tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65546778298370101482024-03-05T11:04:55.479-08:00My Musings“Wherever you go, go with all your heart.” -ConfuciusUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-21236079583974746182016-11-07T07:48:00.000-08:002016-11-07T07:48:12.438-08:00Old Lovers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The clouds descended that morning. I had only one wish amongst many which seemed impossible. Isn't flying the only dream we dream when the bird we reach to pet takes off, yawning with its wings? I wanted to fly up, ball up clouds in my hands like snow and bring them down as I land theatrically, gracefully. I jumped off sidewalks and stairs to see if I could land without breaking a bone or falling face first. I prepared for my first flight.<br />
<br />
I grew up, and as I gained years, my bank of things-to-know gained a few pounds too. My aunt once told me a story where somewhere high up on a paved mountain road a cloud passed through her car. How did it feel? I asked her. She looked at me confused and said: It was cold. It just passed right through, like cold air. The disappointment I felt still wheezes when it breathes.<br />
<br />
The solid fluffs of clouds turned out to be a mirage, preserving its secrets only by staying far up, brushing the space between space and atmosphere like a handle-less broom. That's why we forget about flying and landing. We know now there are no cotton arms to hug us and our wings as we lift off.<br />
<br />
The clouds, my old lovers, lost more and more of my attention because their lies had been caught. I didn't even jump off stairs anymore; just stepped off like a reasonable human being. I suppose they got upset at my conditional attachment. I suppose they got attached to me right then, like a faithless sweetheart who wants you only after you leave. I suppose they did, because before it was time to wake up that morning, they made their way down to my sea-level city; they bowed their heads and sank to my window, passed through iron bars and pressed their white noses against the glass. I suppose they decided love was not a cul-de-sac but a two-way street and that it was time to confess. Because when I woke up that morning, all I could see was fog.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-39795040062494822072016-02-16T07:58:00.004-08:002016-02-16T08:00:13.407-08:00Fine Line<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div data-contents="true">
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="8mtqd-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8mtqd-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="8mtqd-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="549b7-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="549b7-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="549b7-0-0"><span data-text="true">I'd always heard </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eak52-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="eak52-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="eak52-0-0"><span data-text="true">There is a fine line </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="d6bfc-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d6bfc-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="d6bfc-0-0"><span data-text="true">Between love and hate. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="cd3ll-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="cd3ll-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="cd3ll-0-0"><span data-text="true">But it took little more</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="d2cph-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d2cph-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="d2cph-0-0"><span data-text="true">Than a speedbreaker jump</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="3jmmq-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3jmmq-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="3jmmq-0-0"><span data-text="true">To go over to the other hell. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="omjn-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="omjn-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="omjn-0-0"><span data-text="true">Love is a big four letter word</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="4ih3b-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4ih3b-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="4ih3b-0-0"><span data-text="true">And I'm not big enough. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="ec41s-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ec41s-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="ec41s-0-0"><span data-text="true">I only know it's more than a</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="7nt16-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7nt16-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="7nt16-0-0"><span data-text="true">Tingling of the toes and </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="ccu6i-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ccu6i-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="ccu6i-0-0"><span data-text="true">Heavy breathing. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="mbs5-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="mbs5-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="mbs5-0-0"><span data-text="true">It's a stripping of your soul </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="1nn7h-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1nn7h-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="1nn7h-0-0"><span data-text="true">From the soles. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="ctdjl-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ctdjl-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="ctdjl-0-0"><span data-text="true">Pulling at your feet till your knees</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="8r8al-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8r8al-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="8r8al-0-0"><span data-text="true">Bang on grass. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="f8ftk-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f8ftk-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f8ftk-0-0"><span data-text="true">It is getting hit in the gut with</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="aj5vm-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="aj5vm-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="aj5vm-0-0"><span data-text="true">Your brother's cricket bat</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="1qibl-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1qibl-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="1qibl-0-0"><span data-text="true">Only a bit more pleasant. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="4or3q-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4or3q-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="4or3q-0-0"><span data-text="true">It is a mob in your chest, </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="87e8n-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="87e8n-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="87e8n-0-0"><span data-text="true">Scratching and banging against the bars of the rib cage. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="e7l78-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="e7l78-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="e7l78-0-0"><span data-text="true">It is an ache</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="d47ga-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d47ga-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="d47ga-0-0"><span data-text="true">In your empty hands. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="3cilt-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3cilt-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="3cilt-0-0"><span data-text="true">It is a hysteria.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="4q698-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4q698-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="4q698-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="df7v7-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="df7v7-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="df7v7-0-0"><span data-text="true">So what am I surprised for</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="33ap7-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="33ap7-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="33ap7-0-0"><span data-text="true">When hate feels just the same. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="cu1ih-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="cu1ih-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="cu1ih-0-0"><span data-text="true">When both I know are passionate</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="qgfe-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="qgfe-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="qgfe-0-0"><span data-text="true">And on a Richter scale would read</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="1ilvi-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1ilvi-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="1ilvi-0-0"><span data-text="true">Either eighteen or eight. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="aj1f3-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="aj1f3-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="aj1f3-0-0"><span data-text="true">What am I surprised for</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="bpm50-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bpm50-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="bpm50-0-0"><span data-text="true">That the line is a pencil mark hardly visible</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="9opc7-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9opc7-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9opc7-0-0"><span data-text="true">Rubbed on with fingertips until</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="a32gc-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="a32gc-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="a32gc-0-0"><span data-text="true">Carbon outlines the fingerprints. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="ebrnf-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ebrnf-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="ebrnf-0-0"><span data-text="true">I should have known your tongue would make</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="9bfd0-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9bfd0-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9bfd0-0-0"><span data-text="true">Serpents</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="5cqvq-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5cqvq-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="5cqvq-0-0"><span data-text="true">Instead of kisses one day. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="i5ps-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="i5ps-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="i5ps-0-0"><span data-text="true">The promises made will be </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="eibqd-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="eibqd-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="eibqd-0-0"><span data-text="true">Undone</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="87rnj-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="87rnj-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="87rnj-0-0"><span data-text="true">One by one</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="51jb5-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="51jb5-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="51jb5-0-0"><span data-text="true">Like shoelaces pulled out with no regard for the elaborate braiding.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="9abqk-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9abqk-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="9abqk-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="b2nj6-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="b2nj6-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="b2nj6-0-0"><span data-text="true">When 'liar' became the only untruth, </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="71c6r-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="71c6r-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="71c6r-0-0"><span data-text="true">I was left gasping for oxygen </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="dk6ja-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="dk6ja-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="dk6ja-0-0"><span data-text="true">Because somehow you were my plant </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="4lqkf-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4lqkf-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="4lqkf-0-0"><span data-text="true">And I had never a green thumb. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="34qr5-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="34qr5-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="34qr5-0-0"><span data-text="true">But I won't just stop watering you. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="5vmnt-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5vmnt-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="5vmnt-0-0"><span data-text="true">You will not wither and dry. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="4pb7t-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4pb7t-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="4pb7t-0-0"><span data-text="true">I will not put you in</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="b32vp-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="b32vp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="b32vp-0-0"><span data-text="true">A blistering corner of the sun</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="8n0v2-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8n0v2-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="8n0v2-0-0"><span data-text="true">To die a natural death.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="cjhnh-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="cjhnh-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="cjhnh-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="36ern-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="36ern-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="36ern-0-0"><span data-text="true">I will</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="3dl8-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3dl8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="3dl8-0-0"><span data-text="true">Light matches, </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="6gcf9-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6gcf9-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="6gcf9-0-0"><span data-text="true">Burn cigarette holes</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="p3l8-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="p3l8-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="p3l8-0-0"><span data-text="true">In your leaves.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="1mhvv-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1mhvv-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="1mhvv-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="3u7ua-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3u7ua-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="3u7ua-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-offset-key="6tiq0-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6tiq0-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="6tiq0-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-47618074357796414672015-11-20T05:15:00.000-08:002015-11-20T05:15:04.039-08:00Places.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">They say you should never
find your home in a person, for all that ever leads to is homesickness. People
change, people leave, people move. Make your home some place steady. Make your
home at places. That way, when all people scatter and you feel stranded, you
can always go back to land and own it; feel a familiar ground beneath your feet
and love the gravity for its pull. Believe me, there is no worse advice. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am a lover of places. I
wear my heart on my sleeve and fall in love with land. With the bumps and the
stones, with the grass and the trees, with the landmarks and signposts, with
the walls and their windows, with the broken windowpane that no one fixed, with
that one dust bunny that has always been around, with the patch of sky that
forms the highest domed ceiling of the world, with the buildings
under-construction, with the buildings declining, with corridors that give off
whiffs of grime, with the clock that's been stuck at 2pm all this time, with
food that you can't eat if you've seen being cooked, with library books, with
all staircases and all corners, all nooks, with the morning air that only
smells like that there. If you've ever seen how it looks when it rains there,
you would know what I'm talking about. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am a lover of places.
