2015, My Writings

Conversations.

You can stop searching.
 
I am who I am. I am not yours.
 
I never was.
 
You should go away.
 
And never look back.
 
So?
 
GO!
 
Go.
 
Go…
Yes, I think I should stop searching.
 
Yes, you are who you are. Not mine.
 
You never were.
 
I should. I should go away.
 
And never look back.
 
Send me.
 
I am yours.
 
I am yours.
 
I will always be yours.
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2015, Poems and poetry, Proses

The universe smiles with me.

“Sea waves kiss my feet. I bend to hold wet sand in my hand and close my fingers for a while to feel. It slips away when I open them again but the lines on my palm glitter with a soft silver gleam. I turn back and night shifts and I find myself in another place. There is no sea, no waves, no wind. But the inside of my hand glitters still. I lay back down and find grass beneath me. Soothing and serene. I touch some strands to gather green. It tickles, softly. Your name I write then, on my skin, and smile. The universe smiles with me.”

Written in response to writing challenge 201: “Skin”. (Write a prose poem using internal rhymes; choose whatever meaning of skin speaks most to you.)

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2015, Passages

Not made for each other.

You see those two people standing in the room? One a figure so delicate it looks almost breakable, her sight stretched to faraway lands as she gazes from the frosty window; beyond past, present, or to-be. The other stands by the foot of their bed and stares plaintively at the floor, or sometimes at the creased cover-sheets on the bed which they both use. His hand is in his hair.

These two people—I don’t call them a couple. I call them apologies.

You will see now that the man will walk to the window, slowly, and stop a foot away from her. Then he will put his hand on her shoulder. She will turn back immediately, but not too quickly, and they will both just stand there for a moment until she realizes that he is smiling–that his smile contains every bit of sorrow there is in the world–and then she’ll smile too. Hers will be weaker, like something one would give after accepting the uncaring atrocity of life every day, but neither of them would care.

This will be done casually every other day.

You will find that the space of nothing between them has sucked air so much that in order to breathe, you will have to struggle. You will notice that it doesn’t affect them.

You will find that their eyes are empty but their hearts aren’t. They sympathize sometimes, like they did a while ago, and silently assure one another that it is not and will not be okay, but they will see to it until the end. They won’t complain nor hate. Sometimes he would kiss her lightly on the cheek and she would smile. (A year ago she would’ve had spent hours in the bathroom scrubbing, scratching away the kiss and crying. But this doesn’t happen now.)

You will see that it’s not regret that has settled in as a mountain between them. It’s not a grudge that has separated their ways like a sea in between. It’s not the absence of effort. It’s not that. But it still is.

 

That is the future I see of ourselves. Pardon me for saying so but it’s true.

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2015, My Writings, Poems and poetry

You can’t play with matches, but you can play with hearts.

Nighttime’s longish plain hours.
I stare at the sky but don’t see you. Instead
it is the vastness of blue patterns with glistening silver balls:
on repeat, on repeat, on repeat.
I sit on the grass.

Life for me has been simple,
much like that of stars.
They stand at their place among millions, and shine
bright some days and not-so-bright the rest,
waiting to be wrapped
into the Eternal Blanket at last.
They don’t reach the Moon like I can’t reach You.
I can’t move.

And the desire–only the desire fills me with so much fear I tremble like a sick man
with its fever.
I will embrace a sadder ending, I guess.

I stand.
I walk on the grass and tell you in my heart how I love
the wet, tickling feel of it.
I wish you were here but I wish I would stop wishing that soon.
I need to move on, like we all do.

I never knew where I was heading to until I found myself
stranded and alone.

I have missed your presence on many occasions.

I have known the void–the unfillable void–
and I’ve tried everything in my power to help it.
Only, it just grows.

They tell us not to play with matches.
Why don’t they teach us ways of protecting and surviving instead?
If you can list me horrors of things that could bring harm,
why can’t you freaking save me? Or tell a remedy?

Fire burns, yes. But so do feelings.
Did nobody tell you: you should not incite in others what you have no intention of serving?
That breaking hearts is just as lethal, that being in someone’s tears
just as dangerous as is blissful being in prayers?

Stars disappear every day, seeing life after dark after life
after dark.
You won’t care if I tell you how I do, too.

