Can you believe it that two months of 2021 have already gone?
It just struck me today, while I was minding my own business, that we are way into 2021 and it’s no longer a new year. I am yet to make the mistake of writing 2020 instead of 2021. LOL. I seemed to have made enough mistakes to remember what to write now.
But that is beside the point. Time is flying by and before you know it, there will be a couple of grey strands of hair sticking here and there and you’re wondering where the “green salad days” were, that were promised?
Just like the forgotten prince that was promised in Game of Thrones? Remember Azor Ahai? Yes, I am still mad about the ruined storyline. No, I will never get over it.
We are still wearing masks and I don’t see it changing any time soon.
Anyway, thoughts for today … I want to be … What do I want to be? I honestly have no idea. I used to … Once upon a time but now … It’s a haze. It’s nothing.
I want to go back to Existentialism that I once read about, brush up my skills on Kantian concepts … I’m sure I’ll find them more relatable now.
What about Nihilism? I could get down with that as well. Once I know how much I know and relate to, I’ll share my thoughts.
Today, I was asked to write about what I think, it could be anything they said.
Anything? I thought.
Usually, I always have a penny for my thoughts but, at the moment, my mind came up blank, like a printer without ink, spitting paper
I wondered what I could write about. Anything, they said.
Anything? I thought.
I’m afraid to voice my thoughts. They’re too grave, too dark to share, an odd look inspiring words will spill what sanity I hold
It’s an important day, it’s an opportunity to declare, what I have always wanted to say. But do I speak into the void? Do I speak my mind?
I’ve been saying the same things again and again, now they’ve lost meaning and yet I can’t stop, like the runaway train, crossing through valleys, cutting through mountains
Again and again, the agony doesn’t go away. What mirage is this? Why, even after so long, do I find myself right where I began?
Never moved an inch, imagination it has been, life until now and the reality is stuck somewhere between the pages of a diary I may once have filled with ink that I have run out of.
So do I take a pencil now, and write? Anything? I thought.
Happy birthday, papa. You’d have crossed 60 years by now. We’d have celebrated with a cake and candles, maybe some balloons and lots of wishes for your long life.
Life gave up before we did, sometimes I think we still wait for you to come home, announcing as you would, voice resounding in the hallway.
I’d rush downstairs to see what you’ve brought for me. Chocolate truffle again? I’d eat it with happy thoughts.
Happy memories, with a sprinkle of bitterness. Years have passed but nothing has changed. Except everything, and yet nothing. The pain doesn’t leave me, the longing doesn’t go away.
But most of all, the nightmares are here, they’ve always been here. Sometimes you’re in them, and sometimes I’m alone. And sometimes when I cannot sleep, I overthink and over eat.
I’ll go to you when the weather is nice. A good story. A calm, slow paced romance mixed with reality and a bit of stretched drama which doesn’t get overbearing.
It’s warm, ironic because it’s cold season in the narrative. And it makes me feel warm. Interesting storytelling technique. Really good looking actors playing deep and complicated characters.
I would half wish to have as boring and amazing life as depicted in that story. Life would be fun if I was watching it in 2D, I’d be safe in the seats
I’ll go to you when the weather is nice is a story about longing and one-sided love that stays hidden inside the heart of a boy who turns into a man without ever confessing his love.
It is a story of a girl coming to terms with her reality and complicated relationship with her family as well as finding love in a long lost friend who had always been watching from the shadows.
It’s about a domestic violence survivor and a defence that goes way too far. It’s about accepting the mistake and paying the price, lawfully and lonely.
It’s about betrayal of a friend by a friend and the hope that they can make peace. Sometimes there is nothing to salvage and in that moment, it’s best forgotten for the sake of all those involved. It’s a tale of learning how to forgive.
It’s a story of a mother who accepts a child not from her womb, gives him a home and nurtures him into what he is today. It’s a story of resilience that is a gift from the support of family. It celebrates love.
