See so someone gets it? Bukowski knows this thin thread in my mind that I can’t put into words. I cannot explain this madness because people will legit think Im going mad and I’m not. How unsettling and how overwhelming is this?
doesn’t help me block out echoes of your lies
the color of your laughter
(On this day 6 years ago)
but what about the nightmares?
I think it’s the part where I could go to mom and say “I am feeling so sad right now”.
I could TELL that my stomach hurt – there was a hollow feeling – or I’m cryey.
It’s not the same after marriage.
And this adds to the anxiety. Aik ishq ka gham afat us par ye dil afat, y’know?
Because you’re already feelin’ blue but you can also not share the work of art that is your heart. Red and blue. Blue and red. Yuck.
Sometimes I do wish I would go to my saas and say ammi I feel so sad right now. But she won’t exactly get it.
But did mom get it?
Well I think she did, even if she didn’t always have a fix. Sometimes just saying is enough, haina?
But this does give me something more to think about. Did mom get it? How did I feel in those moments? And this would give me insights into what became my coping mechanisms or how deep it runs, and self-awareness etc. y’know.
Because…. well because I remember.
And right now this is not the only thing that matters. There’s so much more stuff, right, and you…. take a deep breath.
So deep belly breathing is a way of regulating your nervous nervous system. You should try it right now. Thrice.
Ni Sayyun Asa
This blankness is so known. I know you, I have known you for a long time. So reminiscent of my past. It constituted of poetry and blogs and wistful sighs. This was a phase, yes? What are you doing here now?
I am so dissociated I can’t feel the pain. I know I should cry or something, and I also know that I can do it. Here’s how it will go: I will put on my headphones and open my once-forgotten Soundcloud list. And I will turn on those old songs, that were each about this last phase. The blogging phase. The infatuation and the pining and the very emotional phase.
The songs will bring me back to that ‘dark’ sacred place. Which is not dark as in negative, but a mystical place I used to write about in my poems and prose. A place where I met Me. Or You? Us.
But I don’t want to listen to songs at the moment. I might give in to the temptation or direct my attention completely elsewhere. Painting would be productive but the issue is it won’t make me feel.
Is it worth it that you can’t feel pain when it also means you can’t feel joy?
And it’s not like I can’t feel any pain or that I haven’t cried in ages or what. I cried today morning only. Also perhaps yesterday or day before. You know how it is. But I am talking about THIS thing.
I’m not overwhelmed, promise. I’m more than ever trying to be kinder and adjusting to the process: awareness, sit with it, nourish or nurture. Don’t avoid. Don’t distract. And come out stronger, yah?
Ni sayyun asa naina di akhay laggay ni sayyun asa naina di akhhay lagay.
Painting bhi banai thi na is pe. Spiritual Sufi type song hai. Not that I’m recommending a listen. Gunah e jaariya bilawajah.
I found this “hack” in Sufi songs. As if this music was allowed. These songs were okay. But you know the spiral effect, right? It starts and it takes you wherever. Also c’mon this isn’t a Majlis.
Am I talking to you again? I should not; how many times have I written for you. Blasphemy.
Blasphemy because you don’t deserve it. You’re bad enough as is, won’t let this be a pat on your ego.
And returning to myself. Isn’t it amazing how you are the master of your thoughts? You can choose where your attention goes.
My attention at the moment is on these words. I can’t tell you where else. Had to erase because privacy.
But I did call a friend yesterday and told her about things. Not because I wanted to share, honestly I was barely feeling my own story, but because she knew someone who could help.
It felt selfish as I thanked her for being the only one I had confided in. She said it felt nice to talk after so long. I want to remind her today to talk to the person who can help but you know how when you ask help without asking for help and then have to pave a way around it? Wow, sucks. And what if she read this!
I would think she wouldn’t. I know they’re all really busy. And also nothing is the same anymore.
It’s like loadshedding but in my mind. 💡
La lala lala. Should I keep writing or should I stay thinking? Is this even helping?
Bus itna sa masla tha.
Ana ko thais pohchani thi apni ehmiat ginwani thi.
Lo hogayi tasalli?
Toot gayi bechari.