When we moved out of our last house, I cried for weeks. I said 'take me home,
please.' And when they told me this was my home now, I cried even harder. These
walls will never be those walls. This floor will never be that floor. I look
out the window and don't see what I used to see. This is not my home. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wear my heart on my
sleeve, and it's graduation day. I walked in here feeling displaced and in four
years I've given my heart to a place, yet again. People say, move on! This is
how long this was supposed to last. I only hear: don't love, don't love, don't
love. Never fall in love with places. People you can take with you, places are
stubborn; they won't budge. It hurts more walking away. Being left will always
be easier than leaving. I have the power to stay here a bit longer. This
thought will drive you mad. Is it better to stay and let it get deeper under
your skin, or should you worry about how much more it is going to bleed then
and rip it out now? While you can? While you can see it stirring your thickest
vein?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When two people part ways,
the world says: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'There are plenty of
fish in the sea'. I read a poem once that said: 'and if she was the ocean?
There are seven of those too' See, that's where the poet was wrong. Even if
there were seven million oceans on planet Earth, home would be your place of
birth. Not where you were literally born but where you built yourself. For you,
there would always be that one ocean you want to swim in, jump in and die in.
The poet was wrong.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am a lover of places,
and that's the worst kind of love there is. It's invisible, intangible. Your
beloved stays where she is; you change, you leave, you move and being left will
always be easier than leaving.</span></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-15905058407814409672015-09-09T11:09:00.002-07:002015-09-09T11:37:36.552-07:00If she were to be given a voice...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If Pakistan were to be given a voice, she would sing hymns of all the sacrifices that have been made for her. She would tell you that her land has been fought over by thousands of faithful, faithless men. She would tell you that she has been washed with blood and irrigated with fire. She would tell you that she has been won, fair and square, so that those that live in her can be safe. Her organs have been severed and distributed. Her heart that she calls Kashmir has been ripped from her body. <br />
<br />
<br />
But Pakistan is a strong, resilient mother. She has been ploughing on with her life regardless of her sons and daughters drilling holes in her every day. Despite her children pointing guns at each other and planting bombs under her feet, she has lived for sixty eight long years. She does not like one son over the other; she treats each family member the same. She doesn't care if one son likes to wear a turban while the other a long beard. She doesn't tell one daughter to dress like the other. She is patient; she is kind. She lets them live in their houses of choice, whether they be under minarets or under crosses. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her children have lost patience with each other though. They have grown so violent and hard that they have exiled each other to separate pieces of land. Pakistan is a mute; but she wishes she wishes she could speak so she could scream at them to <em>stop fighting</em>. Just stop fighting. I love you all the same. You all have a right to be here. Is this not what I was promised when I was ripped limb from limb? Was I not told you will all behave yourselves; that there would be peace and tolerance? Was I not told we would all live together over my land and under my roof? <br />
<br />
<br />
Pakistan is a mute; but if she could speak she would tell you that she was torn apart by faithful, faithless men. She is a survivor. She will not surrender. She would tell you to stand strong from within so that when they come over to take her away, you can defend her. Fight for her. She would beg you to protect her. She is now sixty eight, old and weary, and she needs many hands to rub her sore joints. Pakistan is just a mother, who wants a little less smoke in the air, and a little more love.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-39093395561367489592015-09-06T12:02:00.004-07:002015-09-06T12:06:56.509-07:00A Five Billion Star Hotel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The only sky I had ever seen was ruined; covered like a bad Instagram filter that diffuses all the detail to make things look prettier. Except, sometimes when the rawness and realness of something is removed, it doesn't really stay itself anymore. I never really believed it, before I went to the Fairy Meadows; before I trekked uphill on mountains for six hours and started believing for one minute, in my naivety, that nothing is worth this much trouble. I have not been more wrong. As soon as I entered the clearing my small wooden cabin was in, the first thing I did was revel in my achievement: I had never seen the face of a mountain before, living by the sea, let alone attempt to go on the roughest hike through one of the most dangerous routes in the world. The second thing I did was look the Nanga Parbat in the face and tell her: you are gorgeous, you are beauty. Right then, I was so sorry that I had words used like amazing and mind blowing and breathtaking on less deserving situations in my previous life, my life pre-trekking-for-six-hours. Right then, I knew that phrases like 'heaven on earth' and 'paradise-like' originated in a place like this. I knew that people living in metropolitan cities were unworthy of having words like these in their vocabulary, because look what they did; they used them up before they should have.<br />
<br /><br />
As I was standing there I felt the kind of cold that travels like fog and seeps into your clothes only to accumulate under your skin. The kind that clings on to you with it's claw like nails even when you've put your face up close to a big live fire. The fire stung my face but didn't warm me up and I gave up on getting myself heat. I stood up, shivering with every step and moved out in the open where the light of the fire shrank back. And just then, accidentally, I looked up and saw heaven right there and then. You know they say life is a miracle? How they say the universe is unfathomable? I was looking up, craning my neck, my nose making a 90 degree angle with the ground, and just stared. There was not a single empty space in the sky. Every inch of sky I could see was peppered with stars, a polka dotted bedsheet gone wrong. It was as if a child who didn't know what ordinary sky looked like went on Microsoft Paint and sprayed on a dark background just for the heck of it. I didn't care about my neck joint hurting like a fracture, I couldn't feel the cold. In fact, I couldn't feel anything but awed, and slightly frightened. The same sky I watched every day for 21 years was suddenly <em>more</em>. Like someone decided it needed additional decoration Right then I saw a comet and screamed with wonderment. A new friend I'd made came up behind me and said, yes, you see a lot of shooting stars here. I just couldn't go inside my little wooden 'hotel room'. Instead I sat down on the ladder-like steps outside with him and lit a smoke, looking up all the while.<br />
<br /><br />
The bad thing about being so thousands of feet above sea level is that there's very little oxygen. You strain to breathe. And for an asthma patient (read: me) it's a complete nightmare. Every breath is laborious. The best thing about being so high up is that there is very little oxygen: my cigarette seemed to stay lit for hours, no O2 to guzzle it up. That moment at the steps, talking in whispers, looking not at each other in the dark but gazing at the stars. lit cigarette in hand, seemed to go on forever. It lasted for days and for seconds. Later I tried to imagine what it would be like to be here with someone you love passionately, someone you can lie down on the grass with, hold hands with, make love with. You would just fall in deeper. Like men who to war together and see death and despair emerge 'bound by the wet bond of blood' as Robert Graves put it, people who see visions of beauty side by side are bound too. <br />