I have started to re-watch it a second time. It’s just like a lullaby. Soft, well spoken dialogues and deep, deep feelings of complex characters comes to play. It’s a reality mirroring the drama and I love it.
Yesteryear was something, I tasted poison that I didn’t know I had in my veins. And if you don’t believe me, watch me dry up like dried mangoes, ready to be jarred and barred.
Believe me, if you will, that I have forgotten the direction your wind took that summer, when I followed suit, eyes on the kite, fluttering in the wind
The wind was on my side, it seemed, holier within, and it was good until a point when it was not.
I did not want to hurt, I didn’t choose this. Now I pay the price of someone else’s vice. That is okay because it’s you. And if you had remembered, I walked miles in your name. But that’s okay.
Now I walk for me, and have come far, but I have forgotten what existence is. Won’t you be a doll and come home, to remind me what I wanted to forget yet couldn’t let go.
If I saw you somewhere, passing me by, I would stop and stare, commit you to memory of a feeble mind, asking for a solution
I often think what I would say if paths did cross, I am sure I will regret it to the earth’s end.
The fog has descended into the night, dark and moist, see it, taste it on my skin, it’s cold.
Reminder, of the void inside my heart that bleeds without a wound, hurts without pain, flutters when it feels your wind
Never felt so lonely than today, never felt so desperate for some news, I wonder
Why is my nose elsewhere, when I can’t even see the path laid ahead, funny how distraction worked too well, enough that I forgot myself in my quest to remember you.
I do not know many heavy words, I may not know what I think is right but speak these words out loud, you may begin to understand
We can give value to human life, we can take it away, it is our legacy, it is the order of the day.
Growing up, you saw what we saw, and we were all scared
You were afraid to speak up, we were afraid to break.
Surviving is a skill we all learned when we were wet behind our ears and yet saw what left trails of trauma
You continued to watch in horror as darkness engulfed us all, we continued to scream as hell ruled supreme
Screams echoed across the moutain tops as the white snow turned crimson, it’s a beautiful world you said, heaven on earth, you said
No blame, O powerless being, you are being threatened and held hostage as you roam the streets, tweeting sorrows about the bloodied, defying land you so cherish
Meanwhile, being culled, like camels in a desert, shot for being too many in a land too valuable
So put a price on me, if you can, and see if you get what it’s worth. I will be watching too, as you put your soul into the bargain
Which part of it do you intend to forsake and what will you take along to the grave, I will stand by and watch all the wealth you accumulate.
I know not many phrases to impress your mind, but I know enough to say that the land you molest is divine.
Saints have laid down to rest under the shade of trees, prayed for the innocent, and atonement of greed
It’s a land we’ve torn asunder and it’s the land we betrayed.
Who are we but mere mortals who can only watch the fires burn, it’s not us who can defend the turf
The new dawn will come, the reckoning that was promised, the injustice will be dealt with, the tables will turn.
Every day, like a death toll, counting wings, clipped one by one, holding close, like clouds soar, raging on, the fires burn
After the rainy season ended, it felt like anger would brew and spill like lava but it was calm
Like looking over towards the horizon at the beach, while laying in the sand, soaking in the sun
It was quite as the fires subsided, with nothing but ash, yet something survived still or so I thought
We’re born into debt, we’re born into a sentence, to serve till the day we end.
And that’s how we invented hope, hope. Hope. Hope. I hear it ever so often from the mouths of those who believe.
I believe, or so I am made to think. Do I?
I fail. I was born to fail and I keep failing. I tell the truth of what I feel, the others call it kufr.
So, we all live a lie, collectively, consciously, lying to ourselves and others
Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Steal from others what doesn’t belong to you and call it fair, is what you do.
Avenge and burn the grounds around so nothing remains for you’re destined to lose. So lose everything anyway and let not them tell you “I told you so”.
I first thought, I’d write you a letter, that I would wipe the years and clear my head and write to you.
Dear you, I would begin, and go on to pour out my heart for you. But the pen wouldn’t move.