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2015, My Writings

Father’s Day

When the baby was given in her hands, the mother let out a scream of joy. A flood rolled down her eyes and laughters full of life and love echoed all about. She was standing on the gates of heaven.

When the baby was shown to the father, he refused to pick her up. A daughter, oh? Not mine. He stayed as quiet as a ghost until they were in the hospital ward, and only became a devil when they reached home. This, he pointed to the bundle of new breathes, is not to live here. Take the filth away!

That day, a TV set broke. A row of perfume bottles was thrown to the floor. A knife was shown to threaten the weaker sex. Curse words were gifted. Tears were shed. Hell visited house.

That day, mother didn’t leave. That day, baby didn’t weep. That day, my father didn’t sleep.

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2015, Proses

The sculptor.

The lines on your face mapped the road to my heaven.

Clay blended with the holy water of passion, I drew your face with utmost devotion. It took days and nights of sit and struggle, but the value of work was much more greater. I couldn’t care less.

To finally feel you, I could barter every other possession treasurable or not. I have always worshiped you in my heart, and now my worthless fingers will learn the true experience of touch and adoration—they will memorize what my heart had did years ago.

That is, if you’d please allow.

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2015, My Writings

My dark man. (2)

December 29, 2014:

“It is not I who accepted the Dark Life. The Dark Life accepted me.”

He sat on a rock, his head bowed and hands resting on knees. “I did not want to be what I have become. But I like it now… It suits me. I feel I am where I belong. It is Real. It is Me.”

I was sitting before him on the road and there was no one else around. When he said these words, I looked at him. I wanted more answers, and I was searching for them in his eyes. They are windows to your soul, after all, but somehow his soul was a locked corridor now– the key to which was unknown to even himself, I suppose. Read more.

“You don’t know how it’s like to be what you are not.”

“I sure do. I have known you for so long and never uttered a hint about you. That is the same thing in a way, if you see.”

He turned his head. I stood at a distance from his seat: a log placed in the middle of the road. An empty road– our secret place.

“No,” he whispered. “You cannot see the sea in me. You can only see the waves.”

“I can see the sea,” said I. Then taking his name, I continued: “And I can also sense a storm. Please confide in me now, let it crash me down if it so must. Break me because I need you.”

For some time he said nothing. I walked closer to him and sat by his knees. Putting my hand on his lap, I asked him to look at me.

He did. His eyes were red.

He was crying!

I can’t say how it broke me into bits to see him unwrap himself out of that favorite strong shell of his, but I begged my eyes to not show. I was going to be brave, for once, for him.

“I got defeated, ¦_. They took away my child. You should have heard how he cried, how he wailed! I don’t know what to do. Can any man be as helpless as I am now?” Each sob pierced my heart as I heard him speak.

“My baby was snatched away. They ripped open his chest right there. He died among a crowd of brutes. His soul – it didn’t find a flower bed on exiting, but got trapped in a tube of viscous blood instead. It makes me cry. I could do nothing but watch, and watch I did as they pinched his little fingers away. My breath stops when I think of what I saw, but I saw and I am living. Why am I still living?”

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2015, Passages

Foolish is he who what?

Hullo, butterfly!

I see you have planned to fly, and that too to no ordinary place but Cigám! But are you sure you want to do that? I mean, yes it looks green and pretty but you see, all which shines is not grass.

You want to leave behind your family, your own red flower and friends, but have you even considered the consequences of this journey? What if something damages your wings? What if it’s a journey towards doom?

Okay, I understand you obviously don’t care and would happily sacrifice a hundred more lives instead– or wings– had you been blessed with ’em (which is honestly unrealistic and highly sentimental a statement). But what you don’t see is how nobody ever comes out of there once they get in! Monsters live there, my fly! Maaunsters.

So, erm, are you sure you want to take this  huge lil’ step? [n]

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2015, Poems and poetry, Proses

Those with wings…

Like her, the park is lonely and the air is sick. It smells of stale roses and untreated promises; and the swing on which she sits squeaks a song so pathetically sad it almost makes time stop — and time, like some humans, knows less when it’s better to instead tread quickly.

