Deathbed Confessions of Unrequited Love

vincent_van_gogh_-_irises_-_google_art_project

A thousand wounds I bore,
All different; similar gore.
The pus and blood that oozed,
Was the same of every noose.

Each cut on my frail body,
had a separate source.
Yet, it had always been yours,
the pain for which I stay woke.

The noise from my cracking bones
was your voice calling me a whore.

When I bled, they sent my blood,
to the best of labs for an autopsy.
What pathogen had gripped me so
The wanna know, they wanna know.

Your name on the report
Shook them to their core.
Poison kills poison, they thought.
And gave me then, your vaccine dose.

The discovery of the century?
My illness had no cure!

Image Source

Advertisements

My Entangled Thoughts

plaited-branches

I can’t speak for other people because their minds are not on the list of places I had checked into but my own thoughts, I have visited often. Thus, I know the questions that arrive in this desolate place I call my brain. They used to be simpler and consulting a parent, a friend or a teacher sufficed. Yet, they grew complex. I can’t say on which exact date the change happened. All I know is that now, I have queries with no answers.

The people I used to look up to are as much confused as I am. When they had no replies to my wandering abstractions, they silently accepted me as their own.

“Congratulations! You have crossed the threshold of black and white. Welcome to the Grey zone where everything is muddled up,” they informed me.

I cannot turn to them with my pleas no more.

I have learned to ignore my mind, my conscious, and its ramblings but it continues to gnaw and nag me. When the tossing and turning of these contemplations chew away a chunk of my brain, I go to Google. If natural intelligence is failing me, I try artificial intelligence. If nothing else, it kills time. Afterward, I am left with a hundred new types of hopelessness.

The familiar wave of despondency engulfs me. I smile. The exhaustion takes over my senses and I sleep. My brain, however, stays awake bringing me fresh thoughts from the realm of horror to ponder over in my dreams. Sometimes, the audacious bastard brings forth pleasant fantasies of a time to come or a few cherished moments from the times gone past. There is nothing wrong with the latter as long as you are asleep but the moment, the first surge of consciousness hits me, all the niceness melts into a sharp tinge of longing that slowly settles into my mounting melancholy.

The hustle of the day conquers my being and the cycle repeats.

Knitted cross-stitches,

Ah! Painful itches.

A spider’s web hanging,

Intricately from ceiling.

Intertwined earphones,

Decaying set of bones!

Inosculated boughs of a tree distraught.

How nasty are my entangled thoughts!

Image Source

“A Life of Pretense” 

10732080996_3b9d641c68_o

I laugh a lot. People take me for a jolly person. it is rather sad that 90% of my giggles are to please my fellows only. I do not restrict my insincere show of emotions to laughing. I have cried for others too. Some of my tears were genuine, others? not so much! If I ever disclosed which was which, I would risk my credibility as a human being.

Heck! I have even pretended faith. Not a long time ago, I had been into madrasas and Majalis. I had been a part of congregational prayers more often than I would like to admit; it was all action-no feeling. The one emotion, however, that I truly felt is agitation. When anxiety hit me, I was alive.

I have pretended to be alive for several years. One day, I decided I should be able to feign death. Thus, knowing it would end up in a failure, I ventured forward. I went to bed and slept. 16 hours later, I was disturbed and forced out of my bed. I couldn’t tell them I was dead for that would kill the purpose. I persuaded a doctor to admit me to a hospital, but they didn’t declare me dead either. I knew in my heart I was more dead than alive but it was easier to pose life than the demise.

Descartes said, “I think; therefore I am” so I stopped thinking, and that robbed me of my anxiety. Now, no part of me was alive, and they continued to believe in my existence!

My final thought, which is a proof I had lived once; why is the world so apt at calling your bluff of dying but not of living?

Image Source

 

The Demise of the Fittest

‘Super’ is what they called me
‘Magical’ was how I was described
when all failed, I was the one who survived.
I saw my fellows wither,
For they could not compete
against the changing times.
‘Unfavourable conditions,’
they cried
Then said the world ‘Goodbye!’

I endured it all,
season after season.
I grew stronger,
With every passing obstacle.
The harsh weather didn’t cut me through
And the head wind lifted me high!

It was the loneliness
that has stung the worst.
But since I had suffered a lot
and adapted according to my fate,
the nature gave me a mate.
We reproduced and multiplied!
Best of the genes, we passed on,
for my counterpart too was
a breed quite high!