I want to ask, have you been well? Do you ever think of the past?
Does your morning sun smile for you? What about the wind that caresses your skin?
Do you walk by the gardens and sigh for a tragic love, like I do?
Did you change much? I dare not ask about me.
Every day, I fight the thoughts of you, they cling to me like perfume, a lonely scent of the morning cold
I have thought and thought of what I’d say if I ran into you on a random day
Would I hold my head high and walk by? Would I stop and greet you with a smile?
Would you recognise that battered face, I wonder. I hope you don’t. Forgotten memories are the best ones to keep.
Life has shrunk into a bubble of hope, no, longing for something, of memories that once used to be reality
I would write to you and tell you about my days and how hollow are the nights that even the velvety darkness doesn’t comfort
Sad love, one that never stood a chance against the fair and just world, naive and foolish king gave away the kingdom for his love and we fight for trivialities
It’s supposed to be a letter from I to you. Could you be I or could I be you? Don’t overthink.
I do not recall the exact year, but maybe it was 2008 or 2009 when I first logged on to Facebook. To make friends? Lol, no! I was a nerd. I wanted to play a game that Facebook was hosting during those days. My sister used to play and I was hooked watching her play. So I wanted to try as well.
I remember using my yahoo email ID to make an account. I do not remember my first profile picture but I remember what the first thing I did when my feed was set up.
Pet Society.
It was the game that got me to Facebook. Of course, it was followed by Crazy Taxi and Farmville. But Pet Society was the real deal. During those days I was a Twilight fan and of course, I named my pet Bella.
Bella was a lucky pet. To this day, I don’t know what breed or what kind of animal she was. But my guess is a bunny. Anyway, Bella had a two-storey house and it was fully furnished. If I didn’t log in for a few days, she would have flies around her. Hahaha, the game was pretty creative.
No matter what, people never believed when I told them why I joined Facebook. I don’t know why it is important. But I remember that game very vividly. I was invested the same way streamers are invested in their games these days. I used to do it way before it became cool.
But what is the point of it? This memory. Trivial … Not important but it was a milestone as well. Fleeting moment in the long stream that is slowly winding down the mountain to meet the ocean somewhere.
Marking it as my own. A coping mechanism. A distraction. A denial filling with inconsequential moments. Glorify the common, the dismissive ones.
A year later, they shut it down. It was a personal loss that no other game similar to Pet Society was able to fill. I play scrabble these days. Meet me in the battlefield someday, guys. We may end up becoming friends.
I have been writing as far as I can remember in life. My first diary that I remember having is signed by a nine-year-old optimistic bundle. I.
The diary was fancy. Dad had bought two, one for me and one for my brother.
It had a blue cover and four coloured page sets that divided the diary for different purposes.
The first section, blue, was for my poetry. The second was for prose.
Third section was for art and fourth is too dense to recall.
I signed it with what handwriting I had then. To be honest, it was not that bad. I may have published something about this diary some time in the past as well.
*Some five minutes later* here you go … I found the post.
It is a special diary. I have kept it with my as far as I can remember. I wrote about everything on it, there is even something about coffee and tea. 👌🤣 I envy those thoughts.
I still have it. Although, I don’t visit my home anymore, I know it’s there in the top drawer of my desk which used to be right next to my bed.
Now the desk must be in the attic. And so is my childhood. A vague cloud hanging on top of my head. A memory. A good one. Before all hell broke loose.
Since then, I have had many diaries. I’ve written a lot of stuff. And stored them in different pages. I used to have a travel diary, a poetry diary, a diary to write my novel ideas in. And to everyone’s surprise, I also had a hate diary. Although, I had to get rid of it because it’s too dangerous to have such thoughts on paper. I never started another.
I have a special relationship with my diaries. I had one which I started in 2007. It was a calender journal of sorts. It was beige or brown in colour. I don’t remember exactly.
