Silence laced with musky shadows
by Aanya F Niaz
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.