The grass below is wet with dew, as are her fingers which she continually bring to her face to wipe away the watery signs of fragility and brokenness. From somewhere far, a beautiful sparrow descends and stops right where she sits, to fly to and fro. Distracted by the sudden chirrup, she looks at her new companion and smiles.

“Will you stay, birdie?” she asks — only to remember soon after that wings always fly

 

Written in response to today’s prose-poetry prompt: “fingers” (also goes for “cut off“)

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2015, Proses

fireworks.

it happened slow. the stars like lamps flickered out and their shine was faded off. non-white as they were– now black– you couldn’t locate them anywhere, except that in a while the one farthest from the satellite started to collect red from god knows where and in some more time it was blazing and hysterical, spinning to keep sane. full of secrets it couldn’t hold, light started to shoot uncontrolled, in all directions left and right and soon, each one of the million stars was bursting fires bright.

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2015, Proses

Sauces. #1

What is meant to happen, happens. Had it not rained quite so heavily this morning, you could still have gotten late for the meeting. Had it not been that one wrong course you took back in college, you would still have sat here tonight under the only star’s shade lamenting other decisions. Life is unsatisfactory, and knowing this only is satisfying enough at times.

You don’t need to be thankful for whatever happens around you every minute. This is not necessary. Though you do need to be at peace with things inside and out so you are not just existing but living–and you need this why? –because this is the pendulum’s last swing. You don’t want to ask yourself, “why did I not live?” after all of this is over. Instead, you have to make it more worthwhile than creating black out of your red.

If two beings are destined to meet, they will. The world cannot question it. But if your heart was meant to be broken, darling, it had to be so by him.

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2015, My Writings

Destined.

“Abba ki death ke baad ziada sukoon hae, nae?”
(This place looks calmer now that dad is gone, no?)

“You think so?”

“Yes.” she nodded.

They were older now. Older and distanced by a time so long and tough that it had practically torn apart every and any chances of reconciling. Standing by the giant glass window, she looked out at the world outside which had now accepted peace. The world which had decided to move on, as it always does. Where ever she looked there was peace, except in her home: her heart.

“Look here at me. You think life is better now? Show me if your eyes say that too.”

“No,” she silently whispered. She clutched the silver pane with both her hands so he won’t see they were trembling. Stupid fingers! Stupid eyes! How they reveal your weaknesses to wrong people at all the wrong times…

He stepped forward. “Aena! This is not good. You have to talk to me. I have come to take you. I am going to make things right like we want!”

“This is not what I want. Hessam, this isn’t it.” She shook her head.  “I have come out of it and you should too. It’s high time we start respecting each other’s independence and just let things be.”

“What do you mean by that? I am not stealing away your freedom or anything. All I want is you come and stay with me and Rebya now. I want you to be happy!”

“Why? Why live with you when I can live with myself on my own? First I had ma, then dad, and now you want to boss me? Please, NO! I am happy the way I am and I am glad our ways are already parted. We can be free and drive our lives the way we want!” she said.

The color of his eyes changed. Was he hurt? Perhaps. But he shouldn’t have been… After all this time, he deserved nothing to be hurt about. All pains were hers.

“See, I understand your want for freedom.” He said after a while. “And I am not going to be an obstacle between that. You can come with me and do what you want, live it your way. It’s just that I feel you should be with me, and not alone over here. How will you deal with everything? We have both lost something precious Aena. It’s a hard time for both of us.” Looking at her, he said with a voice laced with sincere emotion: “I want you to know I am with you!”

“Precious, Hessam. How precious it was for you!” she laughed in her heart while resisting her urge to laugh out loud too, crazily. She wanted to laugh until her insides hurt. But she would do that once he was gone, her mind decided.

“They are both gone but we need each other, Aena. We need to gather back the moments we have lost. Sometimes I miss you so much, God, Aena, you remember when I taught you how to ride a bicycle?”

Aena looked at him surprised. Why must he bring back the memories now? Now?

“Remember when you had finally learned it you would keep nagging me to let you ride us both to school on that big grey one I owned? We both sat together and I was so proud, and a little embarrassed, but mostly proud (he laughed) and then I bought you a pink one on our birthday so we would both ride on our own bikes.”

“Our birthday,” she breathed.