It had my first 100 poems I wrote with all seriousness of a budding poet. With time, it became heavy with words I was too young to carry but it bore the burden well.
Years went by, and 2011 was the year when I started writing on this blog. For a while, I coordinated between my diaries and this blog. But ultimately, digital won me over. It’s convenient and accessible.
🤷 guilty.
I never was the ‘Dear diary’ kind but I always had more than three to write in at some point or the other. And they never started with formalities.
No honorifics. Nothing. Brute, angry language for a long time.
During school, in my sixth grade, we had a class project. It was to make a glass painting. For someone who is not very artistic, it was a great opportunity to make something that could be displayed.
It was an exciting time and I was excited. I specially had glass cut and made into squares so I could paint different things on them.
I still remember using tracing paper to jot down the art. And copy it using the glass paints and outliner. It was not that difficult, even for me.
I remember being proud of it. I remember flaunting the new “skills”. And I still remember how on the day of the exhibition, my painting which was that of a bunch of grapes, slipped from my hand and hit the concrete of the assembly grounds, vertically.
It broke just like the screen of an iPhone breaks when it falls vertically on any surface. Irreparable damage. The painting was lost. And I had half an hour to go for the exhibition.
What a loser.
I remember crying in the line as we were being herded back into our respective classes. It was winter time. The chill was in the air and I was hugging the packet which had my broken shards, now useless.
My teacher’s disapproval, my disappointment and disgust at the clumsiness, it all pooled into the pit of my stomach and I was sick with it.
The day went by, and I was made to dump the now useless Shards of my masterpiece into the dustbin. It was dangerous.
And so was I.
I made other paintings afterwards. They were all shown across family circles but none made it to the exhibition in that sixth grade class.
Poets over the time have romanticised sleeplessness with so many emotions that a lot of literature has focussed on the unrequited love and lovers’ dilemma
A simple, realistic life scenario doesn’t sit well with the fantasy world of fiction writers. Am I being scornful? Maybe.
Or maybe I’m just irked at the fact that it’s already 4:36 am at the time of writing this particular line and I am far from sleepy. What injustice is this?
Aren’t the eyes tired of staring at the world, spewing enough hatred around that they want to claim the darkness too?
Urgh. It’s frustrating. I wish I could sleep soundly and wake up fresh for once, without a headache.
Count sheep they said, fool your mind they said. Nothing works for the stressed mind for its filled with stuff even I don’t understand.
The post was supposed to be in third person but I’m used to adding I everywhere.
Yes I am experiencing lack of sleep and I blame all of you.
Starry nights, I see stars from this part of the world. Tiny ones, flickering in the distance. But where I come from, it’s a dull haze, all day every day. People have forgotten what stars look like
Looking for stars there is like squinting your eyes at the TV without glasses. Lol. Guilty.
Hence, here I am … Not sleeping. Hating on the world for ruining the mood, for fantasising sorrow into the star-studded nights of the Middle East.
It’s 2021! The new year is a time of excitement and possibilities. We are hyper aware of time passing us by. And the uncertainty of a new beginning.
The beginnings are timid this year. I am not sure about other people making resolutions this year but I sure as hell did not make one.
2020 was supposed to be THE YEAR for me. Laugh out loud for a minute there. You can also opt for RIP for my peace of mind.
Anyway, the pandemic brought its own challenges and heartache and with time, I adjusted well to the mask on my face. It’s like my face now. No, it is my face now.
Wow.
A sea of masks if you’re brave enough to venture out to a mall for a change, as a cry for help, tumble into H&M and panic buy some clothes because how else will you keep your spirits up? You have to live through another day to wear that new tee shirt, duh!
Thats what life is all about now. No money and lots of expenses. We’re all on our way down. Hold up, let me rephrase, I don’t know about others, but I sure as hell am circling the drain.
I think I am doing okay. Maybe. But I’m plagued by indecision as you can clearly see the direction this discussion is taking. Is this even a discussion? Am I not just speaking out to the void that is the world? Or maybe, writing out? 🤣
Moving on, I am hopeful that the worst is over and we just have to pull up our socks and prepare for the winter that 2020 has brought with it.
