Guilt-ridden Hallucinations.

The other night my dear, as I lay down to sleep, this heart of mine stopped beating for a second or two as your image burnt through my mind and your laughter haunted my ears; I wheezed for breath but it felt like my throat had constricted until there was no passage for air.
I coughed and coughed in a desperate attempt for air until scarlet droplets covered the white-tiled floor by my feet and my head felt as light as it would whenever I breathed in your scent, it felt like the guilt of your death would finally crush me, but just then the door burst open and he rushed in, worry evident in his familiar pretty eyes as he took in my tortured state, blood painting my lips red.
He helped me to my feet and then to the bathroom with a firm and gentle grip, and handed me an aspirin and a glass of water after I had rinsed the blood out of my mouth, just like you always did.
There was an uncanny similarity between you and he, I saw it in the way he took the glass from me and set it down on the side table, little too close to the edge, before following me out to the balcony and in the way he swatted the lit cigarette away from my lips and crushed it viciously under his heel, directing a disapproving look at me.
I couldn’t take it anymore, the similarity, it was too much and I started laughing.
I laughed and laughed and laughed, and it was the laugh of a crazed mind, a mad woman.

You would not stop torturing me from even beyond the grave itself, it seemed.


Summer Love.

It was an early summer evening, I still remember, or twilight as she’d call it, with the sun burning up in blues, purples, rich goldens, all those pretty colors all at once as if it couldn’t decide on a single color to be, and she was laughing. No giggles, mind you, it was full blown, all out laughter, the kind that starts deep in your belly and travels up with the same feeling you get when you see your favorite person in the whole wide world, the feeling you get when you hug them, the feeling I got whenever she was around.
And I was looking at her, and I remember smiling so hard my cheeks felt they’d split open like pomegranates hitting concrete, but I didn’t care because she was so beautiful, I could hardly think of anything else.

How incredibly cliché, you must be thinking, but that was what we were, an incredibly cliché, heartbreakingly tragic summer love, that’s all we were. I realized I loved her in the summer, and almost exactly an year later, I had to let go of her, forever, but all the time we spent together, it was summer.
Even in the winters, it was summer.
Autumn, spring, rains and thunderstorms, they were all a never ending stretch of summer with her, because she was my sun, my moon, my thunder clouds and every particle of starlight, she was all of the universe and I was just boring old, physics-loving me, but I loved her with every atom and all of my force field.
With her, nothing made sense, and yet everything did. The world stopped working according to laws and algorithms, and physics and logic ceased to exist, but it all carried on fueled by the sheer power of her voice as she talked about the funniest things in the world, things I’d never believed in before her gypsy soul.

Sometimes I think the end shouldn’t have come as such a surprise to me, doesn’t logic say that nothing lasts forever? But I hoped, prayed even, that we would, because oh God, she felt like waking up from a coma I’d been in all my life, like the first sight of a rainbow after a lifetime of blindness. Nothing prepared me for the end, and nothing ever will, I guess, because every time I think of her it’s the same all over again, that feeling of being skinned and gutted alive and set on fire while someone keeps pouring vinegar all over you.
Oh, and you’re locked in a tiny closet.
I don’t regret anything though, I’d go over a million times this pain if I had to, but lord, I’d cut off both my arms, sell my goddamned soul even, anything to see her once again, hug her maybe.

I know it’s not possible, but I think about it all the time these days, you know, about meeting her again, about what if I do come across her. On an abandoned beach, or maybe on the swings of an old park late at night where it’s just us two, and we’ll look down on the stars and the moon for once, and they’ll envy us, eat their hearts out wishing for a love like ours, but that only happens once in infinity, doesn’t it?
And I was the lucky one.

Image taken from here.


The Search For Madness.