They had birthdays on the same day. Because God-the-good had decided to hand them out their fates on the exact day and instructed their souls to go down then into their mother’s womb… But Hessam will go half an hour before you, Aena. Okay? Just thirty minutes.
Hessam had gone half an hour before Aena. Aena had waited thirty minutes after Hessam. He had left her earlier because it was so destined. There was joy everywhere.

He was saying something. Probably about the bicycles or the school or their birthday. She wasn’t listening until he called out her name.

“Yes, yes. I remember. You don’t need to use this against me now, it won’t change my plans, alright? Don’t try! You shouldn’t try!” her voice raised despite her trying to stay calm.

“I am not changing your plans, Aena. I am just surprised how much YOU have changed! You are so cold, so different, Aena. Don’t you hold any compassion for relations as close as blood’s anymore?”

“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “I carry no compassion whatsoever. I have a heart of stone, if asking for a right to be free makes you think of me as that. I have cared enough for everyone and now I want to be my own responsibility. Go, and let me live!” her voice was strong and came from somewhere she didn’t belong to. It was indeed different, he thought, how his sister had grown up so much and become so… brave.

“I am my own responsibility now,” she repeated– softly this time– as if trying to coax him… Hoping deep inside her heart he won’t agree. Hoping he would somehow ask her to drop the facade and end this drama so they would both cry and tell how they’ve missed each other and how it was impossible to “let go” now that they had already let go of so much. She thought of the pens and chocolates he bought for her, when they were young, and how ma would make them both parathas before school. How dad would hand them out sikkas (coins) for their daily expenditures from which they’d both buy cones.

“Yes. You are right.” he said slowly. And moving towards her he put his hand on her head. “Time has changed, my lovely twin, and it’s not your fault. You have every right now to change time as per your command.” “I am proud of you, Aena. You are one brave woman. I shouldn’t be selfish to ask you what is against your will. And I am sure you will handle your life pretty well, inshaAllah. Just know that I am always there, always a call or email away. I will come to you whenever you want, and so would Rebya. We all love you and you can come to us, too, whenever you feel like it.”

He smiled. She managed one too.

“I know that bhaiyya. Thanks.”

He kissed on her forehead, erasing for a minute whatever these years had collected between them, and whatever hardships she had bore alone.

 

After that he was gone. Gone forever to his land where he lived with his wife a happy life. Aena had apparently given him permission to be the man he was; the satisfaction seeking which he had come back. Now he was free of the burden he was carrying before, and gone because Aena was free and happy, and very settled in her ancestral home! She had peace, he thought, and now he would too.

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2014, My Writings

My dark man.

“It is not I who accepted the Dark Life. The Dark Life accepted me.”

He sat on a rock, his head bowed and hands resting on knees. “I did not want to be what I have become. But I like it now… It suits me. I feel I am where I belong. It is Real. It is Me.”

I was sitting before him on the road and there was no one else around. When he said these words, I looked at him. I wanted more answers, and I was searching for them in his eyes. They are windows to your soul, after all, but somehow his soul was a locked corridor now– the key to which was unknown to even himself, I suppose.

“Are you satisfied without having any friends?” I asked.

“You are my friend!” he replied with a smile. I will never forget that smile.

“I know that,” I said his name, “but I am not always there around you, right? I never know where you are, what you are doing, how you’ve been. I worry about you. Who takes care of you when you’re not here? No one. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you don’t give an inch importance to yourself either. Why?

“I don’t need to. I am happy and more contented with my life than you can imagine. I don’t need these things. Care, look-after, love; these aid other people… People who can’t live without people, who depend on other humans and emotions as a weakling depends on crutches. I have come far from that now. It makes no sense to me.”

How would he know what “weaklings” were truly like, I thought. People need people, they need these “crutches” to walk around this world. Why doesn’t he get it? Or more importantly, how did he overcome this necessity?

He was at ease with his lifestyle, and he meant his words more than any of us could. He could see beyond his time, and yet no future thought worried him. He could look in a glance at his past and go through his early details in a minute– yet he was one whom you’d never find regretting or complaining about his choices (or their causes), or taking pleasure in revisiting his memory lanes for that matter.

He was not normal. Yet he looked more saner than many, some times. That was perhaps because he had given himself to his goal: it could either be absolute good or absolute evil that would complete your life and give meaning to your otherwise worthless existence. He had found ‘It’ in evil.

