All of the songs
All of the words
All of the art
All of the time
All of the dreams
You took away
All of the flaws now
What do I do
All of the songs
All of the words
All of the art
All of the time
All of the dreams
You took away
All of the flaws now
What do I do
A part of my name was always in your name and this amazes me.
I do wish I could tell you about this but I dont know you.
We three are in some transition modes. Or like, some major life points. All three. Very different, some you would call more important than the other and youd be right. But dil hai na. Dil feels enough all the time. Like how they say about pain. Ke you cant say one suffered more than the other. I mean you can actually. But if you drop the comparison thing altogether…. then we can come to our second point:
We are all pretty empathetic. We dont blame each other. At least thats what I think and believe. About them too. So we give each other the space even when we need it so much but in our own spheres this all-of-it is hurting and messing up.
So I would know that I am hurting. But I also know theirs can be bigger in magnitude because of course. I think the thing is that we can’t all be with each other this time. We know it will settle but letting it settle like this is a lesson itself.
( We are unaware of each others background stories this time. Ideally we should be with amd without in it but realistically things run not like that. I edited to add this bit as well as cut one word from above. Because shit )
How fake am I? If I was head to toe fake, I would become unreal. And that isnt possible. So I am being hard on myself.
But in this world in this time, fake and real are so mixed up. Ethereal matters. You think your head is one and your heart another. Yo soul what was your game?
Things have of course changed.
My phones battery is low and I have an alarm set on it. Pity. I couldn’t even write about the important things. Such drama. And here I choose the title of this post. Or not.
I am not even thinking. Or am I?
Is it cold where you are? Old question. My fingers are so cold right now I would say they are freezing but it sounds so extra.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE I mean my life is full on doing things with and about me and I’m like what? Am I not supposed to FEEL human and TAKE actions but then I AM taking actions and trying to feel so what is this… SIYAAAAAAAAAPA. What does siyapa mean though? Okay just checked, safe to use.
ANYWAY thank God you don’t get notifs here like on Instagram. Falana posted in a long while. Story omg check it. I remember how awkward it was in the beginning when they introduced hearts instead of plain (y) likes on Twitter and there. Like…. no bro I am not EXACTLY doing that but you know me. Maybe I am.
Lah time flies. This new year is so new so new ke bus. Everything is changing mashaAllah se. Jabhi ye haal hai but then wesay bhi ye haal hai. I can’t wait to announce all three things that are happening but then where should I do that first? Facebook, Insta, Blog? My choice would be tanha bara sa maidan, maybe in front of the beach. NO ONE ELSE. Wahan mai cheekh cheekh ke pooray aasmaan ko batadungi. We all wanna run away at certain points in our lives. There was a cool word for it too. Khair whatever, what was this blog about again?
Hello. I need help again today.
How many people ask you for help on this very day?
Well, hey, don’t put down the phone during any minute. I have so much to say.
I feel like crying today. I feel like crying a lot. I don’t know. Remember that person?
You know, I was very happy today. I was very happy until later when this started. You know, I would have closed everything down, shut myself to the sweet escape but right now, I am talking to you. Because I’m so done with running away. I run to reach the same place every freaking time. I am so done.
Hello? Please say something else. I know you get me. I know you understand. I am already breathing, I am not dying. And by the way, I can never actually commit suicide, like ever. Inshaa Allah as well but like never.
Okay, I am listening. But I am not done yet?
You listen to me. I wrote my first poem today. It was so painful it was exhilarating.
You listen to me. I wrote my last poem today. It was only painful.
You listen to me. I never intended to take it all so seriously.
You listen to me. I miss every dead person on earth tonight. I can feel the graveyard wind inside me. The sad laughter of the sister killed for honor. The sad laughter of the struggling maid. The sad laughter of the parents of the raped child. The sad laughter of the fallen bird. The hollow dread of a Justin Cronin novel.
I haven’t read in ages. I have a viva tomorrow. Remember I told you I loved exams for their distracting power? I don’t right now because it’s not working.
I can hear his chair creaking. I know he is sitting in the last room by the staircase with a pack of cigarettes. You know I hate cigarettes. But how would you know? You’re just a therapist. A listener, that’s all. A dead phone line.
On the third floor of the building, halfway through the long, long corridor were two connecting stairs. When we sat there, the sun was almost setting. We felt tired, and another mix of emotions with no particular name. A feeling of togetherness, a feeling of uncertainty, of hope, of struggle, of what it meant to us. Everything. It was like we were on one of the most important points in our respective lives, one that didn’t have much to do with the other — in fact, nothing — save for the fact that we were friends. And we were in it together.