<br /><br />
As soon as I stood up and was out of my reverie, I looked at the stars again, I looked at the white mountain made of powdery snow, I looked at the cigarette stub on the ground, I looked at my friend still sitting on the steps smiling at me; and I knew I'd pick this billion star hotel over any other place in the world, any day. Even if getting there meant spending six hours breathing like a lung cancer patient and forcing my feet to fight gravity. It is absolutely worth it, if only for a sky that is unruined, and unfiltered.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-80520505486588580772014-12-04T10:07:00.002-08:002014-12-04T10:07:46.745-08:00This Moment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My incredibly cool philosophy professor once said that memory is time. If we have no memory of what has just happened, there's no way of knowing that time has passed. It is kind of mind boggling really. Imagine if all the clocks in the world went back an hour, and you had memory of what you had been doing in that period, you would know that the hour did pass. (Or maybe you'd just think you're going mad.) Now, what if when all the clocks went back, you forgot the entire hour and whatever you experienced during it. There's no way of knowing time passed, is there? Scary.<br />
<br />
Time really is an arbitrary concept if you think about it. When you're with friends or family, it swooshes by. What, has it been four hours already? you ask. Now what about the times that you spend waiting for someone to come or something to happen? It seems like time is crawling and each minute feels longer than a day; painful and never ending. It seems like time punishes those that keep track of it; the more you are aware of it, the more it keeps you aware of itself. You stop caring about it and it lets you be, it paces away. It just does the opposite of what you want it to do: you want it to stop, it races; you want it to pass, it goes into slow-motion. Time is a stubborn, stubborn bastard.<br />
<br />
As my favourite moments go by, I just stop for a second and tell my people: hold on, stop talking for a second. I want to remember this moment and how happy we are in it. I want to think back and remember exactly how you look, how there are small creases at the corner of your eyes as you smile, how crooked your teeth are, how the laughter starts bubbling in my stomach and overflows till it reaches my lips. I want to remember everything, everything as it is in this moment.<br />
<br />
When I do that, it doesn't matter how fast or how slow time goes. I don't mind it cheating me of my best moments. I don't mind it going away as fast as it can go because I've got memories, and, after all, memory IS time.<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-85927139115425925112014-03-06T08:49:00.001-08:002014-03-06T08:52:55.080-08:00Wild Beasts and Alter Egos<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The mind of the
writer is a haunted place, filled with wild beasts and psychopathic characters
and alter egos; a schizophrenic or two; maybe even some criminal mastermind. He
can think beyond the limits of a normal man. He thinks in metaphors, he
understands poetry and beauty. Science and math are his worst enemies and
symmetry, uniformity as unbearable to him as they are paramount for
architects. <br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He processes
every flake of information with utmost intensity and every description of
everything is heartfelt; the workings of his brain as intricate as fierce; his
thoughts as wondrous as scary.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The writer is a
poor, tormented creature, carrying the weight of soul-crushing inadequacy that
seems to be the onus of being an artist and not everyone can understand him.
His believes are often dismissed as being too ambitious, or too plain. He talks
about building red-brick castles when people talk about skyscrapers. He demands
change for that one man falling asleep hungry at the corner of his street when
people talk about changing lifestyles. He asks for love when people covet riches.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
Is it wrong of us, then, to fall head over heels for someone who shows us a
little sympathy, a little affection, a little understanding? Look at poor
Sylvia Plath who couldn’t tolerate her husband’s disloyalty. We are all so
easily manipulated, it’s pathetic.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My point in all
this is only that if you come across a creature huddled in the corner
scribbling in a notebook, be kind, be patient. He is living a lot more lives in
his head than you can ever imagine.</span></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-53500165276025742882014-02-22T08:20:00.001-08:002014-02-22T08:22:00.953-08:00Mean<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Times have changed. Not time, I may have used the wrong word there, PEOPLE have changed. People have changed as a whole. It must sound very old-worldly and I ancient, but it's true. Everybody is just less nice. There is a general rule to assume the worst of everyone. Not a soul is given the benefit of the doubt.<br />
<br />
I was book shopping when a few guys and a girl started mocking the fact the I was speaking in English. They sounded absolutely ridiculous so I thought saying anything back was unnecessary, but it doesn't change the fact they tried to make me feel bad about myself without even knowing me. Since WHEN did this become okay? <br />
<br />
A group of girls tried to make fun, amongst themselves of a girl friend of mine, who has really short hair; saying stupid things about a <i>naayi ki dukaan</i> and God knows what. Why? WHY? Please note that these girls were undergrad students and were inside the university premises. Is this what education has taught you? Do you sleep well at night knowing that you've hurt someone you didn't need to? Don't you fear karma or God's wrath or do you believe in no power beyond yourself? Is this what your family has taught you?<br />
<br />
Someone broke a promise: he must be a cheat. The maid called in sick: she must be lying. Someone offered you help: think of ulterior motives. Someone has a lot of wealth: haraam hoga. <br />
Why are we moving so swiftly towards being mean? Where are 'goodness returns to you' and 'jesi karni wesi bharni' and other common moral rules that people believed in?<br />
<br />
<br />
What's sad is that I can't think of a way out of it, except every person looking into himself and accepting his faults; imagining himself in his victim's shoes; thinking how he would have felt in his place; being... <i>kind</i>.<br />
Please, please, stop hating so much. Human emotions are simple: they give back what they receive. No good thought is gone unnoticed. No good deed is gone unappreciated.<br />
<br />
Believe me, love can only ever bring back more of itself. :)</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-21526486334053277352014-01-24T06:49:00.003-08:002014-01-24T06:49:48.178-08:00The Van Gogh Syndrome<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One of the weird feelings that I assumed myself alone in having is the Van Gogh Syndrome. I swear I have no desire to cut off my ear; it has nothing to do with that. It's a feeling of insufficiency, of scarcity. You feel unproductive and unqualified. I thought no one else knew about it and it was just a few brain cells of mine gone mad. Then I came across an artist who had commented about it in some obscure corner of the internet, which, by the way, I have not been able to find since.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5RB8DkcYLyCJrr-8bBK_JGfavKY7OgmL9sJWioxRou-LL4JEQDcWYOLcuh0-N_1D8UQlE5ZQNFRiPsZI0v3_8_bfux8pRJef0Id4K5gqC5UTRlvb1YOFuJAcRzjnXnC7t4HwSHBe4jNe/s1600/Vincent-Van-Gogh-9515695-3-402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5RB8DkcYLyCJrr-8bBK_JGfavKY7OgmL9sJWioxRou-LL4JEQDcWYOLcuh0-N_1D8UQlE5ZQNFRiPsZI0v3_8_bfux8pRJef0Id4K5gqC5UTRlvb1YOFuJAcRzjnXnC7t4HwSHBe4jNe/s1600/Vincent-Van-Gogh-9515695-3-402.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><br /></div>