Ab kaho kia karna hai.
Tooti moorti poojo gay ya khaak hota dekho gay?
Kisi kaam ki nahi rahi ab.
Toot jo gayi bechari.
bus yehi sara masla hai na yaar. bhool jati tou sukoon hota. magar ye kambakht shayiri hoti hi tumhe dekh ke hai.
hum hain tum ho aur ye jahaan. abay nahi, tum hi tou nahi ho. aik khali yad, veeran bayaban. balkay andheri sarrak. han. aur wahan akeli aurat kharay rasta tak rahi hai.
mm it’s getting scary. it was supposed to be deep. like a blue sky on which silver studs are stitched? and then i look at it and i look into your eyes and my heart flutters! we’re sitting in a park, there aren’t many people around. wet grass, bare feet. why am I thinking about you? no. wait.
And then you hold my hand. fuck you though. what a lie you’ve always been.
You are my place. My safe haven, the only home to all of my poetry.
You are the mystical embrace. You are my dark man’s space.
I have become so much more in the years. So much more than a girl who loves to write in her diaries.
I make diaries now.
It’s not weird, it’s classic. This is where the mind whirls and we only end up with cliches.
Yikes. You walk all the way from the mountains to the village to the city to your own bed where he says he fucks you hard
and then a therapist and a coffee café and another guy and some French and some toast and a shard
And then you come back to the room to the bed your parents got for you and a can of milk, a laptop brand new and you say
You cannot write?
What else do you want! — a life?
Years later when she asks herself,
who was he?
She can only say he was just a muse.
Years later when he asks himself,
who was she?
He can only say she was just a muse.
In a parallel world, they sit together
Hand in hand
More than just a muse.
Tum se piyaar
تم سے پیار کیا تو پیار بہت
اور دل ٹوٹا تو چکنا چور
تم پاس رہے تو واری واری
اور دور گئے تو بنا ناسور
تم پہلی محبت ہو میری
پر قسمت کو ہے کیا منظور؟
کون کہتا ہے دنیا فانی ہے
محبت تو ہے خدائی دستور
Tum se piyar kiya tou piyar bohat
Aur dil toota tou chakna choor
Tum paas rahay tou waari waari
Aur door gaye tou bana naasoor
Tum pehli muhabbat ho meri
Par qismat ko hai kia manzoor?
Kon kehta hai sab faani hai
Muhabbat tou hai Khudai dastoor
ہنگامہ اے دل
ہمیشہ خاموش کر دیتا ہے تمہارا اچانک سے چلے آنا
مجھے لگتا ہے کہ یہ تمہارے نہ آنے سے زیادہ تکلیف دہ ہے۔ کیونکہ دیکھو جب تم نہیں آتے تو بس ایک جنگ ہوتی ہے۔ اندر ہی اندر سب ٹوٹتا ہے اور ٹوٹ کر بکھر جاتا ہے۔ لیکن جب تم آتے ہو۔۔۔
جب تم آتے ہو تو طوفان تھم جاتا ہے۔ یہ کرچی کرچی روح یکایک سمٹ جاتی ہے۔ مگر تم تو پھر سے چلے جانے کے لئے آتے ہو ناں۔ مجھے حصہ حصہ توڑنے کے لئے آتے ہو۔۔۔
مجھے لگتا ہے جیسے ساری دنیا مل کر میرا مذاق اڑا رہی ہو۔ سب میرے ٹوٹے جسم کو دیکھ کر ہنس رہے ہوں۔ ان کے قہقہوں کی گونج میری کھال کو نوچتی ہے۔ مجھے گاہ گاہ زخمی کرتی ہے۔ میں نہیں چاہتی خود سے مزید لڑنا۔ مجھے نہیں کسی بھی جنگ میں جیتنا۔ مجھے بس معاف کردو اب۔
مجھے ہمیشہ کے لئے چھوڑ دو اب۔
ایک بات نئی ایک ساتھ نیا
ایک رات انوکھی جادو سی
ایک تم بیٹھے تو مٹ گئے غم
مرے دل کی بستی خوابوں سی
4-1-21 3:41 pm م۔ع۔
So I got nikkahfied (we signed our wedding papers) and wanted to share the big news here on my oldest home. It’s such an explicable feeling – like a precious secret, a divine gift. Alhamdulillah & mashaAllah! ❤ Rem in duas, k?