2021 won’t be warm enough. Maybe 2022 … But what do we know? Life is weird. Who even can understand what the hell is going on in the universe! The more I think, the more pissed I get.
Yes, you’ve guessed it right, I have a lot of time on my hands these days. And I am utilising it efficiently. 🤣
My point is … I don’t know what the point is. The post began as a philosophical one … Where I was supposed to vomit out some teachings of Confucius or maybe some tricks I’m trying to learn about how to unclutter the mind. It’s working, clearly. 🤣
I wish I knew what my role is in this stupid play that we play every day. Believe in things that we don’t see and hope for things that may never come. I’ve been waiting for a long time. And I am still waiting for salvation but all I see is desert in front of me.
Mounds of sand … Sand dunes … Shifting shapes, blowing away in the wind as I try to collect what I hope I have, like the camp fire’s flickering flames in the middle of nowhere.
I have some experience in camping and I hated it. I missed my bed.
I saw some fireworks. I may put together some silly, stupid edit of a video for it. Judge me.
I hope your year started out well. And I hope it continues to be either exciting or plain uneventful. Both scenarios are acceptable at this point.
My dad was a unique man. He had unique ideas, different thinking, calm and indifferent attitude, and on the whole an easy-going person. It was natural for him to shrugg off anxiety and deal with issues.
I often thought, while growing up, how he did that. He would not get angry unless really provoked, and even so, he would be more silent than up-and-about.
I often think about his approach to situations and people, and I wonder what he would have done or said if he were in my position.
I have no feedback. It’s a silent line for me, but I often ask, in the hope that I may have inherited some of his quirks.
I wouldn’t know either, even if I tried. There’s a blurry line between fiction and reality. And I often lose my balance.
With a black-coloured, rectangular radio, a small antenna on top right which would expand to catch the range
He would walk around the house, humming, or sometimes silent, find a quite corner of the house, usually my room, and curl with a book
He would often say, “The world of books is a maze. You can get lost in it and I don’t mind wandering through the pages.”
I always understood.
I never talk about it much, but he would buy me books, by a dozen, and challenge me to finish them all in a week, for instance
The loser would have to buy the next batch.
I never lost.
And he knew I never would.
Times have changed, now people wait and watch for me to fail. But that’s okay.
Dad used to believe in “forgive and forget” policy. He would say it keeps heart light and mind free of negativity
I never agreed. We were never on one page either.
Balance was always about to tip.
But he would always call out my name, when it was dark, to see if I’m okay, I wonder why I forget
What it’s like, to be remembered, after you’re gone, no trace but the memories in their minds.
And I remember, I remember to keep you alive. Thats what I do.
Through my thoughts, my smiles and my life, I’m keeping you alive.
What are you so afraid of, I wonder. Is it because she’s got wings so bright, it will burn your eyes?
Is it because she has no leash around her neck, and won’t sit when you come running with a treat?
Or is it because she shines so bright that your fragile, dim mind refuses to acknowledge for fear of being overlooked?
So, I wonder, is that why you do it?
The magic to possess, to ruin and decay the force of nature?
You tell her how to smile, how to dress, how to talk, how to impress
Married, she must come with an expiration date or else be subjected to social isolation
“Maybe, she has a flaw! Her teeth look odd.”
“Something must not be right … You know … down there!”
“She won’t lose weight for her big day?! How will she look nice then?”
“Not fair enough, I want the kids to be like foreigners …”
“Can’t cook?! What has your mother taught you?”
“Don’t go out wearing this jeans, I can see your legs!”
“Your shirt is too short for this ocassion. Go and change. We’ll wait.”
“Please wear a scarf in front of your chest or else everyone else will say she’s inappropriate.”