I don't know much about it; not many people know of it and even less confess to having it. In spite of that, the Van Gogh syndrome is possibly a part of many artists' psyche. (I make no claims; just speaking from experience). Consider a man who paints. He paints beautiful portraits of people and places. He is loved. His art is appreciated. Yet, when he lounges in his favourite chair, having sold one of his paintings for quite a bit of money, he starts feeling like he didn't do them. He feels like his art was inadvertent, happened by chance and that he has no skills at all. This... <i>condition </i>even goes as far as to lowering his self-esteem, driving him into an inferiority complex. All this will go on and on until he paints a new piece and puts it out for display. Once that is done and his new painting is appreciated just as much, maybe even more, he feels elated and happy and able... just for a while; then this wretched phenomenon strikes again. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the Van Gogh syndrome.<br />
<br />
I don't know why it is named that or if dear Vincent was a victim, but I do know that it shows itself in people who have associations with the arts: painting, music, writing, anything to do with creativity. It has something to do with the complex nature of art: there are no steps to producing something. There is no limit to what you can draw, or write about, or compose which subsequently leads an artist to feel that what he has previously achieved was accidental and there is a chance that if he sits back down at his desk with a paper and pen he won't be able to reproduce the results. Maybe it was only luck and a good frame of mind, or maybe a great inspiration that led him to be outstanding and maybe he just isn't good enough.<br />
<br />
Poor creatures of creativity! We either suffer from arrogance, or we are agonized by this beast. It's the worst of any disorder you could have because it's not serious enough to require medical attention, and it's not disregardable. It does not render you incapable of producing good art, but it makes you feel lesser, menial, subsidiary.<br />
<br />
I write about this so that I can come back to this and read it. So I can try to prove to myself that the reason I feel this feeling is because I AM good enough! Just so that I can stop me from doubting myself, so I can convince myself of my talents.<br />
<br />
Oh, if Van Gogh could see me now.<br /><br /><br />
<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-74571016853067666302013-10-02T09:22:00.001-07:002013-10-02T09:22:41.078-07:00Happy Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You know how ten or so years ago, whenever given crayons and a piece of paper, we always drew a landscape with brown mountains with streams running through it; squiggly grass and lopsided houses and a not-so-perfect circle of a sun, with sun beams poking out of it like spikes of a porcupine? Or maybe you don't know; maybe it was me who was insistently persistent in her idea of a perfect landscape.<br />
<br />
As years went by, I figured that I'm picturing 'perfect' the wrong way. It might be difficult to explain my thought process and define what happened, but I'll give it a shot, anyway.<br />
<br />
This picture of a house by the mountains has always been the foreground of all dreams and romantic scenarios that played through my head. I never payed much attention to who, what or how; just <i>where</i> mattered to me. Not saying I wanted to live in the Himalayas; just saying that I wanted things to be the way I had in mind.<br />
<br />
But, sadly, experiences kill our dreams. One minute you're running through the rain, ecstatic, next you fall down with a bruise on your knee and learn your lesson. That happened to me, multiple times. I fell down, bandaged my knee, got up and ran again. And again. Until I had no strength in me to ever run again. My happy home in the hills became hazy and blurred.<br />
<br />
When I had given up completely, God told me it's wrong to quit. He stitched me up and set me off. The path that I kept falling on was no longer wet, gritty or rough; it was easy. Once I got over my initial fear of falling, I knew this is what I wanted. It changed my beliefs. It changed my mind. And it helped me.Through life and all the nonsense that comes with it.<br />
<br />
Turns out it's not a perfect life that I want. Turns out I can do without a swimming pool and a fish-pond in the garden. Turns out I can make do with a mediocre life with the perfect person. Turns out I already am in my happy home; although the chimney isn't quite like I pictured.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-67364861274793670162013-07-03T11:42:00.001-07:002013-07-28T09:47:02.115-07:00Conversation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You know the feeling when you have stories and vague ideas flitting about in your head and you don't really pay them much attention until you're having a conversation with your favourite person, and you decide to translate them into words, and you discover that they were actually good stories worth telling? I do. It's one warm feeling. Such is the power of actual conversation with an actual friend; you can say your weirdest thought out loud and there are more chances of him saying 'Hey, that's happened to me too' than 'What the hell are you saying"<br />
<br />
I believe, and you should too, that the closest you can get to a person is not when you can be in their company for hours and have lively, mindless talk that makes you laugh; it is when you can sit down in front of your mate, exchange occasional, meaningful one-liner sentences and still feel like as happy as a hyena.* <br />
<br />
<div class="r" style="text-align: left;">
I fear that one day, when the humans today have all died and there is an entirely new breed of them in the world, these tiny things that have not been said will be lost forever. This is why I say everything out loud, even if it's not the most interesting thing in the world; even if it doesn't make sense, I don't care about others mistrusting my sanity . What do you think would have happened if that one person who talked about déjà vu had feared being called crazy? We'd never have found out it's a real thing. People would be going around thinking, hey that's happened before... but i'm probably just slightly mad.</div>
<div class="r" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="r" style="text-align: left;">
So you get my flow, right? We should all talk more. Not about what we ate for dinner or what 'they fought about' but about ideas and feelings and habits and philosophies. Whatever is on your mind, say it out loud. Not everyone is very good at phrasing ideas, but what's the harm in trying?</div>
<div class="r" style="text-align: left;">
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<div class="r" style="text-align: left;">
*Hyenas are said to be the only animals that can laugh out loud. So I assumed their happiness.</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-40301627184946473422013-05-17T07:57:00.001-07:002013-05-17T08:41:40.814-07:00Elections and other monstruosité<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I wake up on the morning of the 11th of May. Yes, morning. That's a statement in itself. I feel the excitement pangs that i have come to associate with Eid and exams, over the years. But, no; today is neither. It's Election Day! The day has come and passed four times in my life without me even noticing. And like every other event in the universe, it's important to me now because I'm involved. Not competing or anything, just voting. Like every other citizen, i was under the impression that i can contribute in the making of a new government. I could not have been sillier. Or dumber. Or more wrong. (I wish wronger were a word, my sentence would have sounded so much more impactful.)<br />
<br />
