If

There's this children's poem that I keep returning to- maybe my intellect refuses to grow, but Children's literature continues to inspire me.

Perhaps there's an argument to be made here about stunted comprehension skills.

Some times you need abstract words  to fill in a meaning you prefer and if that is the case, and you some how stumble upon this I do hope it helps.

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; 

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, 

But make allowance for their doubting too; 

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 

Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies, 

Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating, 

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise; 

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; 

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; 

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same; 

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken 

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, 

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, 

And stoop and build ‘em up with worn out tools; 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, 

And lose, and start again at your beginnings 

And never breathe a word about your loss; 

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 

To serve your turn long after they are gone, 

And so hold on when there is nothing in you 

Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”; 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 

Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch; 

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; 

If all men count with you, but none too much; 

If you can fill the unforgiving minute 

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run— 

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, 

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

-If


By Rudyard Kipling

All Good Things...

For things that are perfect, you need to find a beginning that is epic and outstanding. Something that screams of the exhilaration you feel, because how else do you relate the emotion if not at the top of your voice?

But you are different.

You are calm.

You weren't happiness, you were elation. A perpetual serenity that fueled and empowered my imagination, my ideas and my ambitions. Strange that a stretch of land could instill so much, but I can't help but be poetic in describing you.

Maybe it's merely my perception; I've made you out so that you fall in place with my expectations without flaw. But for the time at least, let me revel in the correctness of my decision and of everything that went right these last two weeks.

You did little to stem the need in me to keep moving, but I will not complain.
I know there is more out there- another flare of amazement, another set of people to fall in love with, another conversation that makes you think- this pursuit, I think, may just be worth it.

Say, Cheese!

There’s this uplifting emotion I’ve been keeping to myself lately, these soaring spirits, this bliss, this gratitude for everything around me. I’m inspired, I’m excited- today, I’m happy. You know those musicals where a person’s happiness is so much that it can’t be contained and he bursts out into a song and somehow everybody joins in, today that seems plausible- very doable! Run in the streets with a maniacal smile, a high screech of excitement, arms spread wide and laughter, oh the laughter! It makes you giddy, lightheaded, and breathless. You forget composure; you forget that your face is oddly contorted and that you’ve essentially loss coherency, that moment when you’re a child again and that moment that calling it happiness doesn’t cut it and you refer to it as ‘felicity’ instead- sounds about right.

Here’s to those moments, when during the progression of a book you come to a part that sends a chill down your spine, when you read it over and over again and almost out of breath stop to think of the implications of the words, when you find famished excitement in your interests, when you wake up to the tune of a song that you know will be on repeat all day long. Here’s to the time when you find in yourself the courage to be wild, and at the same time to tame yourself at a point where chaos was imminent, to the instance where you, emboldened by the words of another or reminiscing a fantastical musing of your own, stood up and fought for yourself and faced a fear, to the perfect weather where the air makes you want to skip and whistle, to this feeling that nothing bad will ever stay forever and a happier time is just around the corner. Here’s finally to life, for being simple and funny and eccentric and to the perfectly ordinary day that is now etched in your memory for eternity.

(This one's for you :-) - thank you for everything)

Generic 1.0

I guess there comes a point in life when you cast yourself out of your body and hover in mid air to look at yourself objectively. For me, it’s the disillusionment of everything I’ve ever held sacred and steady, of all the good I believed people to have in them and the conviction that the world does conspire to do what will benefit you the most.
As morose as all of that sounds, I would like to believe myself hopeful, possibly further emboldened, some innate desire to be stubborn because here I am, up on this pedestal that I’ve worked so hard to climb and I truly think that the day I lose my mind and lose perspective would be the day I fail my expectation of me.
Nevertheless, I do not think myself invincible, a twinge of hurt, a moment of panic, of hate and loathing and then this impatient desire to see where the road ends for me. In victory? Or contention? Honestly, I’ve never been able to decide which means more.
I have the problem all figured out, it’s the solution that’s being elusive. Wherever there’s a part to be played by someone other than me, that’s where it all gets shaky. People should come with instruction manuals and more importantly a translation dictionary. This constant going back and forth from deciding I can count on somebody to laughing at the mere idea that I would even consider doing something that stupid-it’s exhausting.
Funnily enough, there are times when I think it would be easier to be that person that relies and depends, that asks and gets. Maybe some one numb minded who does what they are told, who responds to whatever direction they are tugged. That would be easy, but again, there’s this voice. It wants more, it demands more, it expects more.
Rebecca Randall exclaims to her teacher at the beauty, the smooth sheen of a pebble to receive a lecture on how the pebble had to fight its way in the river, rub against rocks and break away in to pieces to finally be appreciated in this regard. I think about that a lot. Like it’s this constant battle and I need to be steadfast in my beliefs and to tell myself that I’m up to this challenge.
I would rather we were fighting an actual war, with swords (just more fantastical). You get bloodied, you get stabbed, and you get hurt. It would have been more pure, more honest. The pain wouldn’t be phantom; you could have put your finger on it, “Yup, that’s where something is wrong, let’s see if we can fix it.”
The idea helps all the same. Wars make heroes, those who fought valiantly, who died for honour and pride. War doesn’t guarantee success, it doesn’t ensure that you will win or the fact that those moments of fighting will be any happier, it simply promises you a chance; you’re a better warrior the longer you hold on and this in some strange way gives me comfort.
The heat of the battle is upon us, there’s the enemy relentlessly attacking you, you parry one blow and then the next. You don’t think what happens next but keep fighting, every moment alive, every moment meaningful.
No- I’m not YOLO-ing here.
The idea is, that it’s ok to not have life figured out, ok that we don’t have the answers. That moment of panic, where you break into a sweat because everything is in shambles around you, I think you’re supposed to live with it. Answers will come, one idea, one experience at a time, and since the idea of laying down your arms is so despicable, we’ll fight. Some we win, some we lose and in time, we learn to let go of the losses.