Sooner than I’d liked it to be
The time to depart arrived
‘What was the point of toiling through
if at the end of it all,
I had to die?’
I philosophized.
The Reaper,however, yawned
Disnterested in my thoughts.
It had a job and I had to oblige.

My only solace after my demise:
‘I had done well in life’
There was a progeny
most likely to succeed
In the world I had left by
‘In my future generations,
I will live forever’
The consoling thought
made me smile .

In the Afterlife, I met my old colleagues
It bemused me to see them so satisfied.
I spent time watching over my kith and kin.
While those losers sat and enjoyed.
‘It is because they have no one,’
I smirked day and night.

Then it happened that shook me through.
The word for which I lived and died,
with a bang, it was destroyed.
What were my troubles for?
The extreme pains I had gotten by.
The world for which,
I had planned and strategised
Blew away
Like a puff of smoke in the skies.

Image Source

Guardian Angel

angel-2966726_960_720

Forget about happy endings.

Happiness shouldn’t end.

Create a mosaic of moments,

Sad, happy, happy, sad.

Lend me some of those,

The thoughts you push back

Every time a fresh one arrives.

Your discarded ideas fall through a wrinkle.

Right into my lap.

Let me be the catcher of the dreams,

You had never dreamt.

I will preserve them in time and space.

For you to visit at your leisure.

Your deja vus are secure with me.

I am the keeper of your alternate realities.

Find me when you are ready

To escape to a new world.

 

Blankness

abstract_art_artistic_blank_creased_creasy_crinkle_crinkly-916989

Staring at a blank paper,

I started my journey.

It was interfered at times,

With the hysterics of my words.

A few thoughts, unconcerned.

Then it was a blank screen

I stared at a while.

Key after key I pressed at times

To compose some random lines.

I am still staring though.

No words or thoughts had helped me, so.

A blank life stares back at me.

An eternal abyss, I have to see.

Mutual Consent

Hey!
Let’s make a vow.

To break the one,

Image Source

We’d agreed we’d never break.
Let’s shatter into a million pieces,
the promise of never letting go!

 

What do you say to it?
Giving up on each other,
once and for all!

I promise!
I won’t come back to you, tumbling,
If you give me your word,
You will never show me your face, crumbling.

I promise!
Your name, I won’t ever mention,
If you stop begging for my attention.

Erase your existence,
around my presence.
And in exchange, I promise,
Silence, eternal!

So what do you say?
Actually, no! Wait!
Don’t answer even THAT.

Originally Published on Medium

The Veterans of War

She was standing in front of a mirror. It was 14 inches long, extremely old, stained mirror, that had lost luster. There was a time when she wanted to replace the old thing but she did not care anymore. The stool that used to be in front of the mirror was long since broken and she had not bothered to buy a new one.

She had to stand in front of the mirror now.

She was staring at her disfigured reflection-a bright red lipstick in her hand was glued to her small lips. She was done with the rest of her face-lipstick always came in the last-it was some ancient rule of makeup that everybody had to follow. She did not care much about the lips though since there was not much to cover there-not because they were small but because he’d never hit her there during their daily fighting ritual. He knew he would want to kiss her later and he did not want to be reminded of how he had hit her earlier. After all, he loved her.

*———————*———————–*———————-*

It was 2 in the morning and Asher was moving as quietly as was humanly possible. Mr. Amjad lived only two blocks away but the fear of being caught had turned the two blocks into an eternity.

This is what theory of relativity must be about, he thought and a smile touched his lips as  the kind face of his physics teacher appeared right in front of his eyes. it was only from the memory though because his teacher was now dead like most of the people of his city.

These thoughts were still circling his mind when he realized he was standing in front of Mr. Amjad’s house. From the practice of months, he knocked the door mechanically-one tic-two seconds pause-two tics-three seconds pause-one final tic. The door was open. He did not bother to wait for Mr. Amjad to come and greet him with a happy face and open arms. A happy Mr. Amjad was only an image now-saved in his memory with various other images-corpse of a child, a mother crying herself crazy or a father too shocked to speak.

*——————–*———————–*———————-*

He will be back soon, she thought. She checked her image in the mirror-all her wounds were covered. She was ready for him. She didn’t know who they were kidding, trying to live a normal life in the midst of all the chaos in their city. She knew she was doing it for him and he was probably doing it for her. Although, this kept them going, she shuddered to think what will happen if one of them failed to continue. She could never imagine herself to be the survivor.