I set out at 11 dot. That's the soonest I could, considering I had convinced my 80-year-old grandmother to vote for my man, Imran, and you can cook <i>paaye </i>faster than she dresses. Anyway, heading out, I triumphantly texted people telling them I was gonna go vote (ink on my thumb, ya'll). A short, very bumpy, back-breaking ride later, we're at The Polling Station. Queues of old people, young people, women, girls. I was actually impressed. Until the police constable at the gate told us: "Gaarri aagay lo! Yahan park karna mana hai!" Even AFTER we explained to him we had a senior citizen with us who couldn't walk on uneven surfaces. I was even more upset when I was told, by a different but equally inapt looking constable, that the polling hadn't started yet because 'samaan nahi aaya.' I really can't believe I had thought it would be a cool, systematic process. For once I had been optimistic of the sense of duty of our officers. Were they not supposed to be here three hours ago? Whatever. Climbing back in, i went back to the house, all gloomy. Daddy said we could go back again in a few hours, the polling had to start sooner or later.<br />
<br />
One sad hour later, bhai log ring my doorbell and say the voters in the house can carpool with them to the station. No thank you, we aren't voting for you anyway. I didn't say that out loud. Anyway, guess what! It meant the polling had started! A repeat performance of getting in the car and bumpy back-breaking ride took us to the polling station where the queue had lengthened dramatically. Anyway, taking one for the country, citizens, I joined it. Holding my nani's arm, not even inside the gate yet. Waited and waited. I was trying really hard not to ask women who they were voting for. I swear, I tried. Then it burst out of me: 'Kisko vote dengi?"<br />
"Pata nai"<br />
"Kia matlab? Aap line mein hain. Kese nai pata?"<br />
I think she lost her cool with me then because she made a horrible face and turned away. I was offended, but not as much as to not try again. By now, everyone around including the Rangers and the Police had noticed my nani. We were shepherded to the front of the line and inside the polling station where there are even longer queues. I sit my nani down on a nearby chair and join in. Again, I try not to ask but I just lack the capability to keep it in.<br />
"Kisko vote dengi?"<br />
"Patang ko"<br />
"Astagfirullah"<br />
The discussion should have ended there but keen and insistent that i am, i ploughed on:<br />
"Dekheyn Imran Khan ko vote deyn! Wo Naya Pakistan banayega"<br />
She smiled and shook her head. I swear, I have never felt more desperate a need to slap someone hard. It took every ounce of self-control I had to smile back, however condescendingly. Back there, a Ranger had spotted my nani and her cane (that she threatened to hit everyone and anyone with). Once again we were pushed and encouraged to go ahead to the front of the line. I was beginning to think it was a great idea to convince nani to come. I was quite enjoying the preferential treatment.<br />
<br />
At the front of the line, it was pandemonium. A woman scratching names off a list, screaming to see identity cards and receipts. Women pushing and pulling each other to be at the front. Anyway, we got our names checked in the book. At one point the woman matching faces to lists and names insisted on re-christening me Saleema Tufail. Only my persistent refusal led her to search for an alternative.<br />
<br />
After mucho hard work, pulling pushing through and screaming for space, we (my nani and I) were in the polling room for women. Once again, i regretfully admit that i thought it would be systematic and proper. I was wrong. If outside was panic, inside was Sparta. A woman was missing from her post, the illiterate clerk who had been given the job of inking thumbs was tearing ballot papers and stamping them for the voters. And the women of NA-253... Taubah. They were crazy. Crazy and selfish. Each wanted to get done before everyone else. Anyway, I got my nani her two ballot papers and got mine. The curtained area where citizens are supposed to stamp their votes in privacy was not vacant. Mildly, I wondered why. My question was soon answered when a fully make-up'd woman walked out and cast, not one not two, but SEVEN ballot papers in one ballot box alone. In my head, i got a vague replay of the polling officer tearing off the papers and handing it over to The Woman herself saying: 'Patang pe lagana' I hadn't even realized what she was doing! The hell? I had always heard of bad stuff happening but it never happened to me. Had I just witnessed blatant rigging?<br />
<br />
I had to say something. I looked around with half-a-finger raised to accuse the criminal herself in a 'IT WAS <i>YOU</i>' kinda way. But nothing doing; she had run away as soon as she had done her job. I pointed at the only polling officer in the room and said: "Kia horaha hai yahan per? Rigging kar rae hain aap log?!" My voice getting louder with each syllable. I had briefly wondered before if I was wrong, but her reaction told me everything. She looked wild-eyed and said: "Kisnay dekha? Aap ne dekha? Aap ne dekha? Kisi ne nai dekha." And to my surprise, the voice that came from behind me saying: "Main ne dekha!" was my nani's. You have to give it to her. The woman at the counter totally flipped out telling us to get out. I gave her the coldest, most disgusted look i could muster and said: "I'm here to vote, I'm not going"<br />
<br />
I helped my nani fold her ballot paper and folded mine, cast our votes and walked out. As I am a nag and a persistent insistent human being, I did not give up. I walked over to the horse-faced <i>makrooh shakal wali </i>woman who was claiming to be the ECP official. Clearly, she was lying. She tried very hard to twist my words around and make it sound like i'm making a fuss. All became clear when I saw make-up face sitting right beside her. UGH.<br />
<br />
I went to the Rangers and the Police officers in turn, pleading my case. The latter even offered me a glass of Coke saying 'Madam, thandi ho jayen.' I threatened them all with reminders of death and Judgement Day. They did nothing. A senior officer gave me his phone number telling me to call in case of a problem. DUDE, I HAVE A PROBLEM <i>NOW</i>. Sigh, all hope was lost on my part. I hear they later sealed polling in that station, but back then I was so dejected that I even forgot to buy a celebratory Coke in honour of me voting for the first time.<br />
<br />
Point is, it wasn't a <i>good </i>experience, but an experience. It taught me to stand up for my rights. It taught me that there are all kinds of people in the world. Most of all, it taught me that i should carry a camera with me everywhere I go in case I have to make emergency videos of political parties rigging their way to the National Assembly. Bleh. -_-<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-18782070789330590302013-04-27T06:54:00.001-07:002013-04-27T07:01:03.647-07:00Needy.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There is no such thing as 'self-satisfied.' There is no such thing as confidence. It's all an act. We, humans, are creatures of love and we need constant reassurances. We need pats on the back and congratulatory hugs. We need birthdays, presents and promotions to feel important, worthy. We need family and lovers and friends to feel loved. We are all needy. Needy for acceptance.<br />
<br />
Everyone has put on an outfit and thought, 'Hey, this makes me look great!', walked out with their head held high. But can any of you say, honestly, that you haven't felt discomfited when a better dressed stranger has looked you up and down in condescension? I don't think so.<br />
<br />
Although present in everyone (according to me), there are degrees of diffidence, of insecurity. There are people who need to wear branded clothes in order to increase(?) their self-worth. But there also people out there who only befriend good- looking people just because they feel good around them. Trust me, they exist.<br />
<br />
