It was the silence of the night. The time of night adorned by the emptiness of the busy road and the darkness of sleeping houses. I was pensive and my music player in shuffle mode played the most desired music at that moment; taking me to a different world helping to gather my thoughts which were scattered in the cacophony of my routine.
It was at this time that I felt loneliness the most. I wanted to think of that someone but none came to my mind. The rational mind works under the brightness of the sun, whereas in the dark you tend to forget your notions and let loose your thoughts to wander in space. It reveals the possibilities that are suppressed. The half lit cigarette was busy fulfilling the physical urge inside me and allowed me to love its company. The creative rush trapped inside me for a very long time gushed out. I saw a bike passing wishing it could take me far far away from present and to a ride that does not end.
It was a momentary bliss which would fade away with sun rise. Sleep that was not ready to set in my eyes and letting go off the distress. As I stared at space wandering, why I was writing this? What meaning does these words make? No one would make any sense of these abstract phrases. Maybe the silence of dawn had this hypnotic effect on me. It was indeed magical and flawless, as as my narration in the play goes, yet, it is fleeting.
I didn't know when will I get this time again so I swayed with this weirdness and enjoyed this lonely company, thinking of nothing, just following the passing time; waiting for the first rays of the sun coming out of the veil of dawn.
Its always difficult for me to describe myself.I have mutating moods. Sometimes serious, some times funny; sometimes thoughtful, sometimes careless; mostly calm, at times irritated; some days happy, some days low.
Sometimes a writer, other times a reader.
" Books and reality and art are the same kind of thing to me."
- Vincent Van Gogh
"In the name of God, the compassionate, the Merciful
Here lies Saadat Hasan Manto and with him lie buried all the secrets and mysteries of the art of short-story writing...Under tons of earth lies, still wondering who among the two is greater short-story writer:God or He."
- His own epitaph, Saadat Hasan Manto
" A beautiful thing deteriorates; an ugly thing stays more or less the same."
- Zohra Sehgal
The search for fresh carrots, small bureaucratic victories, wandering if it's going to rain, and allowing, even if briefly, the thought of new underwear to lift your soul.
It's enough to fill the kind of book that life is too short to read.
My heart beat fast or did not beat at all;
I could not say all that I thought and thought
Till words deserted me. I loved too abstractly.
I dreaded how all there was to give was me-
Like water, this biography. I unravelled far too easily.
Then fled to selfish deserts and slept on the hard rocks.
I couldn't make what others made and broke and broke
and made, that sweet choreography. I went alone
And missed the world continually. I misread smiles
I stuttered before open arms, but times passed too fast
for dissappointments imprint on the glass of memory
I sought the future even when the blood swirled now.
I let the past decide too greedily. I kept searching out.
The window, I tried to say half-hidden by the light.
Frida Kahlo Self Portrait
"I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best."