Some lose all mind and become soul, insane.

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?

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.

Pause.

Yes.

So deep belly breathing is a way of regulating your nervous nervous system. You should try it right now. Thrice.

Bechari

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.

3:18

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.

Sanctuary

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.

purr poetre

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?

Muse

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.

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۔

freaking samosas

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:

Wedding month

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?

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.

University and some

Looking out of my department’s window

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.

where songs die

When I miss you I simply return to the pond in the garden and stand there for hours. I see our reflection there, in the clear water, you standing right beside me your shoulder touching my shoulder, our entire wujood smiling. Melting in pure happiness. A sense of shukr, a belief of togetherness, an unbeatable satisfaction. No fear, no tear, and look at me now.

Hum

All of the songs
I sing
All of the words
I think
All of the art
I do
It was
Always
For you.

All of the time
that’s gone
All of the dreams
You took away
All of the flaws now
What do I do
It was
Always
For you

It was
Always
For you

Khaamoshi Toofan

Tumhe phool torna pasand hai na? Tumhe sukoon milta hai. Aik aik kar ke saray pattay kheench daalti ho. Tum unhe masalti ho tou samajhti ho sari dunya ko round dal rahi ho. Hansi ati hai tum pe kyunke tumharay hi haathon me unki khushbu reh jati hai. Tum un se chutkaara tou nahee pa sakti jinhe khatam kartay kartay khud kaheen door nikalti ja rahi ho.

Mai unhe kahan khatam karney ja rahi hun. Mujhay tou maaloom hai wo in gulaabon ki tarha ke loug hain. Gulaab aur kaantay. Mujhay pehlay unki khushbu mili aur qareeb gayi tou kanton me ulajh gayi. Mujhay unse kia shikayat – aur na khud se.

Tumhe kisi se shikayat nahee na? Jabhi yun deewanaypan pe utar rahi ho. Khud ko in lehron me utaarti ja rahi ho jahan shor hi shor hai. Shor me khona chahti ho mujhay na banao mai tumhari rag rag se waqif hun.

Aap ko kahan bana sakti hun aap se hi tou sab maangna hai ab. Mujhay shor acha lagta hai us me rehnay dain. Mujhay isi shor me apni khamoshi chahye hai. Mai in lehron me itna door nikalna chahti hun ke agar in gulaabon ki thori bhi khushboo meri lams me rehti ho tou nikal jaye. Kaanton se rasta khoon ab tham jaye. Mai qabar nahi ban sakti in madfan phool kabaar ki. Mujhay in sab se bohat door apni dunya banani hai.

Dekha, wuhi baat. Tum bhaag rahi ho faraar chahti ho aur wuhi kar rahi ho jo har darpok insaan karta hai. Mujhay tum pagal lag rahi ho is waqt.

• 

Human places

Some humans are your safe places. You confide in them and share your night and stars.

Some other humans are the reason you crave those safe places.

Miss Rizwana

I am not sure where to start from or if I should even try. Today? Maybe later? But will words even speak? I met you last about one month ago at Binaat – our school reunion. It wasn’t easy coming there this time but I am so grateful that I did. I was so late, the hall was so full, every face was a stranger…. until I spotted you at the reception. Ah, Miss rizwana. You hugged me.

It was also the same day that you told me about your beautiful future aspirations. How impressed we were, how close in that moment. I told you that you are my favorite teacher.

There has been no one like you. You were what they call teachers second mothers for. I used to come and cry in front of you for the issues that were big for the sensitive little me at that time. You were the best listener. Always there. Always kind. Always beautiful.

I saw your funeral but i didnt see your face. But i can imagine it: angelic, peaceful. Inshaa Allah you are in a better place. May Allah fill your grave with noor like you showed light to us. May Allah bless you the highest ranks of Jannah and help us all become sadqa e jaariya for you. You will forever live in the hearts of so many people that love you. Your loss is so sudden but Allah loves you so much more than all of us.

likhna band karo

This guy with a cool book says talking is procrastinating. Silence is the power of doers. Talking is stalling action. Ye wo. So I shouldn’t be talking about you.

If I say things that somehow poetically disguise just this that I miss you, it would take away all this energy and probably (actually) go to waste. Ye kia baat hui na. I’ve already wasted enough. You don’t deserve more.

Now ideally this inner self would say so? Wo deserve na karay, you deserve you. Take your time into healing ya. Go easy. Hey, you.