On Resilience

Maybe it’s a drowning man clutching at straws or maybe this actually means something; today I saw a sliver of hope- not in a person or an incident but in a very random idea. Perhaps there’s hope; not of survival or of development but of spirit and if not of longevity then of remembrance.

I don’t want to get in to the politics, history or the conspiracy of it all but the more I think about it, it’s inevitable that sometime in the future (I pray for distant) we will be forced to flee, to hide and to renounce all and any claim we have to our homes. Move on, as this place gets trampled on by an array of battles; armed or otherwise, or we stay and become collateral damage. Die or hide, in any case the idea I had of growing up to stability and perfection, all those resolutions and promises they will remain unfulfilled and undone.

We have gotten to a place where ‘Pakistan Zindabad’ has become ‘Pakistan say zinda bhaag’.

But this is where the morose bit ends, because here’s the thing, despite all of this we still plough on!

We’re a queer bunch of people, to defy odds and emblazon our identity ever so proudly. The more the world hates us, the more desperately we cling onto what we’ re left with and again they take from us and we still manage to make do with the remainder, more sullen than before but still devout.

It seemed stubborn and delusional all this time, and today I saw it for what it was – resilient.

We have seen nothing but a string of hurdles, each knocking us over, chipping away bits. Through all of that we have prevailed, albeit with stunted progress and frowned faces, we still find meaning enough to cherish a little patriotism.

It’s a romantic idea, one that won’t get us too far but it gives me faith and some perverse justification of pride, because passion and the ever readiness to ‘die for my country’ comes easier to us than most things.

The mere fact that there are some who can find a reason to stand by this place, that reason being nothing but a sense of belonging- it gives me hope that the future may hold for us, a dismembered state and vanished demarcations, but it will never be said that we were not a courageous nation.

Possibly, valour is one of our better traits, not honesty or perseverance but steadfastness and loyalty.

I think, it’s not the worst thing to be remembered in such terms. Of course there will be those who scoff at this notion but it’s one of those rare moments of optimism where doom although eminent does not feel like a complete loss.

The measures we take for this country may be makeshift and may not amount to anything, but the people show no sign of stopping. I don’t know if it’s irrational to continue on at this point, but I do know that these people (including me) - we haven’t given up yet.

For My Sins

This journey seems too short for story telling and then its too long, for the events run in my mind from the beginning till now as swiftly as a blink of an eye and I don’t want to spend the remainder of time in silence.

I made sure when I started off that I would think the happy moments of the story- not the grief, the pain nor the climaxes. I would reminiscence the parts where the flower had pretty petals and a sweet fragrance. The thorns I decided, I would ignore and also the wind around, that blew away the petals one by one leaving the flower withered and dead- no, this last time, I will end smiling.

I was scared, no denying the fact. My heart thumped frantically inside and I thought of bolted doors and of me, a prisoner inside, beating my hands against them, crying out for someone to open them, to release me from the suffocating darkness, a way out- a way to end.

Beads of sweat appeared on my forehead and were blown away instantly by the rushing air. The coolness was calming and I remembered this from life, I had liked it then too.

I had also liked my life, enjoyed my influence over others. I had considered myself a savior then, pretended like I was the keeper of keys that led to peace- numbness I now call it. I would rent out those small packets when beseeched by anyone needy and feel proud when they snorted their way into oblivion.

It was like people turning up the volume to a rock band, trying to drown the voices in their heads. It worked for a while, until you grew accustomed to the sound and reality screamed in your faces once again.

I was the musician orchestrating the Song of Unfeeling and those people, my devoted listeners, hooked to the music by the force of their own bodies rebelling against them, craving for what only I could give them. That was my power, one that had made me the helpless being that I was today.

