativity and ingenuity, and its mission of promoting the Pakistani culture. The event focused on many artistic and creative fields like conceptual photography, painting, poetry, and theater performances. Debates on piracy and plagiarism, literature, and meetings with writers and “Typewriter” kept the audience engaged and awed through 11am to 8pm.

Many artists had their works displayed at the YALE Arts Gallery, and several photographs based on “Mar gaya Insaan (Man has died)” and “Jagenge Zaroor (We will rise)” were showcased in the exhibit hall. Pain, miseries, struggle, and sacrifice were portrayed powerfully through paint strokes and camera films on YALE’s canvas.

Other things like “The Unseen Pakistan” and “Glimpses of Lollywood” showed to the public what potential this land has got, what it has become, and what is still left.

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Even with all that chaos and miseries, Pakistan is a homeland to people who are destined not to give up. These people with their outstanding visions choose to bring back the glory this land deserves. This is what YALE meant to me.

Related link: -  Artists own rights to their respective works- Photos by me (Maria I) and Khoulah.

Paints and pictures


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What color is death?
And what color are regrets?
How would you paint life
and how do you draw strife?

If death is black
life should be a glaring white
but if life is white
where do you find bright?

If moments like grey stones
hurled in a calming blue,
create ripples and regrets
what color do they finally set?

If life is a scenic beauty
where do miseries come from?
what colors do they make when
a hungry child murders men?

how do you define an odor,
like that of coal or incense?
how do you distil two paints,
those of sinners and saints?

Where do I mend my canvas
or a palette if it breaks?
what if all colors disappear
of fantasy, dreams, and fear?

Is confusion a diffusion
of black with white?
Is illusion the same
as reality set aflame?

If hope is a bright silver
and glittering desires gold,
what color are expectations
shattering without justification?

Pray tell if I find this out
what help will that be?
To all creation his own creator
and no color greater than He.

~ Randomly Abstract.

khayaal ~

Withdrawing herself from her environment, her present, and her demonic thoughts, she lay face downward on a bed; cuddled and crying like a three-year old. A painful shriek would suddenly escape her lips some time between her silent sobs, and stir the angels that surrounded her.

“Why do you cry?” I asked, waiting impatiently for a response. But I knew I won’t get one and I didn’t, for she never trusted anybody. Not even her own self.

“Please stop wasting your tears? It hurts me to see you like this!” I begged only to be ignored again.

It was after some long minutes that she stopped, and the room fell silent; the kind of silence where you could have heard a pin drop clearly. Then she moved and stretched, sitting finally at the corner of her bed and began to stare her hands.

“Pretty girl! Will you listen to me?” I moved towards her, pausing for a second and then resumed, “Why do you cry? Do you know not how painful it is, to see a soul shatter in front of your very eyes? And don’t you know how, for every dark cloud, a silver lining has been created? For every ailment a cure, every puzzle a key, and for every tear a smile? Can you not wait?”

She looked at me blankly, her eyes red and swollen.

“Listen, little princess! Your tough times will pass away soon, because no time stays for ever, never!”

She nodded slightly and looked down.

“Do you hear? Why don’t you speak?” I asked, thinking I knew why.

She kept silent, now tracing imaginary circles from her right hand’s index on her left palm. I went closer and held out my hand. She did nothing. I then tried putting my own on her shoulder but it passed right through.

One of us wasn’t possibly existing.

You & I.


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You and I are like stars in the sky; close, yet far apart. Like organs in a body where pumps one same heart, or veins beneath a skin supplying red to each part.

You and I are like notes in a melody, homogeneous colors in a beautiful piece of art. A verse and a lyric, a source and a spirit, tear in an eye, you are the reason why.

You and I are like birds in a flight, serene and quiet, an enchanting sight. We are pages of a book; differently typed; we are patterns of a cloth, circled and striped.

We are crests and troughs of a wave unique, seekers we are of the Great Mystique. Pleasant fragrances of flowers pink and blue, we are the two, tiny droplets of dew.


Image: Byron Jorjorian

Who? She? She’s a Housewife.


She does nothing but a house-hold jobs few! A mother, a teacher, a guide, doctor, nurse, an alarm clock, Imam she is. One who looks after them all, fulfilling their needs and the society’s.

“The homemaker has the ultimate career. All other careers exist for one purpose only – and that is to support the ultimate career. ” – C.S. Lewis.

Well done, Pamela. You’re just so talented!

Originally posted on Resonner's Blog:

She wakes up at dawn,
Relinquishing her yawn.
Slips out of the blankets,
No sounds from her trinkets.

So that she doesn’t disturb your sleep.
She would choke her giggles and quieten her weep.

She prepares the breakfast,
and bites the crumbs at last.
“Parantha again!”, she hears you blast.

She’s forgotten she likes Ginger tea.
She’s forgotten who is she.


She warms the water for you to bath.
She warms her heart to endure your wrath.
Chooses your clothes, presses them hard.
If at all that will make you glad.

She turns the newspaper
and you snatch it from her hands.
She doesn’t know what’s inside her,
Why may she worry about unknown lands!

She goes to the grocer, the laundry and the milkman.
With you in your office.
she can no more stay a “woman”.

But you will return soon
and show her her right place.
She wouldn’t…

View original 669 more words


They argued with such vitriol that they paid no attention to the child standing between them… until it was too late.
He was staring at them, bemused. His lips trembling and his vision blurred, as tears formed circles at the verge… they asked him to wait.
He could hear a Zillion voices in his head, like those of explosions or quakes, but he needed to get away and so he kept running straight.
On reaching his room he locked himself shut, those voices dying slowly as they gave up a fruitless chase… he now cursed his fate.

Years of love had been forgotten in their instant moments of hate; life forced mercilessly a halt, to their ‘happy forever’ state.
Looking back now, he still cries to date… a ruined wreckage of memories, and his ever-growing hate.


Today’s Writing Prompt.

Previous entry:
[She signed the document first, then he signed next to her name....]


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