But then this inner self is pretty lazy. Sadness makes you lazy. Outer mind is chillest and brutally honest. It’s telling you that. Beta, act. Stop with this nonsense siyapa. And now you feel better enough to go do something productive. See ya! x

Memory hoarder (2)

Aqal sawaal uthati hai ishq amal pe dorata hai.

By now I have thrown away more things and (almost-)neatly packed the things I am saving back in the drawer. Can’t say it’s done but sure feels lighter.

Besides that [literally] grey old diary that I didn’t bother reading, there are all these papers – mostly poems that I wrote (even those sad Urdu ones), and then other handwritten accounts of things like our regional Spelling Bee contest that we won, my ninth grade result, an essay on “My most memorable day of life” where there is McFlurry by the sea, last school exam and a really fun night ending with dramatic sentences like ‘I bid farewell to my family and the full moon.’ Not just mine but I also used to give my brothers topics to write on, then I would check them and sometimes reward them. That was a whole system. Look at this part from Ibad’s story about a ‘mejician’s whose spell was ORAME SIM SIM where O is for Omnivorous animal, R is ramp, A is and, M is maar do, and E is eel. The omnivorous animal walk on ramp and eel eat the omnivorous animal. And magic were not worked the people laughed. He did spell 3, 4 times but his magic did not work. Moral:- We dont want to be a mejician.

There’s also a super adorable sorry card. Lined paper and pencil, a highly decorative spelling of my name, a bag of 5o rs drawn as a gift. You will accept such apologies with a kiss.

I used to write essays and speeches. There is this one I won a competition for. Starts with a stanza I learned from Sam and very much adored. I had read it with a lot of energy.

Then I am looking at these goals I had, and it’s neither saddening nor surprising but there but there’s still a hole – and you wish it was big enough – that we don’t think like that anymore. There are more screens and more individual chaos than deeper thinking, or better yet, practical anything.

And I think you feel it too
What I no longer try to hide
It’s buried beneath the scars
Truth behind the lies.

7 July 2019. My most recent material in that drawer is a bag of gifts and Eidi. The space that wasn’t there before reeks of maturity.

Memory hoarder (1)

Of course. What else would you expect from a December-born, all-feels Maria who is still writing on randomlyabstract, her blog of 8 years plus.

I remember the time we got these drawers made when we shifted to this house. It felt SO special, having a personal space. SO wow, you know. And then we got locks on them. I told the locksmith to do his best work on mine. I found it all so stunning that I kept sitting there, talking, looking, checking if mine was the best. (My lock got faulty before anyone else’s btw. Such luck!)

Khair. I used to be obsessed about that drawer and the stuff in it. I couldn’t throw things. Even today my family asks me before throwing away kachra that they think could be ‘useful’ for the crafter. But friends’ chit-chats, over-emotional letters of that time, Urdu poetry so sad I find it worrisome now, my personal personal personal diary that I would probably treat as a treasure then (because – let’s face it – I’ve been a sensitive kid. Also the middle daughter. I was convinced that I was hated by EVERYONE mashaAllah. And then I liked to write. Imagine having ALL of that still present despite the diary wanting to very much rest in peace now.) And then other things.

A lot of things, I imagine now, want to rest in peace. So I have brought out my drawer, one I had stopped caring for long long time ago, and started cleaning it. There’s stuff I put up on my insta stories as a last tribute, and for the other personal bunch, I know I cannot leave it so easily unless I’ve at least preserved them in writing. Which is why I am here.

Ode to Love

Sea or sky?

What do you want love to look like? I want mine to be free of fears so it is strong in and out, and something that is calming and positive and artistically spiritual like this painting but better because that would be a gift by the Master Painter if He so wills. 💙

Abuse

Could a poem cover it?

Nahee, no way. 26 letters in English and 52 or so in Urdu. Have you seen the black in abuse? IT’S A VAST SEA

IT’S NOT JUST A VAST SEA, oh please help me find a word greater than a sea. This is storm-in-a-sea, fast moving, all ending, utter utter utter blinding. Can you see the centre?

Oh fuxk. This is not a test. You don’t win if you tell the right metaphors.

Red blood, purple bruise, black eyes. We all know it. And your pitiful “bleeding” heart

Grow up. Grow out of this poem. Grow out of your “tearing” heart. No, not with more knife.

Abuse. Here, take this word. Will you lock yourself behind a washroom door or would you hold a blanket over your face so tight your knuckles would go white. Oh haha.

More colors. It smells of doom to me.

Shushhh. No more.