Monday, 24 August 2009

Born And Raised

It doesn't matter what we will eventually accomplish with our lives. The painful truth will be that It won't be miles within reach of what we had wanted it to be. Nobody will be around to care. Neither will you. There is no consideration beyond yourself, because there is no one you love. You are subject to contempt and hate, much like everyone else in this rotten tribe you once called a family. Lovers will hate lovers, sisters will hate sisters, brothers will hate brothers, mothers will weep, while fathers wither silently, stoically, heroically.

It's the weight of the world, and we'll be struggling to breathe.

Thursday, 20 August 2009


He picked out the prettiest of the lot.

He thought they were opals.

They turned out to be Sapphires.

Sunday, 16 August 2009


"Why do you come up here if you don't like it? You've always been afraid..."

It's not fear. At least, it's not a fear of heights. You see, the stuff legends are made of have always been about invincibility. All gods are immortals, and so the mythologies of countless civilizations have honoured their vitality; Zeus never killed Kronos, as Kronos never killed Ouranos, as Atlas could not be seen to let go of life, instead suffering eternal punishment. And so the divine pursuit of infinity-ism is kept sacred in the imaginations of mortals.

I, too, am made of legends. I, too, am immortal. I feel it. It crawls on my skin, it bleeds in my gums, it tenses with my sinew, it shrieks in the night. It brings me up here, it runs through the very ground. When I gaze down, it calls me, dares me to come closer. It defies me, it wants to look me in the eye.

I am so tempted to look my essence in the eye and own it. But I am afraid; what if this feeling is an illusion? A trick, played by the gods seeking laughter and ridicule of a lowly mortal? Where has this divinity of mine come from, and why have I not seen it before? These poison thoughts cloud around me, and my breath catches; if I was immortal, why would I choke on these whimsical notions?

This is not a fear of heights. This is the fear of falling. But fear I shall no more. These are only the first steps.

"...What are you doing? God, stay away from the railing, PLEASE!"

No. The time for hesitation is gone. I must find out the truth. Until these voices go away, until I am mine...

"Look, CAN'T DO THIS!"

Watch me.

...Goodbye, my love.


So this is what it looks like when the ground is racing to meet you. The truth gives me vertigo. Wow. I wish you could've been here. Well, I mean, it's not safe for you, but this My eyes are screaming, my skin is unraveling, the wind (is it wind if I'm the one moving through it?) gives me clarity, and the rain's falling into the sky. I hear you up there, somewhere. You're shrieking. Calm, my love. This is not my fall. It is now the truth which cowers before me, as it will soon have to stand in plain sight of the world, shamed and unveiled for what it really is. It's almost here, I'll be able to reach out and touch. Almost there, almost, now is the moment of...

Thursday, 13 August 2009


Walking. London. A mop, a broom, and a sense of humour. Indoors somewhere. Outdoors now. Going somewhere else. Free rounds. Choosing drinks. Beer. Whiskey. Vodka. No money. ATM. Have to fight. Pacifism. Somehow money. Why the money, though? First two rounds are free. Fight a battle. Need to win. Manipulation. Elaborate dramatics. Lies and deceit. Fake victory. Confessions of love. Amazement. Impositions. Premonitions: true or false?

Need a vacation. Need some papers. Need to go to school. School? But I'm in university. School, university, what does it matter? So school. Unlit hallways, dusty classrooms; Summer holidays. Letter of inclusion. Need to do some favours. Monkey-faced boy sits in monkey-faced man's office. Need to do a favour for the Monkey-faces. Night outside; tubelights shine down. Dust, lines of dust, armies of dust. Room after room after room. Found what I was looking for, don't know how. Go back to the monkey-faces. Give them what they want, got what I want.

Walk out. Bright daylight. London. or is it Lahore? London. And Lahore. Seem the same, can't tell the difference. Got a ride? Got a ride. Not too far, just towards Mayfair. Been a tiring day. Black door, gold knob. Get out. Thanks a lot. Apartment building. Open the door. House on the inside. Open plan groundfloor, seats in a circle, half occupied. Older people. They know me. I know them. Others. They don't know me. I seem to know them. Talk of four years. Absolute exhaustion.

Hunger. Need a fix. Find a fridge. More people coming in. Some I don't know. Some I do. Open the fridge. Bread. Cold cuts. More people. Far too hot. vest and boxers. still routing through the fridge. Cheeses. Lots of them. So much variety. The cold cuts, too. Salad. Two slices of bread. All the while, more people. Olives. Cheese. Turkey. Cheese. Cheese with olives. Chicken breast. No, the other cheese. More people. Relatives. Indecent attire for the number of people there. Need a change of clothes. Presto; shorts on the chair. A shirt and a waistcoat too? Sister superior is present; I look funny. Must be the waistcoat. Get rid of the waistcoat. Still looking funny. Bare-chested now. No one complains. I don't feel odd. Need to finish sandwich. Looking for relish. Gorilla knocks me on the knee. Has to; he's on vacation. Who else would do it?

Back to the fridge. Need to find the right size. Still holding slice of bread. Find perfect cut of meat. First the cheese, then the meat. Interruptions. How's it going? Dude, just one more year, yeah, I can't fucking wait, I don't give a shit, just one more year, and I'll be done. Mind is on the fridge. Too much conversation. Aunts and acquaintances. Neighbours. Relatives. Sisters. Friends.

Can a man just not be allowed to make and have a fucking sandwich in peace?

Wednesday, 12 August 2009

The smell crawls in concentric circles, and tickles my lips as I sleep. The taste is all wrong. Languages dance with tangled toes, in erratic patterns traced by the wildest ruminations of a tattered streetchild. We step lightly from our lofty castles into heat-baked gullies, surrounded by mudhuts and hungry eyes. Duty-bound, we do what we must.

The smile on your face hurts me, you know.

Friday, 7 August 2009


Memories shed like skin, taut across the knuckles, bleeding from blisters into the great uncertain. The writings hold within themselves potent meanings, indecipherable for all their worth. Cars rumble by raised gates, with quiet whispers of foreboding seeping through the cracks. The houses with the lowest gates and most welcoming thresholds generally have the largest piles of skeletons in the various closets littering the warmth of a humble abode. Somewhere on a second story balcony, sacred words mingle like the clinking of glasses, and the flow of spirits disrupts a different flow of spirits. White on black on white, and arcane silences break into hearty expressions, deceptively heavy with raw emotion, and the emptiness of misery, despair and desire.

A quiet boy sits in a dark room, counting bruises, cuts, and knicks. One for everyday, all for a lifetime. All for the things he hates, and none for those he loves. A kind spirit presents itself in glass slippers, promising to save him from the pain. His yearning parched lips part for the flood to come forth, and the malevolence burns with every drag of this liquid flame.

He yelps through the night, as the kindly spirit turns away to help more stricken with desire.

"Tomorrow again, my child. I am all you have."

He clings to himself, wishing she would come cling to him instead.

Monday, 3 August 2009

When I Am An Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple.

It is only when you are sat in an unlit room staring out a window facing west, with nothing to look at but other people's houses, that you realize what people do for people; but at least you do. You think of how children tether themselves to stay in check; how brothers keep silent for the sake of their sisters; how mothers hold themselves late at night, crying for their children; how daughters dishonour their parents; how a son frets over the paranoia of his mother, because knots come undone; how fathers bow their heads in their daughters' favours; how strangers share joy and misery; how lovers sit worlds apart, staring at the sleepless dark, rocking in silent self-consternation.

And you realize we are all the same. You realize it is all the same. We are all broken. Weary. Kind. Good. Hopeful. Lost.