by the roaring waves

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?

 

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 ❤

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

Midnight call.

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.

all our issues and one

Sometimes,
When I should be elsewhere
Inside Dreams,
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?

kāˌäs

The  solid  mass  that  a  jungle  of  scribbled  lines  create.   That  shapeless  bunch  of  black  with  white  gaps,  that  disorderly  pen  creation.   That  is  what  anxiety  forms in heart.   Just puts it there on the floor—the weighty bundle of chaos. I  was  wondering  if  I  could  put this emotion  into  words  while  I  felt  it.  And  if  it  would,  in  any  way,  lessen  it.   Guess  it  didn’t~

harmonize

Fear, etc.

Brave was one who wouldn’t let fear get to them. But now you are trapped in your second nightmare of the season, waiting for it to end. And it’s taking your life.
Finally something worse happens in the story and you wake up with a jolt and a scream, then take long breaths. Find your phone and consider possible options – who could be awake at that hour? – because you need to text someone before you take the Walk of Valor to your parents’ room, scared and ready to cry like a five year old.
“I need support,” you say, and receive.

All day you try to forget it, and sometimes you do, but mostly it keeps coming back. It is when night returns and you lay on your bed once again that you realize what bravery actually means: It is sleeping another Night.

A boring blog about exciting new things

University starts today! And it’s my fourth year – I find that kind of unbelievable and also amazing! I mean, it almost feels like abhi ki baat that I went through this admission process and now I am writing this with so many thoughts and ideas and memories in my mind, six semesters already down.

The photo above shows a path and a moment I treasure. It’s a pretty simple one actually, May 2015, around 5 pm-ish. We had evening papers and I had got done with mine, everyone I knew had already left campus so the place was mostly empty save a few strangers. And there I sat with a journal and a juice box, my back to a bricked wall, hands busy writing. Favorite kind of solitude.

My experiences here have been great — with people, places, food, friends, events, sfsadgfag. I think I will go into all that later. Right now I will keep ranting about how time slipped so fast, which is again cliched but khair. I remember when my aani was eighteen and shifted permanently to Pakistan, she took a Montessori training course. That woman in that age was my idea of cool. Eighteen was supposed to mean independent, having fun, over the world. Years and years later, on the midnight of my own eighteenth birthday, I was silently crying because I didn’t want it. Nope, skip skip. *Sigh* Now I’m freshly 21 and stepping into my FINAL university year, going to get a MASTERS degree pretty soon (inshaAllah) (not imagining how different life would be after it’s all over) and an aani to a three year old fantastic.

So the point is I’ve lost motivation to make this post interesting but I still found a title that does justice that one of my most important years is here, like right here, and I am kinda excited, hopeful, yay and also bleh, but mostly looking forward to trying out a newer range of awesome!

*{aani means khala/aunt/mom’s sister. You didn’t know?!}
**happy new year, hi

No Unsaid Goodbyes

In the realm of my mind

every conversation, relation

ends on its time.

 

There are no unsaid goodbyes.

Trap

Stuck

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 silent death.

Traditions bind sometimes. You don’t follow them, they follow you.

Passion dies. Will to live dies. Silently accepting that, kills.

Self-doubt kills. Self-hate kills. Numbing oneself from observing such death kills, too!

 Fear holds, characters choke. Writers die. // Escape (27.3)
(Created Feb 9, 2015. )

Too often, the only escape is sleep art.

My colors cross yours

but our paths never meet.

Maybe we can finally run away

to some place far

and be free

now.

(27.3.15)

What To Write?

A collaborative heartspill on words and wordsnot.

Black well

[50-word challenge. word prompts: luck, stone. Image: blackwell deception void via steamcardexchange.net.]

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]

White void (2/2)

369

Dirt. Screams. Blood

Dirty blood, bloody screams

Blood, screams. Blood

Dirt.

Punctuated-

You were a colon
and semicolons you detested
I tried putting a comma there
like grammar lady suggested.
but our life, it seems, is an underscore
or an inverted question mark blotted
because whenever I ask for space
or try putting us back within a parenthesis,
you usually slash me―
This is not, however, how I had imagined
us to be. I always wanted a life smooth as tilde
a prime time together, never fearing bad weather
I wanted us to fight against negations,
but like a dagger kills relations
or a bullet, we died inside too…
It is a broken bar now, and it hurts
at the highest degree of pain.
Can we still back into space though,
or is it about time we put a full stop?

Maria Imran.

 [relationships with punctuation]

To hate

I learnt to hate.
I never knew how it was
to hate someone so strongly
before
but now that I do
I think I know…
It’s like… sipping a bitter,
bitter coffee
so slowly
that the taste wraps around your tongue
and burns it.
It’s like… bringing a matchstick
closer to your chest
and letting it create a hole
a red, blazing hole.
It’s like… being the rose yourself
that the lover crushes in his hands
seeing the fragrance melt—
the petals wither
in your own existence.
It’s like… praying and not receiving
Dying… and not dying.
It’s like panting breathlessly for air—
and blocking all pumps out yourself—
But is that hate?
Or did I just define
how it was
To miss you?

~ Maria Imran.

Moon(less)light-

Always

A

I

M

L

E

S

S

L

Y

she writes
draws,
scribbles
doodles.

But somehow-
every time
it’s just your name
that spills
as ink
on page,
  staining it.

Almost related Post: The first letter

Gar Yakeen Danam

Ghair ka Dhoka Mujh ko na Dey
Tujh Mein Main, Aur Mujh Mein Tu

Gar Yaqeen Danam Ke Bar Man Aashiqi
Az Jamal e Yaar Desh Hairanad Kunam

Related: Sufi Music – Gar Yakeen Danam, Al-desire – Mae naara e mastana.

 

 

My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.
– J. Green.

 

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