The logic behind this is that since they feel they are lacking in certain areas of their lives, or physical appearance, they try to cover them up with something that has been widely admired to fill the void. It might make them feel better for the time being, but I'm sure it only makes them feel more inadequate without the solace of their respective necessities. <br />
<br />
I used to know this girl who was an extreme case of insecurity. She was actually really pretty. She had great friends, lots of money, namely everything that a person needs to feel secure. But somehow it got into her head that she wasn't good enough. She, then, started making up entire personalities. She actually went lengths making them look real: created their Facebook profiles, created a background story for them, made up academic achievements they were supposed to have acquired, etc etc. Now that bichaari must have been psychologically unwell, I'm sorry to have brought her up, but it just goes on to show to what extents people go in order to make themselves feel likeable and loved.<br />
<br />
<br />
I am a different sort of touchy. I just always need second opinions. I need my sister or my mom or my best friend to tell me I look good, my term paper is acceptable, my writing piece is readable and so on. It's a solvable problem.<br />
<br />
Why? Why do WE, super intelligent beings, toppers of the food chain, need to feel good about ourselves? Why do we all care what others think of us regardless of our age, sex, beauty or social status? Why do we, like lesser creatures, need to be part of the crowd, need to follow each other blindly?<br />
<br />
Hey, don't look at me; I'm not giving out answers here, just putting a question forward. Scientists should really work on solving our personal little intra-planetary problems before heading out to Mars to find life. We have a reputation, an image to hold up in front of Martians after all. ;)<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-1294109009052840202013-04-10T10:13:00.001-07:002013-04-10T10:13:24.050-07:00Annoying people<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Contrary to what the title suggests, this is not a chapter from a handbook that gives direction on how to annoy people. This is a whiny journal entry about the types of annoying people I have had the displeasure of meeting.<br />
<br />
The utterly hateful kind are those who spoil your movies and books for you by spoiling the suspense. My brother seems to thinks it's hilarious. But I'll tell you what: if you're reading or hearing this and yet you try to do it to me, don't blame me for not giving you a heads up before murdering you with an axe. I waited <i>months</i> for the last Harry Potter book to come out; my brother doesn't even read! Just to annoy me, which is an acceptable motive for <i>anything</i> brothers do, he skimmed through the last few pages and told me what happens. Sigh. The neighbours still swear they heard a banshee that day.<br />
<br />
Then there are people who have no interest in any other aspect of you except your looks and your sexuality. They're constantly trying to set you up with a "good-looking" cousin/friend of theirs. Or worse still, trying to chat you up themselves. Get a life, really.<br />
<br />
Proceeding the list are people who don't even know what they're doing wrong. They call you by your nickname at the first meeting, scroll through your pictures while "checking out" your phone, invade on your personal space and show up at dinners and lunches uninvited. They just don't get the hint. They even stoop as low as to assuming you're going to pay <i>their </i>bills off <i>your </i>pocket money! <br />
<br />
Now, I don't know why, but i have this reserved hate-space for people who write, or speak, English incessantly, even though they have terrible grammar. On top of that, they type with so many extra X's that I think they might have swallowed Professor Utonium's Chemical X. They send me into a deep state of hysteria that only wears off after i open and close the dictionary obsessively, not quite unlike Lady Macbeth's fetish of washing her hands. Exaggeration aside, it really is painful.<br />
<br />
The worst part is that once your brain decides it doesn't like someone, every single action of theirs gets on your nerves. Their laugh makes you mad. Their compliments offend you and their very presence makes your skin prickle.<br />
<br />
It's a public service message to these disregardful naggers, just, don't be annoying. Thanks, no offense. ;)<br />
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<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-30984925126774845022013-03-06T07:47:00.001-08:002013-03-06T11:29:28.608-08:00My city, my beloved.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h4 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
You know how you feel this rush of emotions about the situation in the city and just DON'T have words intense enough to portray it? One of my closest friends, Tooba Akhtar, is a patriot and Karachi lover. Also, a brilliant writer. She has managed to come up with this beautiful, beautiful piece. MUST. BE. READ.</span></h4>
<div>
<br /></div>
Today, Karachi has made me feel emotions I didn't even know I had the capacity to feel. You whirlwind-causer, you. So typical.<br />
<br />
Karachi is my city. It’s where I was born, where I grew up, and where
I intend to be for the rest of my life, provided it’s what God has
planned for me.<br />
<br />
Karachi is also where some, in fact most, of my best memories are.
It’s where I attended school and made friends. It’s where my parents
held my hand and took me out. It’s the city where my dad demands he
kisses me on the cheek every time he leaves the house, be it for a few
hours or a few weeks. It’s also where my grandparents spoiled me
relentless, and it’s where they, together with my parents, taught me
manners. Manners to lead a peaceful life, manners to make niceties, and
manners to be a lady; though the latter is not something I always stuck
to.
<br />
<br />
Karachi is where I experienced friendship, and the wonderful people
it familiarised me with. It’s where I made friends, and where friends
unfriended me. It’s where I had my first crush outside of television.
It’s also the city where I experienced heartbreak for the first time.<br />
<br />
Karachi is where I found God. In my heart, which is in my body, which
is in Karachi. I belong to Karachi and Karachi belongs to me.<br />
<br />
Up until recently, I hadn’t realised just how deep my love for
Karachi was. I knew I loved it always, don’t get me wrong; I just didn’t
know how much. I loved it enough to always defend it. And enough to
point out every opportunity I got that we have a beach. But I never
quite knew Karachi could make me feel pain.<br />
But it can. Karachi hurts now. Seeing how things have become in this
beautifully diverse and uncompromisingly resilient city of mine gives me
heart ache. It hurts. To an unforeseen degree. It really hurts. The
pain is stifling, bordering on excruciating. So much bloodshed. Of my
people. It hurts. And with every half a drop more of blood, the pain
becomes increasingly crippling.<br />
<br />
But more than hurting me, watching Karachi go down makes me cringe.
It brings frown lines to my forehead. I never wanted to feel this way
about Karachi, but it has left me with no choice. From being the city
that taught me how to trust, it has now become the city I can’t trust.
The irony of the situation isn’t lost on anyone. I can’t trust Karachi
with my family, my friends, my loved ones, my fellow compatriots. I
never know when Karachi will swallow any of them. I never know who
Karachi will swallow next. This unpredictability used to amuse me once,
it added to the beauty of my city; the city that took every opportunity
it got to surprise me, and others like me. But now, Karachi makes me
feel scared, but more than scared, I feel vulnerable.<br />
<br />
Karachi has now become the city that has enough power to take
everything away from me. Everything that’s mine, and everything I love.<br />
<br />
Until you recover, Karachi, until you recover. I’m not going to
abandon you. Ever. I’m not going to be an opportunist and find an easy
escape route. No. I’m gonna fight for what’s mine. I’m gonna struggle.