We knew it was either a dream-come-true situation or nothing. We could have it, or we couldn’t. But there was also a third case.
“Maybe, it’s for only one of us. The other will return and later on say that they know it was for the best. They will sound very convincing, will ask you to actually believe them that they are content, that it doesn’t matter, that they’ve realised the wisdom behind ‘why not’…”
“But it won’t be true.”
“Yes, it cannot be. Know that deep down it will hurt them enough to never say a word about it. That something will shatter anyhow.” The same happened.
But there was also a fourth case.
Secrets are gifts. They don’t belong just everywhere. A secret lives where lives Love.
I have my grandmother’s stories within me,
and my mother’s, and yours—
Why do I have yours?
I have someone else’s anger, a tragedy from another place in time
Where I wasn’t, where I’ll never be – except in the future of their past
that is already a memory
Numberless faces read out their stories and not one I could tell not to
Like I could not tell you
“I don’t want your stories!” I scream now when it’s too late—
Waking up from a dream, and sleeping into another
Why do I still find you near?
‘میں جانے کے لئے تیار ہوں۔’
‘تم نے خود کو ہلکا کرلیا ہے ناں؟’
‘ہاں! اور میں نے خود بھی سب کو معاف کردیا یے۔۔۔ سب، سوائے ایک ’
‘ایسا مت کہو!۔۔۔ اسے عذاب ہوگا’
‘پہلی بات تو یہ کہ وہ عذاب سے نہیں ڈرتا! اور اسے صرف بدلہ ملے گا، عذاب نہیں’
‘تم پھر سوچ لو’
‘میں اللہ جی سے بات کر چکی ہوں۔ صرف اسے ہی نہیں کرسکتی۔ ایک بوجھ اٹھا لونگی’
‘آپ کو اللہ جی نے اسکی وکالت کے لئے بھیجا ہے ناں؟ مجھے سمجھ نہیں آتا وہ اس سے اتنی محبت کیسے کرسکتے ہیں جب وہ ہی نہیں کرتا؟’
‘وہ تم سے محبت کرتے ہیں!۔’
‘انہیں میں منا لونگی۔ یا پھر آپ انہیں کہیں وہ ہی مجھے منا لیں’
The waves were full of voice unlike the world around them. Everywhere was silent, and the only other sounds were so soft you wouldn’t mind them. Like: the stars’ gentle sparkle, off on, off on, creating silver splashes in the vast water; the moon’s direct beams falling on its rubber surface like a spear cutting right through; my own breathing in harmony with each swift move of the said sea. It was only a matter of present, the moments synced to the space, emitting the same power: of might, of being the only thing that mattered.
Life is not a bed of roses. You say that like it’s a good thing. If I am not happy slash I feel really bad about something, there must be a way to make it right. You can’t shirk that responsibility and simply put it on those look-good quotes. Because first of all, I never asked for a bed of roses. And if that’s what you want to bring up, tell me why it becomes important only when I most need a rose? Life’s not fair, life’s a test, life’s a this, life’s crap. I don’t care about that, I care about now.
I walk further into the benevolent stretch and find the waves welcoming me. Singing more joyfully, as if meeting friends was a custom for them too. I look down and smile, and then half sit. My hand meets water and a shiver runs through me.
Why am I still scared? How could someone be aware of something and still be unable to get out of it? How can you not be your own magician, tricking life to set on the right zone again?
There’s no direction when you are standing between waves. There is just immensity. A compass self-connects to the tick tock of the heart, and there the music stays, for as long as the heart lives…
they are all growing old
old and apart.
none of them truly excited
about anything at all
and as they stand close,
you hear them whisper,
happiness is not a goal.
and stifle a giggle.
they’re all the same!
all, winners in this game
We sat there at a distance, both missing each other. We could’ve just turned to face one another and talk. We could’ve just talked.
It’s that same place again, and that same part of nighttime where everything feels stitched to something deeper and more calm. We are sitting together: he on the log, and I on a rock. Spread wide above us are the skies, innumerable stars glistening on their soft sheets. The air is cool. I can’t describe how it smells or feels, but I know. It’s the kind of moment one wants to seize, literally freeze. It’s not when you want to think about how time is passing. Because time is not passing. It shouldn’t, now, should it?
I tell myself that you won’t leave. But I know it means nothing. And it is with this thought that the weight of our silence starts becoming torturous. It feels as though someone placed a spiky wire on my bare skin, trailing it down. As it touches my chest, I draw in a quick breath: it has a connection with the void within me. I look at you and you are staring ahead somewhere, aloof, in a world that your eyes see and I cannot reach. And then I realize how you have no idea about my world either. We are equally separated.