Calm painting isn’t for me. I paint madly. I destroy it when I can’t destroy the world. I love realistic, expressionistic, this and that art. I look at them all day. But for me, it’s all passion and fever. It’s what I used writing for. Poetry was a condensed form. Paintings are those but turned outward.
The first time I learned about abstract art was in grade 4. Miss Sadia taught us. I had no idea what it really was but I fell in love. This is…also where the abstract in my blog identity comes from. Random was for words, abstract was for art. randomlyabstract itself was bigger because it was all of me.
When taye-abba bought a huge canvas for his huge lounge and asked little me, “Maria do you know what this is?” I simply said, “abstract art” and he was so surprised I knew the term. Wo alag baat hai ke the painting had “love” written on it like a secret code jisay tab discover kiya jab taye-abba bhi nahi the.
Zendagi megzara. I used to love this term. It’s from the kite runner. Ouch that I used to read so many books. Now I mostly just give them away.
A cousin asked me that now that you’re getting married will you be throwing off your art supplies? I was like no? Like what? Allah na karay!
What else? Ho gaya ya aur rehta hai? Let me assess and get back to you. Laters baby!
Oh and until then, a work in progress:
Uffoh, such bilawajeh ka stress. Like not exactly bilawajeh, it’s my wedding month and all brides feel the same way agay peechay but if there’s one time in a girl’s life that is DEVOID of all that negativity (like anxiety or panic or pareshani or negativity or loneliness or some fear or some idk just fill the list) it should be her wedding. But actually it should be all the time yo. Stress comes only when it shouldn’t. When else would you invite it over?
یہ کیسی خبر
جب کھڑکی کے اس پار چیخنے کی آواز آئی
تو لپک کر پہنچنے والا پہلا شخص
تجسس کے مارے آیا تھا
بروقت امداد کسے ملتی ہے
مدد کے لیے روتے ہیں تو خبر بنتی ہے
سب کو تسکین ملتی ہے
وہ جو خبر ملنے پر آتے ہیں
اپنا حق جتلاتے ہیں
ہم ہی تو اسے جانتے تھے
مرحوم بڑا بے صبرا تھا
م ع ۱۴ اکتوبر ۲۰۲۰
Your name here
I saw you in a dream today. It was so unexpected. I think I am more shocked right now because I just now remembered it. It’s 12:33 PM as I write this sentence.
It was very real, ______. It was so real it’s a shocking REALISATION now that it was only a dream.
Dreams complete me because you don’t.
Dreams comfort me because you don’t.
It’s not a big deal. Of course it’s not a big deal. Damn me if I ever return to a non-returnee.
وہ دقیانوس ہیں کہ میرا کھانا پینا پہننا اوڑھنا سب اپنی مرضی کے مطابق ڈھالنا چاہتے ہیں۔
میں دقیانوس ہوں کے معاشرہ کے فرسودہ نظام کے آگے آج بھی زبان نہیں کھول سکتی۔
A decade with WordPress! OOF.
randomlyabstract is 10 years old and I’m 24! WHAAAT! I opened this blog today to write this very old, little to-do list sorta notebook I found from 2009-10 today and found this annual notification (this one being so special of course). Coincidence much because that diary mentions this blog as well and apparently I used to mention other stuff in it like my online activity, my school activity (aka which subject to prepare for) and more IMPORTANT things I had to jot down to remember sharing with whomever it concerned, etc. Like?
I love and hate this weird rush of everything that has happened in the past 10 years. It was a lot. I run a new WordPress-hosted website now but this place will FOREVER be home. ❤ I know that I feel like a stranger here sometimes and hurt myself by backspacing a lot of things I wish I could write but on the whole, I can always return to this part of my “self” and find solace in the randomly abstract world that it is.
We came there holding baby Ibad in our arms, family awing together at the three-bedroom space, girls chattering about which room should now be theirs and then suddenly screaming because there are pigeons sitting inside!
