Verbal tantrums of a writer & an anxious spectator of life.

Month: January, 2012

Another Lonely Day

There’s no bond, no intimacy and no sacred sincerity but with your brothers and sisters; your blood and flesh. Conquering the world, every Pakistani walks upon foreign soil with this reality in mind: the intricately glued-together familial friendships. It’s what I kept in my pocket when I saw Virginia’s first sunrise. Ingrained into a soluble mind was my mother’s blessed quote “they are your ready-made best friends, your brother and sister – break their hearts and you break yours”.

Rolling my eyes at the redundant approach my mum opted for, I swung past the childhood saga of playful memories and animated realities, assured by my conscience.

But the world waited for no one, not me any way. People walked everywhere, sharing love, life and stories alike of their Thanksgivings and Christmas breaks. Sparkling faced with glistening eyes, gurgling anecdotes of sibling rivalry and such, I often reminisced quietly. Silence became my friend, you see.

My brother and sister both made their ways, with ardent vigor in one hand, and hopeful aspirations in the other. Upon venturing into the academic addictive American worlds, their lives have lead them to places unforeseen and experiences unimaginable. Relishing in their glorious achievements, I convinced myself the lack of their physical appearance was of no consequence, not really any way. As long as their voices over the telephone were joyful, their lives were blazing with delectation. Who was I to intrude and beg their faces across from mine.

Now when I see siblings laughing at their private jokes, I smile a sheepish smile. I remember my bachpan and quiet the overflowing thoughts of being in their every day lives. What happened to my ready-made bestfriends? Why did the world steal them from my homely desires? When I see them, I am shy. I am not afraid to expose the sins of my mind to them, but I am shy because I know I only have them in my pocket for a day or two. I suppose this is life? I crave my eastern Empire to beckon the frightfully noisy life of my childhood home. There, you see, you were never alone.

 

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Je me fou du monde entier

Unquiet skies beckoning into the travesty,

A sin or two, I taste of glee.

 

Up, into the bell tower of unconcerned shadows that follow,

A musky glow, a throne of gold, there our tears can show.

 

Of existing within a pendulous ache,

They scream, shake the dust, shake.

 

Addictive as it is, the melancholy of woes,

May I share my flavours of sorrow?

 

 

Silence laced with musky shadows

Do we hold on or do we let go? Do we muse at our being our do we pursue our existing core? Who do we match up to but ourselves? We cannot go back, there’s nothing left to change and there is no need to despair. I’m a child of divine thoughts and methodology; divinity comes from the abstract persistence of thought which consumes me and well, most of those I surround myself with. The winter chills have settled in. Bundled in blankets, huddling close to heaters and sipping on simmering pink tea just isn’t enough. There must be an orange tea I’m missing out on – Yearning for those desires that keep us breathing to come true.

I am looking forward, into the hopeful horizon of grey skies and sulky clouds. They just won’t stop tearing up and sending down their melancholy. But I take each frazzled drop of sincere sorrow and turn into something I can dance in. I stick out my tongue beneath the holy sky and taste the waters of the heaven to quench my thirst. There must be something even more absurd to do than write this mere ramble, but what can I do? I resort to penning down my egoistic and dusty thoughts, sifting through the past of glamour and gloom and finding what is left there to bloom.

It is this dying moment in which I possess the heart to delve into writing; it is in the darkness of this night that I am overwhelmed by calm. How is this calm, I ask myself? I am raging inside, of ideas unprecedented and politics that consume our daily lives. How do I breathe easy when I am confronted with thoughts of slaughtered human bodies because a man tried to save lives? How do I engage in meaningful jabber when my thoughts are set ablaze by the soil I was made of. This has, indeed, turned into a ramble on how my country’s leaders have harvested nothing but weeds and those weeds are gaining momentum as I type each syllable in my mind, even before I type it here.

Sigh, xx