A knock on the door disturbed her. She waited for one second her breath held tight in her chest.There was another knock and she knew it was him. She rushed to open the door. It was him. She smiled. One day it may not be him, she thought and the smile vanished from her face.

“What happened?”, he asked, “Were you expecting someone else?”

He knew it was a sick joke and her angry look confirmed it. he handed her the provisions and tried to smile. Her heart melted as it always did when he’d smile.

They worked as a team like always and prepared a meal-fried eggs, stale bread, and black tea-there was no milk. It was not much but at least they were not hungry.

*——————–*———————–*———————-*

“I am sorry for the wounds”,he whispered in her ears as they lay in bed. His yes were moistening.
“Don’t be sorry”, she said looking in his eyes,”Because I won’t be when I will tear your fragile body.”

They both knew it was a morbid joke but he chuckled.

“There is only one way you can ever hurt me”, suddenly he was very serious, “By giving up.”

“I won’t”, she replied smiling sweetly. Soon she was asleep but he was not. He kissed her on her perfect lips.

He was teaching her to defend herself if the bad men came for them.She was learning fast and he was proud of her.

We might even survive this, he thought hopefully. he put a protective hand over the small sleeping figure of his wife.

Both of them were killed that night-murdered in their bed. The entwined figures had won the war.

384250749_8642694c46

 

Is this the voice of happiness ?

Today I heard it,

After such a long time;

The sound of happiness!

It was a scream of joy

unchecked,

Escaped from a young girl,

Who was dripping wet,

Enjoying the rain.

She could barely breathe,

As the drops came tumbling

One after another,

They did not wait

for her to catch her breath.

 

My heart sank.

For I could not recall

The last time my voice

Had made that sound.

 

Ages had passed

Since I had

truly laughed.

“The diary of a conventionally unconventional woman”

“Tell me again what exactly have you done to deserve all these comforts in your life?”, His father shouted at him-again. He was not sure for how many times he had listened to this taunt. He used to keep count but had long since lost it.
He ignored Mr. Zubair-Sir Zubair as he left the room. His father was a Professor at a University. Before that, he had been an associate professor and even before that, he used to be an assistant professor and preceding all these titles, he was a lecturer. What was he before that? Nobody knew! “Human”, his son Sheharyar would often jokingly say to his mother.
Mrs. Zubair was a nice woman.
Are you kidding me? Nobody is nice, nowadays, least of all a woman. She was shrewd, sensible, and as successful as her position in life would grant her permission to be. Nice people are never ‘successful.’ Anyways, her only mistake in life was that she had married Mr. Zubair. It was not exactly a mistake since nobody had asked for her consent. It was decided by her parents and she had to oblige. when she was young, ‘love marriages’ were not as common and she had not found the rare chance of meeting a ‘khwabun ka shehzada’ when she was an ‘alhar mutyar’ that a few lucky girls from her time would get. Although their lives would not be any different from hers except that they can sometimes revel in the happiness that they had played a major role in making the biggest and only decision of their lives.
Mrs. Zubair was past that age when such trivialities could bother her but she would often think that given the choice she would have married the ‘other guy’ that her father had rejected. The only reason for his superiority over Mr. Zubair was ‘money’ but then again that is a very powerful motive to do anything!
Zubair sahib was not half as rich but many times ‘shareef’ than him, which is a deadly combination! Therefore, her life did not turn out to be, as she would have liked. Nevertheless, she would not stop praising Zubair sahib. It was her duty and the only source of income. A woman has to worship her husband if she wants to be fed!
Besides, she had no hopes from her son. Sheharyar was a nice kid and all but, he was not made out to excel. Despite having great brains, the kid was never gonna go places as he was lazy and an idealist. He talked about stupid things. He was like his father, even worse. Mrs. Zubair often wondered why he could not be more like her. She was often amazed as he would claim to have dreams and talked of ‘one day I will do this…’ and ‘one day I will do that…’ Mrs. Zubair knew that no such day was coming and her son would be living hand to mouth with a wife and many children. This was another fault of her son’s. He was compassionate and emotional. She knew he could easily fall in love and the girls these days were quite sharp. Any young woman with a sense of a pea could easily trap him except why would she do that if she had any sense…
Although, she was severely disappointed by both the men in her life but they were the only people she had so she had no choice but to put up with them. Her only solace was in the praises she recieved ! Every person who visited them appreciated her sense and skill. They called her a perfect wife, loving mother, and a wonderful homemaker. How these little comments delighted her! She lived off these compliments.
All women are stupid, after all!