“It was a hot summer night, right in the middle of July, the day I decided to run away.
I’d had enough, you know? Didn’t want to be pushed around by anyone anymore.
I knew what I wanted in life, I knew I was different, and I was ready to go satiate my wanderlust, find my destiny.
And what was that?
It was to look for madness.
Pure madness.
The kind that is untouched by greed and untainted by grief.
The kind of madness that is alluring and heartbreaking at the same time, the madness that exists in the stars and in the stargazers, in the moon and it’s worshipers, the kind that only increases with the coming dawn, fueled by the golden of the morning.
The madness of the waves as they reach out to kiss the shore over and over again, of the ocean as it tries to caress the moon in vain.
Sweet madness, filled with melancholy.
I thought I had it all figured out, how I’d catch the morning bus out of that sleepy old town, off to big cities and adventures in the pursuit of madness. But the stars has their own plan for me, because sitting in the long green grass of the park I had played in all my life, I found you.
Eyes closed but facing upwards, you were the definition of peace; you looked as if you were a part of the grass and flowers itself, rooted to the ground and so, so still, but then you opened your eyes and I fell headfirst into their grey chaos. Your expression held such agony, it clenched at my heart, and yet I was mesmerized, enchanted, cursed, unable to look away.
That night, I went looking for madness and found it.
But what I didn’t realize was that madness could ever be so beautiful, so dangerous, that madness could ever be you.”

Image taken from here.



Night And Day.

It’s 2:22 AM, and it’s been an hour since she went to bed, but you’re still up, aren’t you, still sitting in front of that screen, bleary eyed and exhausted, listening to this band she never liked but you’ve fallen in love with?
You scroll through your Instagram feed, head bobbing to the tune, when you come across a post where someone has likened their beloved to both the sun and the moon. It is a beautiful piece of writing, one that makes your heart ache with the wish that it was you who had written something so filled with emotion, but then you stop, and you think about her again.
She cannot be the moon, you think.
No, she is entirely the sun.




The moon waxes, and the moon wanes, you see, and some nights, when the darkness gets too much, it even disappears.
But the sun, my darling?
It’s permanent, and so is she, with her tempers and her flares; the sole point that anchors your universe, providing warmth on a chilly day and thawing your frozen heart.
She’s strawberries, and she is sunshine, and berries and unadulterated laughter and the smell of freshly cut grass.
You’re oranges and lemons, and the melancholy darkness of a crescent moon, when all is quiet, as if the leaves themselves mourn the disappearing of that sliver of silver in the night sky.
As different as night and day, as east and west, but don’t they say, opposites attract?

Image taken from Tumblr.

Some Nights.

Some nights you try to convince yourself that you never loved her, but that it was only the familiarity of her laughter in a room full of strangers which drew you in, that the twinkle in her eyes was only so endearing to you because it reminded you of the night sky, but then you get up to look out the window and all is dark, the moon has hidden behind a curtain of grey clouds and the stars seem to have dimmed and you laugh as you realize that even the universe doesn’t know what to do without her, how can you expect to be able to put yourself together ever again? And the moon peeks out guiltily from behind its veil at that moment, you start to miss her with a ferocity you never knew your tired bones held.

Image taken from here.
And Happy Valentines to ya’ll out there. 🙂


Off-track Musings.

I’ve always been able to tell when a thunderstorm is on the horizon, even up to a day before it occurs, and I’ve never been afraid of thunderstorms even as a little kid.
But tonight I am.
I’m scared, and I’m terrified.
The thunder resounds in my head until my heart is beating hard enough to match each peal, and I clench my eyes in an effort to calm down the erratic beating but tears leak out in torrents more furious than those pouring outside, the dark clouds I so adore have covered the beautiful full moon and it feels like I have no guidance tonight without the moonlight and the stars.
My room feels strangely lifeless without the moonbeams entering through the window and dancing in elaborate patterns on the rug on my floor, the one you bought from an old woman who could see auras, who shied away from me and my colorless void of an aura; you brought it from her anyways, I remember you calling her delusional under your breath; after all, how could I, of everyone out there have a colorless aura, I, who couldn’t live without colors, who couldn’t bear monotony and blandness?
Little did you know at the time that she was right. All those colors I surrounded myself with were nothing but a desperate attempt to obtain the colors I lacked inside, but oh, I wasn’t supposed to think about you at all, I get off-tracked so easily these days.
Ironic, isn’t it, because if I could focus on one thing, it would be on getting you out of my head, my system, my life, but it isn’t helping, I can’t sleep anyways, so I get up, and despite my fears, climb out of the window to the roof, the rain pelting me with your memories with each raindrop hitting my bruised skin. I sit on the roof edge, trying not to think about how you’d always plead with me to get off the edge, you were afraid I’d fall down.
The rain makes it hard for me to light my cigarette, but I try again and again, and after countless unsuccessful attempts, I fling the pack and the lighter off the roof into the grass below, and with nothing else to do, I just sit there, I sit there shivering, soaking and drowning in your memories.