“Would you come back to meet me again?” one asked.

“Yes. But it will take longer this time.” other replied.

We both smiled as he got up and held out his hand to me, which I gave without a moment’s pause. Standing face-to-face I tried yet again to search him in his eyes, as if their color would light my way too and I’d be able to find a clue. He stepped closer and put his hand softly on mine, slowly whispering a “no”. Maybe he thought I could really do that if I tried?

He turned around then, and started to move away. There was the famous S-shaped scar at the back of his neck which always looked fresh and red, and was so deeply cut a wound that it pained me to only look at it. I followed him with my gaze, thinking of what he was and what he could never be, until tears blocked my vision and I smiled to let go.

[Okay, hellooo. I was having a real hard time connecting words but I also badly wanted to write a story-sort so here goes. Let me know what you think of it!]

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2014, Proses

Soulburst

Doesn’t she look happy dancing in the rain with a heart so gay and young? With a face like that of an angel, and the floating gracefulness of a goddess, her own feet unaware of where she might put them next; she could perhaps be the luckiest in the world!

Like a wild flower in full bloom, oh, how she fills the air around her with the aroma and affect of her. How the stars sparkle in her presence and the earth stops to the rhythm of her steps! And how everything, in an unseen felt way, bows down to herin respect of her happiness!

See how she flutters her wings and holds out her arms to fill in the falling rain in the cups of her palms, and then brings it to her lips to drink from it; as if it were a divine goblet! Or an elixir, pouring which will quench her deep thirst, and free her of all that torments her soul…

But it scares me to see her so, and I can’t really explain what I find unfitting in this picture. Maybe it’s in her eyes… which are grayer than the sky above her, or her laughter which doesn’t quite seem real. There is something in her tone that hints betrayal, something about her shadow that keeps dissolving minute by minute.

‘She must be a carrier of love’ is what I thought of her before. But maybe, as I now realize, it’s an injury better than that. Maybe, as her façade weakens and reality takes over, we won’t find a trace of what we see now. And for all they will know, she would be a girl who died dancing!

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2014, My Writings, Proses

White Roses.

Apparently fixed on the ceiling, those stone-like eyes kept staring into nothingness and the worlds beyond it. The fan whirred slowly, like the clock ticked short taps, and the heart pumped liquid in and out. Everything moved in its own circle of existence, performing the allotted functions steadily and uncomplainingly. But even then, it felt like the world had somehow turned upside-down, and the fan whirred only to mock in its own given voice, the time moved to show how invaluable every other being before it was, and the muscle pulsated to define how the gods-on-earth were only too frail and fragile; not being able to keep anything from working or breakingeven their hearts.

Once unleashed, the mind traveled speedily into the fields of green and gold where the spark in one another’s eyes had signed smilingly the invisible yet undeniably substantial contracts of always staying together. It wandered farther to the streams of crystal blue waters where hands were held and oaths were repeated before angels of the world, and names were carved on rocks as well as on every atom of each other’s being. Tracing back the swift walks made across sand lanes and muddy roads, it came to rest only as the image of stars dancing as they were that night appeared on the retinas, and the sharp smell of white roses made their way through nostrils to the insides, causing currents to run down one’s spine.

How does it happen that a seemingly small wave envelops an entire universe in itself? How does Destiny fail Desire every time, and dreams turn to dust before reaching the realms of fulfillment? Why do the once saintly carriers of love blaspheme the very sanctity of it – leaving souls insecure and shattered forever?

Soft rain began to pelt against the room’s window bringing back the detested realizations of reality, and with a single tear that rolled down mournfully, all wounds were washed away until next time…

Whiterose_mi

 

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2014, My Writings

Diva-

“Yours

I was
still am
always will be.”

His eyes were red. They emitted fire. His hair was all messed up. Like his life. He would pull his hair, kick his bed, his door, and cry. Tears wouldn’t stop for even a minute – nor would he make any effort of that kind. He was too weak, so helpless, that any effort to push back the inevitable seemed useless.

He kept pacing around the small room with a mind too full or blank. I am not sure he knew what he was doing or what he could, because he didn’t seem to show that in his ways.