“It’s okay, it’s okay, we’re not shifting today. The house will be clean when you come.” Today we were only seeing.
And then it was. We kids don’t know how but we know who did it. Baba. Baba and some workers. Baba and some electricians. Baba and some movers. Baba and some van walas. Baba and some plumber, carpenter, chokidaars. We only found the house ready. And clean.
Today we moved again, baby Ibad now seventeen, and one of us little girls married with kids of her own. The house is four-bedroom big, and we’re awing at it even more, but the feelings are not so singular anymore. There’s fear, there’s joy, there’s tiredness, there’s a thousand thoughts and jobs to do. A full rain and rainbow. Even Baba is now old but with Ibad and some men, he has handled most of it.
And then we’re handling the rest. We’re coping with the sweet change but also with the monstrous rain, no-signals, no Internet, no cable for a few more days. We’re also trying to manage the inside of the house and unlike our childhood, shifting and moving requires way more work than it looked like.
Anyhow, it’s also very spiritually moving, this whole experience. It’s shifting perspectives, memories, and making space for new beginnings. So when chaos lifts, there’s ease nearby.
Hello, safe space?
Hmm. Here because everyone else shunned ya out? Uh-oh. Okay, what brings you here where you’re not even real. But reality can be so scary, you know that already. Never judge anyone on fearing it. For not being their harmless-for-others untrue self.
Still so complicated, your sentences. Ew. Told you I didn’t like poetry. The f with you.
Acha what brings you here then? Go on, I’ll listen. Wow, ehsaan much.
I read this poem from twenty seventeen. Was going through my archives to find something to letter. I did pick a line from it that you see in the photo above. And then put the poem in the caption. Read it out:
When I should be elsewhere
I lay awake instead, and
Assemble a questionnaire in my mind:
Everything that I have now yearned too long to ask you, I would;
“This is going to be a very, very honest conversation,” I will say.
It’s our final friendly law.
A sudden surge of happiness like a reflection of seven colors on my sooted heart—
If you call me again I might at least find my name
And as we’re talking, I will ask— no harsh feelings, hey!— but why did you think it was okay to do what you did?
How many others have you scarred the same way?
Alas! In the back of my mind the colors shift
A curtain closes
Rubbing the drama away in one swift move:
How will I know if you won’t still be lying?
Idk if the ending feels as clear to me now. I remember knowing back then also that it was vague but for me the meaning was clear. How will I know if you wont still be lying, huh? Ajeeb matlab. Duh.
ANYWAY. I’m ranting to not think but I’m thinking all sorts of things. With so much speed that it’s hard to catch up. Painful that I can’t take your and your and your name. Matlab pagal hi bana diya.
Sigh. My bud-dua or yours? I remember this other poem — feels like another life when I wrote those but hey, — and it talked about the dua part will remain even after nothing else does. And then I think I mocked it in the same tone. I totally meant the mocking, you know? Because you’d think it’s a “good dua” while it might not be? And other meanings so f it too.
It’s such an important day I don’t want to use a wrong word. Especially when I’ve kept the decency salamat so far. eh tainting the image now? No please. Wont even dare.
Phew. All our issues and one. This late night. This needed apology. This lack of understanding. And not me. For once, I’m not the issue.
University and some
University has been one of my favorite experiences. Both studying there and teaching there. It has a special place in my heart.
We friends loved the landscape there. Before I got admission, I remember my cousin telling me on the phone that there was nothing “stunning” about UOK but that the nature of that place, the walls and the jungle, will get to the poet in me. That there was no perfect infrastructure but there was something I would be able to relate to, and I did fall in love with it so her words were cent percent true.
I remember writing in the weirdest spaces, solitary and among crowds. Exploring trees, languages, verses, people, art and spirituality.
Without trying, I also return to thinking about a specific room in the university and a specific person who has impacted me in a way – I guess I just cherish it all but wish I could do more.
A lot of things happened in those years. Things I wish I could pull down from my memory and put in words, like how Dumbledore caught a streak in his wand and placed in the Pensieve. Alas, such memories are so elusive. But also, I am not even trying yet. They are where they are.
And that’s how I deal with memories. Revisiting, but not entirely.