Image taken from here.


A Mid-Winter Day Dream.

Oh, oh, oh, where do I even start today?
The birds chirped, the sun shone bright, but only enough to bask us in a lovely warmth, it did not blaze and a gentle breeze that would caress your hair lovingly every now and then fluttered about; it was difficult for me to imagine why people thought winters were gloomy if this was how a winter day felt.
It was one of those ‘high’ days, where it feels like the lows never exist, oh, it was a beautiful day.
The butterflies were everywhere, they fluttered around my heart, weaved in and out of my ribs, they made home in my abdomen and some even made their way to my throat in the form of a few I love you’s, those I forced back down in a moment that I spent thinking too long, and I’m sorry for that, I’ll let them out another day, I promise.
But I haven’t stopped smiling since even though I have two exams to study for, and I doubt I will, because oh, your smile and your laugh and your eyes, you.
I might be low again tomorrow, but I’m glad I’ll have today to remember, and I’ll keep it close to my heart for a rainy day.

Image taken from here.


Fatal Ambedo.

I don’t know what to do and it’s killing me,

I’m stuck in this ambedo,

But it’s too late,

The blade has slashed too deep this time

And I can only watch

As the liquid of life

Seeps out in rivulets,

Turning the white floor

A vivid scarlet.

I cannot move,

Or maybe I don’t want to;

Vision spotty,

Breathing a Herculean task now,

Arms wide open,

Welcoming sweet oblivion.

Door slams to my left,

Bursting in,

You run to me,

I smile in contentment,

Laughter bubbles out,

As you try to stop

My blood from spilling over,

But it’s too late for me now,

As the darkness engulfs me,

After a long, long time,

I am home.



The Hunted.

کوئ مرے دل سے پوچهے ترے تیر نیم کش کو -“

“- یہ خلش کہاں سے هوتی جو جگر کے پار ہوتا

Someone should ask my heart about your half drawn arrow
Where would this pain be, if it had gone through my liver!

As we sat on the roof today, the cold slaves of Boreas leaving cruel, stinging kisses on our cheeks and blowing away our hair and coats, a friend mentioned these verses of poetry, and you laughed loudly, dismissing the whole idea as ridiculous, you never did get poetry or any form of literature really, you said, all the while I looked on, wondering how you’d react if you knew the amount of ballads I’d written for you, about you, and in that moment I screamed in my head, begging you to realize how much you meant to me, how much I loved you, I screamed with an intensity that moved the heavens themselves to tears, and yet you remained oblivious to my plight, laughing the poetry away.

For people not familiar with the Urdu language, this verse of poetry by Mirza Ghalib may not make any sense without context. He basically alludes to the concept of Cupid’s arrows as well as hunting; the arrow of love is shot towards him, and it has hit his heart, referring to unrequited love possibly, because he is in a state of pain. This idea of one-sided affection is further strengthened in the next line, because olden times, when animals were hunted with arrows, an arrow that went through the liver meant a painless and quick death for the animal, so therefore the poet, in a height of emotional suffering, wishes the arrow might have gone through his liver, leading to a quick death. *

*This is written according to my own understanding of poetry, so I beg pardon for any mistakes.