Between his wails a name unknowingly escaped his lips. Her name. His secret. He sat down suddenly on the floor and began staring his palms. Her name was his object, and how he worshiped it. It was his everything. She was his everything!

But nothing was same anymore. His secret was the talk of the town then. Everybody was curious about her; how she had died. How she had been killed. How anyone like her so young, pretty, freecould be killed?!

She was free, as they knew, but there are always things which you think you know though you don’t, no? She was enslaved too. He was her master. Like she was his mistress, his diva.

He got up weakly and went towards the small table on his bedside. A crumpled ball of yellow sheet laid there on the floor;  rejected, thrown. He picked it up and unfolded the creases carefully to not bring any more damage. It was his last hope. He began reading…

“Yours

I was
still am
always will be.”

It were just those four lines, those few words that brought him to tears again. He started to scream violently, repeating her name again and again as if it were his medicine. As if she would return if he would call her now. But some things just don’t return to normal once you hurt them, do they?

He had killed her. He was his master, and his murderer. And he thought he loved her…

Startled by a bell, he looked at the door. A man in uniform stood there. He asked him a few unnecessary questions, stole a quick inspective glance at his room, and patted his shoulder. Told him he understood his pain, his own wife had died not too long ago. Asked him to please hold on, to not give up. To God we belong and to Him shall we return.

He sat down on his bed, alone again, and rubbed his eyes. A sudden throbbing pain in his head started all of a sudden, forcing him to shriek. He clenched his fist and hit his forehead multiple times the pain didn’t leave, of course.

“Yours – I was”
yes, she was his.
Since ever. She had always lived for him. He was her first prayer. Her first and only sawaal, minnat, dua. And last.

“Yours – I still am”
“Are you? Are you still?” he asked. “Come back! Will you come back?” he cried. The memories of her falling on his feet flashed back that instant, and he could see again how he had done it. How he had killed a begging diva...

Shouts. Cries. Clarifications. Slowly his mind began to lose its power to comprehend each voice and with each next note added a different melody. He touched her side of the bed rather helplessly as tears rolled down his eyes when he shut them close. It was then that a silver figure walked gracefully to his side and placed her hand gently on his head, to put him to sleep.

Yours I always will be, she whispered.

Maria Imran.

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2014, Passages

Invisible-

TemptationI tried looking for you.

I won’t say I traveled far and wide or climbed those hills and things. No, but I met people and studied them to study you. I stopped to look at your personal things, and I tried sketching out your details.I wanted you back.

But I guess I am tired now.

And I guess I no longer understand you.

You are too grand, too far, too complex. I am too vain.

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2014, My Writings

Shapes~

Do you notice, even today, how the clouds take form of a monster outside your balcony? Do you see the evil man, smiling slyly between a cigar in his mouth; the old woman bent with a stick and bread; the large, gigantically large bird in a flight? Do you see two teddy bears cuddling? Does it amuse you? Do you see a girl writing in a pad, a lamp lit close by, and some crumpled letters in a dustbin? Does it worry you how the newborn’s cradle swings empty?

Do you hear the nightingale singing? Do you smell Jasmines, and the night queens in bloom? Do you write poems? Do you paint it? Do you preserve your moments in a photograph? Or do you, at least, just inhale it in a way it etches in your memory to never leave? Do you think of me?

SONY DSC

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2014, My Writings

ärtistrē.

“Drawing something? What is it?”
It’s not something. It’s ‘nothing’
You’re drawing nothing?
“No, but I’m drawing something that is nothing.”

What exactly is this?
“What do you see?”, she paused and looked up.
I see… nothing.
“Exactly that!”, she bent her head, and continued with the drawing. Her fingers moved smoothly on the sheet in a calm manner; a distinct fashion which was so her-like.
It was always a moment’s work for her to get oblivious if she decides. She can forget what surrounds, numb herself, ignore everything and everyone without showing it. I have seen her disappear in crowds just like that not physically, but mentally. And honestly, I do despise this fact. Because working on complex jobs with a hundred people around seems impossible to me.
She, however, knows magic.

“So is this some kind of emotion you’re putting on paper? Is that how you’re feeling?”
“Mhm.”
“You’re printing emotions! Okay. And you’re tracing black over an already-sketched grey. Is that a whirling dervesh?”
She didn’t reply. She was too busy, again.