Till I don’t get you back, Karachi.<br />
<br />
Karachi, meri jaan. You bring tears to my eyes, and that’s how much I
love you. I hope to live to see the day you become you again. Godspeed.<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-73527280044905466162013-03-04T05:56:00.003-08:002013-03-04T05:56:57.198-08:00The Bright Side<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I don't usually quote people. And, since this is MY blog, especially not here. Last night, however, a friend wrote something that touched my heart, and i'm going against my rules.<br />
<br />
"Life is not a bed of roses, and even then, it has the ability to surprise you. Sometimes unpleasantly. The
One looking above all of us, maintains a perfect balance in each of our
lives. He makes sure that none of the billions of us gets over or
under blessed. And for that, He tests us with various situations. It is up to you to look at the bright side. You
lose your phone, you get promotion. You lose your laptop, you
make a friend. You lose your girl, you learn a lesson. You lose your father, you become a
man.<br />
<br />
The hidden blessings behind a curse are way beyond our
horizon to comprehend, yet, we must have faith in Allah. We must believe that something
much better is inevitably about to arrive. We must look forward to it.<br />
<br />
So in my opinion, instead
of pondering aimlessly about what we've lost, we should look forward to what Allah gives us to make up for it."<br />
<br />
- Umair Nasir.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-67055511781691509212013-03-02T21:41:00.002-08:002013-03-02T22:00:06.425-08:00Surprises and smiles.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When a father walks into the maternity ward and sees his new-born for the first time, you should see his face. You should record that moment, not in your cameras or phones, but in your heart; it is much too precious to be put in something as artificial as a DSLR. Now that's real happiness.<br />
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Have you ever given someone a surprise? An unexpected present, an affectionate brush of the hand, a kiss on the cheek, a sweet compliment? If you have, you will know that their reaction and appreciation is the best pay-back in the world, and there seems to be no place in the world you'd rather be.<br />
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Is being given a surprise better than giving one? I thought i knew my answer. Recently, a friend of mine, realising that i'm crazy about balloons, got me a car full of them. His expression when he saw me jumping with unconstrained happiness was so content that I had second thoughts about it. I realised, seeing someone you love smiling because of your actions is about the best surprise you could ever get.<br />
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Often i've heard people wondering what "life" is. They talk about it as if one conversation is enough to decipher the most complicated code in the universe. Now, I may not be as cool a philosopher as Socrates, but I am cool enough to tell you that it's little moments and little favours that bring great joy. It's these little things that constitute life. Not a Mercedes, but a Kitkat can make you ecstatic. It's not the most expensive facial treatment that brings a glow to your skin, but a hug from your best mate.<br />
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My theory says: don't over-think, take life as it comes at you; it might not be as bad as your nightmares suggest. Give it a chance. Learn to accept that maybe not knowing everything before-hand is a blessing. Surprise life by accepting its unyielding mystery and in turn, let life surprise you. <br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-43077277209927588452013-02-05T01:56:00.000-08:002013-02-05T01:56:19.904-08:00Tiny Details.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I love meeting new people. Making new friends, filling them in about my life and hobbies and activities and experiences, making an impression, building trust, hanging out. There are so many things that are old but which the friend renews. I've always wondered what logic lay behind it and recently, I've reached conclusions.<br />
<br />
I am like Google plus. I have real-life circles. A close friends circle, an acquaintance circle, a family circle and so forth. I have a different image in each of them. I decide which side of me to show to a particular circle. For example, my friends know me as this funny, laughing, happy person who never takes offense. My family knows I'm temperamental and angry. My distant relatives think I'm a retard who can't hold a conversation for more than a few minutes. It's bizarre how my personality has so many facets and one person can only see one at a time.<br /><br />In school, friends come easy because you don't really have a personal self at that time. Disagreements are rare because you take pride in liking what your best friend likes. As i grew older and went to college, i realized that making friends isn't all that easy. Opposites might attract in some cases, but in mine, no. Not really. For me, friendship, love, family are all about conversation. I can't love someone or care for them at all if i haven't reached a certain level of communication with them.Anyway, college passed and i didn't have a single new real-friend to my name. That has to be because of the student-sorting system our government practices, of which i HIGHLY disapprove. All students with bad grades in one place. (Will come back to it another time.)<br /><br />I joined university and for quite some time I had to make do with no-actual-conversation, make-do friends. Afterwards, when i joined my literature class, i met people. The change was so sudden that you wouldn't even know how I changed unless you looked at the tiny details. There were a lot of differences between us, but at least a few things in common with each of them. One always said what i wanted to, before me. Another shared my love for photographs. Every friend possessed one of my characteristics and we got along like a house on fire.<br />
<br />
When I think of making new friends, i get excited. The charm lies in the fact that a new person that i meet won't think I'm retarded or weird or angry or whatever. I can show them whatever facet of my personality that i want to and that will be ME for them. <br /><br />I love meeting new people. But then, who doesn't?<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-14287799334002670052013-01-01T04:35:00.001-08:002013-01-01T04:44:34.594-08:00We need a new year.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Whenever i get an inspiration to write something, it begins in unusual ways. Sometimes a certain word pops into my head and i develop the whole story around, enveloping the word in its midst. Sometimes its a thought that i extend from both ends until i have reached something coherent. Well, this time, i just needed to write. I think reading something that i wrote gets through to me more than anything else.</div>
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When i was five, i was an angry kid. Slapping, biting, hitting others my age was a habit. My younger brother still sports beautifully symmetric scars on both his cheeks that i claim credit for. I wasn't evil, i immediately felt guilty for what i had done, even if it were not for my mother's retaliatory spanking. What i craved, in my guilt, was forgiveness. I always apologized. I had no idea then why the cold staring pierced my soul but now i know: i wished to change. I wished my mother would give me one more chance and i'd never lay a finger on brother again. Problem is, they never did forgive me. In words they did; they said it was okay. They even started talking to me again but they never forgave me. It kept resurfacing. Repetition of stories to others. They never realised i had the spark of change inside. It only worsened my condition. I thought: if they still think i'm a bad girl, why should i be nice? They wont appreciate anything. </div>
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This flaw in my upbringing, in turn, created a flaw in my personality. I crave someone who would understand that i can change anything about me if given the chance. I only wanted one chance.</div>
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I know what a new year beginning means to me: an opportunity. I can leave all my mistakes behind and start from a scratch. No matter if i am a sinful creature, I can always ask for forgiveness and start afresh. I know, it can be done on any day of the year. You can say you're sorry and start over, Allah will never begrudge you. He will welcome you. It's only the effect an ending has on you. Prayers and repentance will never mean as much to me on a random day as they do on the new year's eve.<br />
<br />
I started this year off thinking that i have grown up. This time, i will stick to my decisions. I am a grown woman, after all. I disappointed myself again. No matter how close a person is to you, only yourself and God are two entities who'll always be willing to accept your faults and welcome you back. I think all of us have developed double standards. If only we could forgive loved ones as readily as we do ourselves.</div>
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I don't know if everybody thinks like me, what i do know is, everyone wants a chance. Everyone deserves a chance. If they want to change, please, let them. Patience is all they ask. Maybe, when the next time you look, they'll have turned from an ugly cocoon to a butterfly.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><b>If people refuse to look at you in a new light and they can only see you for what you were, only see you for the mistakes you've made, if they don't realize that you are not your mistakes, then they have to go. -Steve Maraboli</b></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-22948274886447195582012-12-21T04:59:00.002-08:002012-12-22T13:26:05.218-08:00Digging deeper.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I remember someone saying to me, "What do you believe in? Do you think Heaven and Hell exist?" I was quite taken aback. I had never been asked my opinion before. I had thought religion was something handed down to you. You had no right to question it or think too deeply about it. The thought that i can believe what I want to, just like that, did not make me feel satisfied. I gave it many a thought. I was distracted all the time. All i thought about was how mysterious the whole world is, how every person has different stories to tell about life and how not all can be true. Contradicting theories that confused me further than i was already.<br />
