Each night, I drive alone,
through the dead streets,
and the living neon,

I see a troop of dancing lights
singing songs of uncomplished love and life

and to subside my pain of loss
i close my eyes to imagine a place

where my thoughts are smoke
and my mystery is you.

Step 2

As he stepped away from the long embrace, his watery eyes reflected aspirations of good fortune and a great future!

And in the eyes of his family he could make out mixed feelings of sadness and happiness. But above all, he saw hope. Hope that he'd impregnated in their hearts from the moment he was born.

Just like that, the arch below his nose, firmed into a straight line and the water slid down his eye lids. His cheeks construed his jaws, clenched with tenacity. He did not smile; his determination stood straight in the cold breeze that whisked the tears from his face into the open air lounge.

He had that look; the one where, the careless laughter escapes to give way to smiles of affirmation; and tears act as fuel for self confidence.

He let his fingers slid off the lingering hands that held them. He turned around, and with that last touch of comfort and the incessant feeling of responsibility, he lifted his bag across his shoulder

It felt light.

jerk

its 2:16 am in the morning. 1'st December. I force myself through a yawn and my spectacles are still on the side of my bed. Its where I was reading The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid.

I've been doing alot of reading in the past few months and it only just struck me. A writer writes not by his brain, or his heart or his amazing imagination, as much he writes by experience. Each book lends a window into the lives of the authors they are written by. And by that logic, each writer is best known for a type of book.

I might be wrong to generalise, but John Grisham's forte is thriller, John Green's forte is young adult stories (with a touch of teen psychology), and where as Dan Brown's stories have much to do with secret societies all around the world; JK Rowling's set pieces are all in United Kingdom.

One could imagine how it smells and how it tastes and how it looks and maybe also how certain something feels like. But to imagine, and to actually know are two extremely different things. Imagination might be more important than knowledge, but the experience is an absolute fact in its tangible form.

I'm in no way down playing the importance of imagination. I am all up for the kalaidescopic hypertrophy of the cerebral. Then again, I feel that the passion the love and the reality with which one can elucidate a situation, an event or even an object by virtue of self experience is an all together different story (pun intended). It has an idiosyncracy that is individual, yet affliliates itself to the IMAGINATION of the people reading the literature, in an uncanny way.

But doesnt that seem like a paradox?

Nevertheless, what excited me and forced me to type through my sleep (which has been lost due to the excitement), is the simple fact, that words can play magic if you're willing to listen.

But more importantly, I know I have experienced things which only I can write about. And they're true to my opinions, my way of interpretation and the way I feel about it. I remember my Urdu teacher used to tell me that she kept a book always with her and whenever an idea, aor a thought struck her, she'd note it down. That was one of the reasons why I bought a keypad phone in the first place.

And so that leads to a simple fact, that I must keep doing what I love best. Write.

(and sketch also).

Quote of the Day : Maybe I should document my life. If not for anyone else, but myself.

its 2:57 am now, 1st of December

Maktab e Ishq

Maktab e Ishq ka dastoor niraala dekha

Ussay chuttee na milee, jis nay sabaq yaad kiya.

Arz o samaa kahan tairee wus3at ko paaa sakain?

Mera hi dil hai jis mein TU samaa sakay

in a state....

maybe am crazy, I dont know, but I'm suffocating.

the sensation that your heart is being enveloped by your drying, airless lungs

and i dont even know that guy, like .. not even seen him. I just learnt his name a few hours ago; when the first news broke about his death.

His friend told me they chatted about setting up a football match a day ago; and now he's vanished. Poof! GonE!

makes me realise, am I prepared for this? God's given me the manual to follow; but I've never bothered to refer. not yet.

procrastination.

but God doesnt procrastinate.

never.

He drowned in a swimming pool. perfectly healthy, perfectly athletic.

perfectly dead.

All i can do sitting here is pray that Allah has mercy on his soul. And that we, moreso I, get my ways right.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un

/S

complacent

Funny that we've dared to love each other
And we long to meet each other

Yet we're scared to face each other

I guess we're complacent, with our existence in the same room.

one day

I'll empty my heart here.

My anonymity will not last much

But my subconciousness will

and it'll hold onto what you never said

in hopes that you wake it up.

one day.

soldiers of death

everytime I run, I vow I'll leave them
but the twenty soldiers of death come marching,
burning on one end and ready on the other
and I submit to their cause.

its the 100th post YAY! -

so I've hit a century of mindless banter. I am going to celebrate this one with a poem. might now go well with many people; but i think its allright.


I am not a prophet by S. Zafar


I'm not a prophet,
Lest, I was sent as one.
But the scriptures betrayed us,
Strapped with brothers and guns.


Unfaithful their promises,
The hives have won.
Yet, the illusion remains constant;
of gods and none.


Sympathy may stay hither,
Tither pointless, revenge;
Sons of the fallen,
Have failed to avenge.


And in my sorcery
I soar above the donkey man
Then my weapon is fiction
The magic of neverland.


Lies wrapped in lust,
their Greed transceds.
ever ready to fail
and ready to condemn


So stray your implore from me
There's no wisdom i share.
Only light in the abcences of darkness
and darkness in the presence of itself.

cut it.bitch.

we cut our dreams with a cleaver

and drown our thoughts so deep;

that all we're left, is the essential

ability to survive and breathe.