“Is black anger?”, I asked.
“No”, she lifted her head. “black is death.”

A beautiful image laid before my eyes when she put her pens down. I looked at it, and then at her, with awe.
“You like it?”, she asked.
“I adore it”, I replied.
She smiled and remained silent. After a while, she requested me to pass those few crayons from the side-table.
“Crayons? What will you do with them?”, I asked when I handed them uncertainly to her.
She smiled again.


In a few seconds time, the entire drawing in front of me was changing colors. It was so sudden, and so dramatic, that I couldn’t even stop her. She picked up red, and then orange, and yellow and then peach. And she crushed them all one after another. The sketched drawing and the flowers and figures, and lines, were all becoming a background. And her work of art was slowly destroying itself in itself.

“What are you doing? Why are you doing this?!” I shouted.
“I like it this way.”
“You’re practically damaging it in front of my very eyes!”
“Oh no. I like it this way”, she repeated.
“Don’t. It looks horrible”
“See, I don’t care.”
“You are selfish. You know that?”

“Whose work is this?”
“Yours.”
“Let me do it my way then.”

Finally, it was done. She put her stationary down, lovingly. I picked up the sheet and looked closely.
Orange covered most of it, red only lined somethings, and with peach she had written:

In your thoughts
do I find solace
Let me immerse in you.

The grey lines behind those colors had kind of brightened up more prominently, instead of blurring. And the effect was altogether different. I was surprised to find that it wasn’t ugly at all.
It was stunningly beautiful. I looked at it admiringly, and then turned to look at her but she had disappeared.

Oh, the magic she had!

~ RandomlyAbstract.

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2013, By the roaring waves!, My Writings, Poems and poetry

dəˈzī(ə)r/

DESIRE
like flames burning
Petals withering
Stormy silence
Wind gusting

Desire; like insatiable thirst, a traveler lost in a desert, clueless clues. Desire; like incomplete puzzle pieces, locked doors, rusting hinges, rotten fruits. Rotten fruits?
Desire; like uncomfortable ambiance, waves struggling to reach shore. Desire; like heated situations, discordant harmony, unsettling wonders. Desire!
Like haunting memories, hanging questions, unachievable glances. Desire like tears on verge, riddles unanswered, complications unheard.

.
Are you real?
Because if you are
I will make you mine!

If you are not
Well then,
I will paint you mine!
.

The Kaleem of Tur Sina witnessed but one Effulgence For the discerning eye you are an embodiment of Effulgence

The Kaleem of Tur Sina witnessed but one Effulgence
For the discerning eye you are an embodiment of Effulgence

Desire: La shae’e mislak. Desire: Lam ya’ati Nazeeruk.

Desire: like a toy out of reach.
What is it for you?

– Maria I.
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By the roaring waves!, My Writings

Lordly

I will write you a poetry
All yours will it be
Mesmeric like you are,
Worshiper I will be

Your Majesty! May I sit here and draw your portrait?
“Do it. But miss a single color, and you’ll be beheaded.”
I won’t, Master. Please let me have the honor!
“Granted.”
‘Thank you’, he whispered and bowed.

He began to empty his best colors onto his white palette, and wet his paint brushes on them. Looking at his canvas, he raised his right hand to wipe it.

I will draw you a sculpture
Of your own charismatic self
Complete like you are,
Devotee I will be.

Moments passed- or perhaps ages, after which he raised his head and looked at his half-completed piece of art. A smile appeared as he began to appreciate his own skill and the next moment he was thinking how the Master would like his fruit of hard work.

I will paint you some words
Dripping with warmth and affection,
Brilliant as you are,
Blessed I will be.

His head dropped low again, and his fingers voluntarily marked streaks of his own favorite colors this time, as he chose which one His Majesty would like, and which He should.

I will sit before you for hours
Counting your image and presence,
Almighty as you are,
Fortunate I will be.

Finally that it was completed, he held it close like a mother holds her newborn, and looked at it for one long time. It was marvelous indeed! A hundred colors had been put, a hundred hopes and dreams. With a heart beating fast, he stepped towards His Majesty and bowed.

“Show me what you did.”
‘Your Highness! Here’, he felt his voice come out from deep within, as he handed over his work with trembling hands.