I closed my eyes trying to think of a happy dream to keep me smiling as I had promised my self I would, but all that I could remember were nightmares. Nightmares from the time she came to me, asking for help and I made her a part of the cult of the doomed and the damned. I dreamt and I feared, feared because it was my fault. I wanted that dream to end but it had become a part of me like scars from an accident. This was my scar from a dream.

Dreams, spiritually, people think always hold some messages. Maybe it’s an outlet for our subconscious to speak, tell us things that manage to elude our roused minds.

Most times when I wake up, I hardly remember what I dream about and others It’s a prayer of gratitude that starts my day, for I’m thankful that what I saw was just a dream.

I dreamt of regret once and also of comeuppance, of the grief proceeded by mistakes and of the insane desire to go back in time and stop my hands from getting burnt in the fire of wrong.

I cried then, and felt the desperation. I felt the walls closing in on me, throttling me and I groped in the darkness for a light of miracle, but there was none.

I wept on my mother’s bosom, trying to confess to my mistakes, speaking of the betrayal of trust, of the demise of all the good that I had in me.

I wasn’t able to tell her what really went by, and only managed to scream in ragged breaths,

“It’s bad…it’s bad…”

I saw all of this with my eyes closed and then for the first time I wished to never open them again.

My eyes were still closed- I was too much of a child to face life head on. A dour silence or an angry growl, I was the infant that cried when it was hungry and cried when it was in pain. I screamed when I was hungry and screamed some more when I was in pain.

I was past the part where I would end my story with the contentment of life, because truth be told, I was never content with anything, which of course was my own doing.

A friend of mine once wrote in an essay in grade school, that happiness wasn’t short lived; it’s not as commonplace as a good joke, a goofy face or a fall down on a banana peel. It was elation, it was satisfaction, it was feeling light, for abstract as happiness is described to be as, it does weigh on our hearts, physically.

He was trying to describe contentment I think, I’m not sure because this was a feeling, I had never experienced.

I found oblivion blissful because it was like being stuck in nowhere, in a limbo, in space, where eternity stretched till as far as eyes could take us and all this eternity held nothing. I found this a better world and so I started living here.

I helped others inhabit this place too, feeling pleased of saving them from jostled lives on this planet, until she died.

When she died I imagined her to be an angel, a pretty one, floating on soft clouds in light gowns and halos. She would fit right there, but where will I fit…

I doubted if angels had tattoos, and that too of profanities?

I wouldn’t fit in the white peace and so I must head to the fiery pit, yes this is my niche, in this world and would be in the next.

The journey was coming to a close and I wanted to end the trip with a message, with farewells with a note of reminder, but I couldn’t. Instead I saw three pictures running in my head like a ridiculous, haunting dream. I saw her, merry and contended, then I saw her wasted, slumped, staring into nothingness and then I saw her dead with no one crying for her.

My punishment was well served, I didn’t save lives, I stole them and it was time that I stole mine.

There was no air blowing now, the nature had stopped to witness the end of the callous creation, and was giving its destruction the cold respected berth that would set an example to all the creatures that breathed.

Nature wasn’t cruel, it was majestic and gracious. I can say that for if I had been a spectator of the triumph of the right, I would have jeered and celebrated. The thunder would have lashed the clouds mercilessly and water would have poured heavily to purify the land of my impure being.

The silence gave me hope that maybe forgiveness was attainable, that maybe she would smile again and that maybe the lives I had touched and burnt would be whole and healthy again.

Relief washed over me and I smiled again, just slightly for the very next moment, I felt a blow on my scull, an iron fist, under which I crumpled like a glass vase broken to uncountable pieces, I fell to the ground and felt tremors emanate marking the end of my journey. I lost all feeling and lost all thoughts. A thin ray of light pierced the darkness and I sensed the shadows of many surrounding me. Chaos reigned; I registered, amid which I heard the winces of the pitiful and the retching of the disgusted.

The light then dimmed and was engulfed by darkness again and I braced myself, this time, for repayment.

I say, "It's a start."

The following blog post has been forcefully written because the writer is creatively numb at the moment; her surroundings are getting more boring by the second, observations are scarce and interest is lost.

She is confined to her room, over dosing on meandering episodes of rambling seasons. A book lays invitingly by her side, but the fear of it ending has put shackles on her otherwise hasty reading process.

She feels the end, no matter inevitable, will slink her back to depression-- and now she laughs at her own absurdity.

She almost made this piece into some philosophy of life, a long whining tale of all that seemed wrong, a complaint of spineless problems for often she is her worst critic. She is overly analytical, supremely paranoid and ill fatedly reserved.
She wishes to change that.

Now she wonders the wisdom of putting this up for everyone to see. The hint of any display of vulnerability frightens her again, but this time she is adamant.

It’s not much of a victory, she admits, but it’s a start.

______

Greatness isn’t just an aspiration; it’s a consequence of a game well manoeuvred. In an epiphany of clarity, I seek nothing but contention- that’s probably hardest to find, and find I will.