Eight years? Bus?

Oh haaai, happy wordpress-versary to me. It’s been EIGHT WHOLE YEARS OH MY ALLAH!

I mean, that’s a lot. I just saw this notification and felt compelled to write a post. How much I have changed in these years and so has this blog and my relation with it. The PEOPLE, most of all. They were all such stories.

I don’t know, it was different back then of course. My current state is somewhat like my last post. My current hobbies are different than the old ones. Today I talked with a friend and after so long felt so free to speak whatever I had in mind, zero filters. I really needed that. It felt liberating even when I was being so vulnerably weak-ish. It is important, I guess, to have someone listen.

She was very surprised to hear that I don’t read books anymore. I don’t know, it doesn’t feel that bad to me. I’ve accepted it. I can’t.

I wrote a darkish story after a long long while and I’m so glad I did. I had stopped doing that COMPLETELY after two ridiculous comments. That was liberating too.

Today I really wanted to write. I would have, but I lost inspo somewhere in between. But it would have kinda only been an effort to go back to this place in my mind so I’ll just read it and leave you with a link:

♫heart·strings

Yep that’s all. End of weird post. Who still blogs?

Frozen

Aik bohat bara khait hai jahan faslain tezi se jhoom rahi hain. Taiz, taiz hawa me jesay urr rahi hun. Aur zindagi isi dagar pe dourr rahi hai. Yun jo fast motion pictures hoti hain na? Bilkul wesa hai sab, jhapak jhapak me aas paas badaltey badaltay sab aik lagnay lagta hai. Jahan se shuru hua tha nuqta waheen aa kar teherta hai. Aur ye khait, wasee o areez lehlahata jhoomta hawa me urta khait… aik khud se bhi bohat bari baraf ki sil me qaid hai.

Frozen in an ice cube. A gigantic ice cube.

So being frozen within something so huge that is frozen too, doesn’t feel much. Until the ice breaks.

I dread the breaking time.

This place, this time.

Some evenings are so breathtakingly stunning you don’t want them to end. Ever. And as everyone else is packing their stuff back in the car while some are already reserving their seats — so ready to return to their homes — you run back to the sea and the sky and the sand asking for one more infinite minute. That is your home.

your helping hand

is of no use to me.

your helping hand is a temporary. what i am feeling resides in my body, another territory. what i am thinking is building another bubble universe — too big and too constricting. visitors are politely cued to leave.

your helping hand is exhausted – it’s not lazy, just wary.

in another tower of hands it’s just a hand clasped to a hand asking for a hand thinking it’s a big deal one’s saying no – y’all know so many of us say no – and y’all know we’re still all doomed to reach the big black sky up there

together

together and without

random blog 496

It’s so frustrating when you’re tryna find something but mil ke na de. I spent some hours I think, right now, just to find that journal first and then those papers from it. Matlab aasman kha gaya zameen nigal gayi. Pfft. It was this thing I wrote and I so badly needed it right now but looks like I tore those pages from that journal lest it gets lost in the pile (I have LOTS of js), and kept them somewhere where I would’ve thought back then ke yahan tou mai dekhungi hi. But now I have that journal and not those pages. Major sigh moment.

I also have thousands of papers so it’s not possible to check them all at least rn but what are my safe places? My drawer? Some folder? Gah man. There aren’t many options. Like I have some bags, this book cabinet and drawer (aka house of mess and treasures) and I’ve checked them all. I couldn’t have given it to my teacher even though we talked sth about it. What could have I done? Where. Tap tap tap.

I did find lots of poems though. Some letters. Doodles. Many lectures. And that kind of writing where you are simply jotting down your complex mind’s oodles. Is oodles a word? Looks like it is. But it doesn’t seem to fit here. You get the point though, no? My university journals are like history books. They contain so much randomness from my life because they had those, um what do you call it, segments kinda thing and I would use one for myself in each because even though I kept a separate notebook at first I realised I didn’t need to keep my journals JUST restricted to notes. Aaye such long sentences do I even make sense. Right now in front of me I have 10 pretty, spiral journals. Or notebooks, whatever you wanna call them. They’re diff sizes but all of them have beautiful covers. Random, traditional, artistic, that sort.

M said make dua agar wo cheez loutni hui tou miljaegi. Y also said ab wo achanak hi milay gi. So I’ve paused my search operation for now and instead wrote about it. Sigh again, isn’t that how we people deal with loss or things that hint of being/becoming unattainable?

Okay whatever. Too late now. Toodles.

UPDATE: FOUND IT. I SUDDENLY REMEMBERED IT WAS ANOTHER JOURNAL, LIKE THE SAME COVER BUT A BIGGER ONE AND THEN I WENT TO MY LIL ART ROOM AND IT WAS IN THAT NEW DRAWER. SAFE AND SOUND. Alhamdulillah ❤

journals_randomlyabstract

I should’ve posted a better photo but you know what time it is?

the way to you

if difficulty is danger
and so is insecurity
anxiety-ish, that deep twist in the stomach,
if danger means this spikey knife
set in between (standing upright)
to pierce through my self-esteem,
self-confidence, self-whatmore
then the way to you is laced with danger
and I cannot miss the signs anymore

Love grows here

Between night-black and no star,
Cocooned by a quiet that is only suddenly broken sometimes
By a cricket’s cry.
Love lives here
Even when you don’t.