We: You and I, the stories yet to complete. I think we are ever-living because of what we have in us. Even though we each carry Words from contrasting entities, we are still what we are for us.
“Tell me one last time, will the sun come?”
“It will,” you say. I think I will then stay for a moment. Until the sun arrives, at least. The log is empty at your side now. I will walk to it and sit there. To feel that warmth again and not shiver. I have wrapped my shoulders around myself. Perhaps the wire will forget to hurt, too. Maybe it will turn into a spring of soothing water if it hits my heart enough times.
Voids are colorless but they are vulnerable to scars that birthed them. I can still hear your footsteps from ten minutes ago. Was it ten minutes ago that you left, or has a century passed already? Oh but the sun, yes, it will come.
Our goodbye was wordless. I think we will meet again.
“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 word 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.” Read more
(Like the previous two times, this had to be the way it is, too. The first time I wrote it, I was having a problem putting words properly but hoped it would make sense. It’s of course the same now.)
In this labyrinth you call life;
A series of unsurprising oddities and I,
Unable to find the exit door.
The liquid in this bottle is stinky. My hands tremble so.
A collaborative heartspill on words and wordsnot.
This poem is as a result of collaboration between Maria And I. We were chatting and she suggested we should write something together but then we couldn’t decide what we should write about. So it just went from there and we came up with this. It was a pleasure writing this with her. Here is the final piece:
We can write about betrayal.
Or we can write about snow and fairies
We can write about a deep pit of sorrow
or we can write about rains that fall like mercies.
You are right, We can write about anything,
We can write about how life throws curve balls at you,
And then leaves you around to wallow in your misery
Or we can write about how beautiful it is,
The very small things,
Sunsets and the sunrises,
Flowers and the trees,
Birds and the bees,
Shooting stars, moon and the sea
View original post 211 more words
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]
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.
Supreme sovereign, save me! save me!
From hither I pray leave to come to thee!
This journey has me tired.
It ruined me what I desired.
Now I only ask you to set me free.
This is my first attempt at writing a limerick, and it’s only the very basic form of it. The rhyming scheme is a a b b a, and the theme followed is that of a “journey“.
When poetry becomes a disease,
and people all too untrustworthy
When a million ideas begin to inspire,
but they all sound just so clichéd
When you are finally barefoot
but the land disappears from below
Or when you’re ready to take flight
but above you spans a sky no more.
Commas, slashes, colons, fullstops:
knives, daggers, tight knots, stones.
When promises lose their sanctity–
of forever, hope, “Forever, I hope.”
There is no use finding meaning, see
Life keeps pouring death into bones.
Other: You are everywhere.
Sitting on your comfy armchair, one day, you will not find peace. You will have everything you ran after, everything that you thought completed you, everything you left the previous ‘every-things’ for… But what you won’t have will be peace. Comfort. Inner harmony, no.
It’s okay to be realistic and responsible rather than passionate or dreamy when it comes to making important life decisions. But “for what it is worth, let us attempt to cherish our human imperfection.” You failed there.
And one day, it will return to you. The pain one inflicts upon others always finds a way back to the giver. It just does; that’s how life is. And with that faith, I can rest in peace. I actually think I will find solace in this thought, and the courage to move on, because I know one day you will know. One day it will hurt you just like it hurt me today, and though I know what a better virtue forgiveness is, I don’t plan to forgive you. Not now. Peace is the last thing I’d want to give you. Prayers, I still might.
The traffic is high
the night is dark
but the mad man
He runs madly
by the roadside;
his feet bare.
A bottle in his hand
and tears in his eyes
he drinks as he runs,
amidst anyone’s stare.
He is mad, so he is free
and no one questions
He can kill- if he likes
he may not, if he mustn’t
No chains bind him at all;
of reason nor responsibility.
Tears block his vision,
so for a moment he stumbles
but this doesn’t make him stop
or go against his decision.
The mad man keeps running
and the world begins to fade
the traffic soon dissolves
in a hazy, unknown shade.
No one knows where he ended
what his quest was, what he wanted
but they say in a planet of madness
only he had life comprehended.
– Maria Imran.
Related post: (In)sanity.
I see how
The desert meets
And I wonder
All other things
Just as antonymous
Could meet too?
Can desire meet contentment?
Dreams meet attainment?
Hopes meet achievement?
Is it so
Life meets Oblivion?
Some tears rolled down..
In my heart’s clustered town.
They cause movements.
They rolled further down
To the center of the town.
They cause commotions
And yet they traveled more
To the point that made me sore.
They made me live again!
P.S. Thankyou Moniba for the superb additions to my writing.