This is off the top of my head. The list goes on. Many would nod their heads, many would shake them
I think with a pen in my hand, dropping my words like bullets on paper,
Why are there such massive and inbred structures in place to cage one bird?
The untethered woman is a threat, she challenges what you hold dear, control and power
How dare she question what you set in stone, how dare she demand her right, reclaim her life, her humanity
So full of venom, your dark veins are, you hold her down, and cut those wings and leave her in a cold, dark grave
Is that why you’re afraid? That she’ll come knocking one day, rising from the box, that you made
How long will you gag, O mighty oppressor, and tell her it’s for her own good?
You deny, deny, deny through ages, her right to live as she wants, you dictate in the guise to protect,
Ironic, for you are the real danger.
She is untethered, she’s got the wind on her side, rustling trees and the rising sun
Sell the lie to your own kind, that what they say about Angels, nothing but statues, choosing to die with a smile, in pain
Dare she love, out of bounds, stone her to death for she raised her head!
Cut the tresses, that entangle you so, raise desires but instead kill the source, how dare she entice the man kind
Cloth her body, but stare at her so, make her feel naked, isnt that her purpose?
A painting on the wall, a flower in the dying pond, lacking lustre, a rusting iron sword
The world is dangerous for a woman because the man has no control.
Women need to be protected because they’re fragile, but the world you built was meant to break every bone in her body
And yet she stands, raises generations and after generations, a martyr, an icon of love but abused for she is denied
Her existence, her choice, her identity, and her voice.
A smile is all you remember from the past pictures of women, not one mentioned in history for things that she once may have done but we will never know.
Hi there. It’s been nine years since I started this train of thought. It doesn’t seem like it’s going to end any time soon.
New experiences, fatal emotions, scandalous hyperbolic lines and all too much hatred for this world.
I wondered what I should write on such a happy occasion. I’m not sure if it’s a happy thought that I’ve managed to consistently dump darkness on WordPress. Lol.
From the vault: Call it a product of lockdown or just an avenue to get out of the rut, but I have started a podcast along with a long-time friend. Before anyone gets all excited about it, let me explain that it is about Harry Potter and dialogue reads. We have only published two episodes of 10 minutes each so far.
It is called Knockturning Heads. LOL, yes, I came up with that name. If you know, you know.
During the episodes, you will hear Abeen and Shifa reminiscing about the past and trying to recreate some of it in the crappy present where the world is dying, one day at a time. Call it our coping mechanism?
We have many plans for it. Since it is the first time either of us are doing something like this, its pretty much a shot in the dark but I am hopeful we will improve and get better and more creative in terms of both content and technical knowhow.
I received a notification from WordPress this morning. It was about a spike in the stats for the blog.
It’s been a long time since such a notification was received and I was intrigued. I unlocked my phone and opened the WordPress app. And I realised, that one post had maximum views.
I was asked recently by a friend to start writing positive thoughts, to have encouraging words in poetry to change my mindset which apparently is very negative and depressing.
I wondered about it, let it simmer on the back burner and now it’s come to fore. I haven’t made a decision yet. Whatever I’m writing is just a thought process.
Am I capable of writing positive? I have asked myself this question again and again over the past months in lockdown.
It’s laughable that I’m looking for positivity and hope within my system at a time when the world went to shit.
There was a phase of black and white which drove me crazy, I texted a lot, I binge watched a lot and I worked a lot.
I did take some decisions that may change the course of my life. There was a period of internal reflection. And I wondered.
I don’t know if I can write positive. Nothing I write is ever forced and what is forced can’t be good writing. I know I’m lying and it will be a farce.
I don’t see the dawn as a new beginning to set my course and carpe diem the hell out of the moment!
I don’t see the glass half full, actually the glass doesn’t exist in my universe.
There is nothing but whitewashed walls, surrounding me, holding me prisoner
I see white light, not of hope, but of oblivion. And now I realise how smoothly wonderment turned to desperation.
I just am, with not many opinions, not many judgements for the world but one. It’s a state of mind.