“Name it.”
‘You’.
“Why me?”
‘Because you are my complete self, my reason to being.’

“If I destroy it?”
‘Please do. But keep me!’
“I will.”

 

– By: Maria Imran ~RandomlyAbstract~

Lordly_ria

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2013, By the roaring waves!, Confusion~ a new dimension!, My Writings

Third Side Of The Coin

It’s cold here.. quite cold actually. The road is busy, very. No one is willing to stop, they’re all busy running. Passing by too quickly, without wasting a ‘precious’ moment, as if they’ll lose a race. Race, yes. They’re all trying to run and win. But not all can win, do they know not? There have to be just one. Just One!

One – Two – Three – GO! And off they start, to end. They run with the whistle and keep running, for a million reasons. Perhaps the best of them, those reasons, is to shut those voices within. Voices inside, outside, shouts. Good way! Temporary, but good. Good for them if they like it.

——-x

All eyes glued on her, they were all spellbound by her magnificent beauty as she entered in the main hall. And she deserved it, she was worth all praise. A delicate model dressed in red, designer jora on her big day, that elegant look those make-up men had given her from the parlor, and her looks! The bride stunned them all.

“Just perfect!”, she heard someone call. Someone, she knew. Someone, whose voice was easily recognizable among all chaos, all audience. She lifted her head and looked around, but failed to spot the carrier, the source of that wonderful voice. He was nowhere among the crowd, then where had he spoken from?
‘Oh, heart!’, she whispered as she realized where.

——-x

“It is glass, fragile. But it ain’t in any way ordinary! What it holds inside is very, very precious. I’m handing it over to you because I know that it belongs there. Just make sure you keep it safely. I also understand your way back down is tough, but you’ll make it there, won’t you? The road is dark, but if you act smart, you will do it.”

——-x

The hall shrieked as she screamed, most of them covered their faces with their hands. She fell on the ground, shouting for help, yet no one dared to touch her.
The bride’s face had burnt, and was burning still. His acid spray had caused cracks, burns, wounds. Cracks.

They began to laugh, all of them. They danced, drank, played, circled her. She cried silently as she felt herself being dragged into that dark, horrible abyss.

——–x

He kept running and running until he finally reached his ‘destination’. He had attained whatever he had wanted, faster than those who were still running. They hadn’t won the race, he had. Maybe because they were so busy running that they forgot what they were running after.

Just one wins. He had won ‘nothing’, and yet everything was now in his hands.

——–x

‘Marvelous! Just splendid!’, he praised his skills. ‘Master, you’ve carved the pot wonderfully, and those paint streaks make it look all the more charming! How do you do this? Carve pots out of mud, add such colors, make it look so real? So real, so magical, just wonderful!’

‘I am willing to pay you whatever you ask for, please tell me what you’d like?’

——-x

She stumbled as a stone hit her on her way on that dark, concrete road but she managed to keep walking. She determined not to let her bottle fall, but fate had decided otherwise. Many stones were pelted on her, in a continuous manner, until she finally fell and dropped the glass bottle of mercury.

The liquid turned into soft, small, solid balls and scattered everywhere on the black road. She looked at them, devastated. They ran everywhere, like beads from a broken necklace, and finally spread themselves all over the dark road. They glistened and shined, playing with the pebbles, as she saw them again with awe.

Finally, she stood up and wiped her forehead where it had begun to bleed. Another short sequence of beads dropped on the ground, and mixed somewhere in the concrete, with pebbles, and maybe some mercury.

Now she knew why the bottle had belonged to her.

——x

He wasn’t sure what was to be done, was he to keep his ‘masterpiece’ to himself or hand it over to him? Memories from the past flashed in front of him, and he found himself back in his childhood.

He adored his little, colorful bird. But he couldn’t cage her, because she said so. And he couldn’t trust her either, what if she flew away? She said she would never leave him, but he was too insecure because she was after all one of the most precious, loveliest birds ever created. So he held her carefully and cut her red and yellow wings with a scissor, most lovingly.

He smiled at his idea, at ‘God’s help’ and his instinct, and picked up his carved pot. Then he threw it far away with all his might and looked as it shattered into a million, unmendable pieces.

——-x

The End. [wtt]

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