One day I had an argument with an atheist. I found myself subconsciously disagreeing and i came up with the most amazing arguments that i had not thought of before. It was like these facts came from a much deeper place than the one i could access. He asked me: "Can God build a boulder so big, that even he can't lift it?" I thought about it and I said, "Our brain is only that: just a brain. It has been given to us and has been given certain powers. Isn't it too arrogant to suggest you understand everything and you can decide what God can or can not do? Science is a tool. It is there to <i>understand</i> the universe, not to judge it. Can you build a scale, weigh a piece of iron and say 'this iron is wrong'? Your question is a paradox and we have not been blessed with brain power enough to understand it. After all, we are a 'biological accident'."<br />
<br />
Even as i argued, i thought, God does say in the Quran, "<span class="ayat">Say: "Travel through the earth and see how Allah did originate creation" (29:20) Why would He encourage exploration of science and creatures if he were not The Truth? I also heard somewhere that the Prophet (PBUH) said, if you can't find Hidayah for a problem in Quran and Ahadith, do what your head deems fit.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="ayat">My head has begun to clear up now. I believe that the belief in the unseen does not make you stupid, it makes you brave. You don't have to believe in ridiculous superstitions, what is true will make its reality known to you. That is how you find God.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-60974176663445772822012-10-28T09:28:00.000-07:002012-10-28T09:57:23.101-07:00Revenge- A short story.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hearing the doorbell, I got up and opened the front door. There, stood before me, the stereotype new neighbour: cake in hand, smile on face. What didn't go with the characteristic image, though, was the crowd of children around her. At first glance i thought i was seeing double, but when the herd (excuse my lack of respect) ran up the stairs to ransack my room, i started to believe in their number. Come in, sit down I said. Inside, I was torn between killing the children for destroying my belongings and killing her for bringing the whole party over.<br />
The new neighbours were eleven people in all; the parents, the eight children and an old miserly-looking grandfather. I liked the oldie most because he was the only person who made a face far worse than I did every time the eight children-of-Lucifer came into his line of vision. Every afternoon, it took him 30 minutes to walk to the end of the street and back with quite difficulty. I assume he considered it his exercise. The Dad was never home so I have refrained from judging him except for his neighbourhood choices. Weekends, he came out in his least presentable clothing (saying the least) and washed his car-cum-mini-van with a pipe.<br />
<br />
Two weeks later, The Mom and each one of the kids started showing up at our door one-by-one, asking for things. No, i am not being vague. The 'things' ranged from sugar to shampoo to ice-cubes to what not. It came up to a point where my mother and I started to believe the groceries at their place came from our contribution only. But then, we realised, they did it to every house in their vicinity. Our new motto became to say "Nahe hai!" to every item they asked for.<br />
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On Eid day, however, our motto failed. They all came barging in shouting "Eid mubarak! Eidee!" which left mom with no choice but to give in to their chants and hand out fresh, cracking hundred rupee notes.<br />
<br />
I had had enough. I became a plotting evil master-mind. Every annoying moment became a challenge for me to overthrow them.Then, it clicked.<br />
<br />
Once upon a very happy morning (for me), I called six different households. By 12 pm I had my team ready. Ten annoying little cousins that i cringed away from under normal circumstances were now under my wing. We marched towards the notorious neighbours' porch and I joyously rang the door-bell. As The Mom opened the door and my party ran inside, I smiled evilly and thought: let the games begin.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-91349983171437437692012-10-17T08:55:00.000-07:002012-10-17T08:59:49.849-07:00Indecisive, woozy, whiny<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm such a quitter. You know when you're in school at a cartoon-watching age they tell you: don't quit anything that you have started. Take it to the end, and you think: YEP, easy 'nuff. NO. It is not. When you're someone like me you quit everyday. You quit everything you've started and that makes you dissatisfied with every single decision that you have ever made.<br />
<br />
I took up Italian earlier this year. I did, no kidding. I had the Italian professor (A real, hot-budha type Italian national, btw) rearrange the whole schedule JUST to suit my time. I went there for like a month. Then i quit. Just like that. I just stopped going to the classes because it took too much off my free time and I NEEDED that time to walk around university and eat around and waste time and eat more -_- I am weird. Actually, I am perfectly rational, my brain is weird.<br />
<br />
I had this lifelong urge to do dance and theatre in public. All of a sudden i'm dancing at this <i>dholki</i> of my friend's and i got part in a (seriously lame) Roomi ghazal enactment but i have this major role. What the heck? I don't want to do it anymore! Maybe there is this keera inside of me that wants something REAAAAAL bad and once it gets it, it goes: Oh heyyy I got it. Wow. I don't want it -_-<br />
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Scientifically though, I've heard humans are programmed to lose interest in things that they get easily. Woohoo what a bummer my married life is going to be. Can hardly wait. *poorly disguised sarcasm*. Anyway, note-to-self: don't bother getting into things you really want because then you just end up not giving a rat's arse and the thing that had a beautiful charm being out of reach just becomes a lag in your routine. Yes. Bye.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-82740737636488064602012-08-06T12:14:00.002-07:002012-08-06T12:14:26.445-07:00The coin- A short story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
She stepped out. Holding the five rupee coin in her hand,
she was determined to end the nagging humanity inside of her and donate five
precious rupees to charity. She had taken the coin out purposefully. Hiding her
face with her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dupatta</i>, she hurried on
and streams of thoughts ran through her mind; she thought about all the times
she passed this very bridge, and of all the beggars that caught her eye. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She thought of their pitiful expressions, and
the way she turned her head away when she felt guilty. What could she do? She
worked so hard for money; she had so many stomachs to fill. Today was
different, having contemplated sufficiently, she decided it was okay not to buy
her medicine for the day, which she managed to obtain, one everyday. Instead,
she wanted to help the lives behind those accusing, hurt eyes. Walking past the
familiar bridge, she saw the bearded man, who sat down at the very corner.
Wait. He’s smoking cigarettes, how could she give him the well-earned money? If
he can afford to buy cigarettes, he does not need it. She walked straight past
him to the woman, holding the baby in her arms, who stood at the same spot
everyday. The woman doesn’t seem to be unhealthy at all, she thought. In fact,
she had fat on her arms that put my skinny ones to shame. No. She doesn’t
deserve it either. Looking at the small traffic-boy, she felt a tinge of guilt.
He’s so young. If I give him the money, he will get used to it. I will be
responsible for spoiling him. Absolutely not; it is better to pass him by than
letting him have the money. Beggar by beggar, her mind came up with excuses and
reasons. At last, the bridge ended. She had reached where she had wanted to. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Please forgive me God</i>, she whispered.
Her hand slipped into her purse, and when it came out, the five rupee coin had
disappeared.</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-55720672642139687732012-06-22T13:19:00.004-07:002012-06-22T13:19:52.265-07:00Changing Dreams<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
People have weird ideas for finding a soul-mate. By 'some people' I am referring to myself. I have my goals set. I know what I want to do, I'm just not sure how. I know where I want to live and I already have a few blue-prints for my dream house, more than ready for construction. What I look for is a person who would want my dreams, who would understand. I always end up choosing the wrong people, misjudging them just because they're different. I did not understand the concept of 'better half' until a few weeks earlier.<br />
<br />
A soul-mate is a person who has dreams of his own, but gives them up and makes you give up yours. You will not be asked to do so, no. There's just going to be moment when you realize, I don't want what i want anymore. I'm not as ambitious about my career as i was yesterday. I don't want to live in the Playboy mansion anymore. You start wondering what changed, and you realize, love happened. You want what they want. Everything is now, US. He should be hateful, the person who made your resolutions waver. But he's not.<br />
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I know i'd probably be eating my words if things turn out to be even worse than situations i've previously encountered. BUT. I've concluded that, if you want to make sure who your 'soul-mate' is, don't look for the person who also wants a house in the woods like you do. Keep your eye out for the one who always wanted a glass roof (not to be taken literally) and you find that idea even better than yours <3</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6554677829837010148.post-84663360458522659872012-06-13T02:42:00.000-07:002012-06-13T02:42:03.437-07:00Eighteen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Birthdays passed. Preteen to teenage. But I've always judged how cool my age was by calculating the number of songs relating to it. One song that has been always been my fantasy to relate to is <i>She Willl Be Loved</i> by <i>Maroon 5</i>. When I was sixteen i used to sing it paraphrasing the song to "Beauty queen of only sixteen..." <br />
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Point being, now that I am eighteen, I shall listen the hell out of this song.<br />
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