Psychic Diorama

The sound of Azaan resonates in my ears. I lay perfectly still. My stomach churning from the dizzying array of thoughts unfurling in my head. One twist there, another spin. I am reeling – this is all in my head.

You call my name, It loosens something inside me. The Azaan continues. My toes curl in response, arms raise in despair. I laugh, but it sounds like a whimper from a baby.

You leave like the last feeble ray of sunshine. The Azaan stops. I lay petrified, hoping I won’t break into shards, listening to the sound of defeat that spills out of me.

And we’re all scouring for something…like a pack of rats.

Black (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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I’m currently having a depressive streak (usual stuff) so no happy posts today instead I just wrote what I felt.

I’ll be back to my cray-cray self in no time! 

Odd time to think about Death

I’m afraid of death.

I’m not scared of encountering it, letting it seep into my bones and allowing myself to wither away – slowly, gradually or maybe forgotten the next day.

I’m afraid of what it brings. I cower in fear at the steady, deadly, invisible mist that dances atop bodies and wipes off smiles and glee. Just. like. that. Snap your fingers.

I don’t go to funerals, I recoil at the thought of seeing corpses laden in fresh white cotton sheets being taken away. Something in the faces of those who had just seen death take someone out of their midst scares me. Frightens me.

I was 12. The ominous sound of my mother crying in the living room woke me up from my blissful slumber.

My grandfather was dead.

I wrapped my bony arms around my mother’s rocking frame and tried to say something but what could I say? Everything is going to be okay? Because nothing was okay and It sure as hell would never be the same. I never said anything because I was afraid I could never find the right words, instead, I was pretty sure, a hysterical giggle would slip out as I saw my aunt, blinded by tears, topple over some woman’s feet and land in a heap on the floor.

When they took my grandfather away, we were all promised one last look at his cold withdrawn face but I didn’t go. I was 12 then and I’m 12 now. I followed the same route for the death of each of my parent’s parents, my class fellow from school, my good friend’s mother, my aunt and maybe some forgotten folks along the way.

My friends berating me over my apathetic reaction to the death of our friend’s mother was justified. While they all sat there with her, maybe even hold her hand, as they tried to console her; I was busy locked away in my room, running the tip of my tongue over my chapped lips, thinking of calling her to express my condolences. Or not. I had no words and my biggest fear was what if she picked up my call and I had to talk to her? Would she hear this: Uhh…So…I heard…and I’m so-s0-sorry….Um.

Probably. But I was sorry, I was. Every single time. Even when she messaged me to accuse me of being the world’s biggest witch of never calling or meeting her.

But how can I tell her? I was scared shitless. I floundered and gasped for words but my mouth, in all its dryness, would never form them. I can never be one of those who know how to comfort someone, with their mouth full of words that I can never quite get how to steal.

But I am sorry. I want nothing more to touch things that won’t break and coo soothing words in your ear. Without stuttering, without fumbling. Without fail.

Related articles

• Little Jenny (storyblaze.wordpress.com)
• Why are so many afraid? (mountainhollowparanormal.wordpress.com)

Let’s Pretend No One Tried to Shoot Me

There are a couple of excuses running through my mind to cover up the lack of posts streaming on your munchkin screens.

1. I got married/ eloped. (The lucky person I nabbed, has a face closely resembling Johnny Depp/ Hayden Christianson/ Chad Michael Murray/ The guy who’s lead vocalist for Abused Romance (So many of God’s beautiful creatures out there. I want to smush all of them in one.  Argh)

2. My backside accidently got glued to the bed – and for some reason, so did my arms and hands. Oh, I used my head and tongue to peck the keys and navigate my way across the world-wide web which was very tedious, ya ka-no. Masochistic vibes.

3. Someone tried to shoot me and this rendered me emotionally traumatized, enough to make me lock myself in my room and threat anyone who dares come in with a katana in my hand. (I always wanted to swing a Katana – and have a Japanese instructor. But mostly just swing a Katana. See below)

You eat my cake. Prepare to die.

4.

I can’t rack my head for number 4 excuse which goes to show that I need to hone my excuse skills because they are bordering on pathetic and desperate but y’know, with awesomeness cometh the tendency to awesome out sometimes or something equally heroic like that. It doesn’t make sense. I know.

Except Excuse # 3 is partly correct since I did almost got shot by a bunch of drunkards who were serenading the streets late at night. My cousin and I were walking down the street, just a bit far from her humble abode when we were rudely interrupted by a car which went zipping past us. A flash of light, a loud sound that made us jump back in alarm before the car swerved around a corner. Then my cousin’s horrified voice broke me out of my stupor.

“They had a gun! They shot at us.”

Pretty scary stuff. Maybe it was another technique to woo us? Too hot for us to handle even though it was a beat-up Suzuki? This has taught me a lesson: Don’t go frolicking in the night – even near your house which is presumably safe because some fudgetarts drunk to their buns might try to point a gun at you and not the one which squirts out water, unfortunately.

U iz drunk, no?

Anyway, that was my happy blog! Next time, I’ll discuss some of the books I’ve been reading and one narcissistic comment I happened to come across while stalking face-the-book.

“they give more preference to the brain(inner beauty shit), rather than looks. =P suckers!”

Really? Sounds like some injustice took place here? But this all – next time. Cheers.

Hope, Ramadan is going absolutely brilliant for you. <3

Boo, It’s Bin Laden !

This gallery contains 1 photos.

Today was a particularly sweltering day. It is May of course, and my skin had started to change color due to the amount of sunshine I’m absorbing, which means I’m starting to look like Snookie’s Asian cousin. God Forbid. Anyway, today … Continue reading →

Pakistani Cricketers Facing Slammer Time?

Anybody who is remotely interested in cricket probably knows about the shameless match fixing scandal involving four Pakistani players – and maybe more.  At a critical time when the country is yearning for some good news, bravo, you managed to make us feel more stupid and humiliated all in one day. Not an easy feat to manage.

BOIZ ROCKIN’ THE WAVES:

Superstar “Veena Malik” whose mission seems to be making Mohammad Asif’s life a living hell (Thank you, You’re the best) is now accusing him of domestic violence. She claims that while she had been stalking him on suspicions that he had been having an affair behind her tush, she discovered his involvement in spot fixing. She also added Asif would beat her up when angry. Sources quoted her as saying “It’s not personal revenge but in the interest of the whole country.” Yawn. Right. So many people have the interest of this country at heart. 

CAN ANYBODY BE MORE INTELLIGENT THAN HAMEED?

After spilling his guts out to an unknown stranger about the matters of his heart (Here is the heart again. More organs coming up) Yasir Hameed denied giving an interview to an undercover reporter even when everybody watched him on the boob tube (Am I the only one who saw the bitterness in his bright eyes?) when he talked about the money his team mates took from brokers when he himself denied millions of pounds because his heart belongs to his country.

Shahid Afridi being the lovable chum that he is, told the sources that Hameed is mentally challenged and thinks like a cute (and dumb) teen boy so don’t pay any attention to him.

So will we get to see the corrupt cricketers spend some good ol’ time in jail? Will Salman Butt, the disgraced captain, stop being Ape-shyt on the telly over this grave matter? Will Veena Malik once and for all halt the press conferences regarding Asif and his misdemeanors? Will Pakistan Cricket rub off its tarnished image and be reborn from the ashes?

I can tell you the answer to the last question. It’s a Yes.

Related articles

• Freed Pakistan cricketer aims to ‘clear his name’ (yorkshirepost.co.uk)