Gone.

She says we barely ever  met when she lived in this town and yet I feel her absence deeply. With you, I have spent whatever I can recall of my life. Now, you are actually a thousand miles away and yet I cannot tell the difference. I don't how to feel about this. Sad? I'm confused. The funny part is, now that you are not here, you are communicating more frequently.  I try to miss you, feel your absence and yet I cannot recall a fresh memory of us together. The most hilarious bit out of all is it keeps circling my mind, again and again,  that you actually forgot- yes, forgot, to say goodbye to me before you left. This geographical distance is literally staring at me in the face as you send those pictures of grandly lit London streets. It's almost mimicking the distance that has developed between us over the two years, the kind of distance that cannot be measured; the kind that perhaps, I can only attempt to measure with my words, the words that have become hollow with time, impregnated with the huge void in my life I have not been to fill even after two whole years. My life lacks you now just as lacked you even when you were a 20 minute drive away. The thousand miles don't  make a difference. Many times I consider I shouldn't have given this position to  you in my life ever. I scramble in bed at night because I can't even lay the blame for your absence on anybody. It's maddening, this silence.

At 3:43am

A punch.
A hard, gnarly punch in the gut. I felt it when I went through all our old pictures. You only read about this punch in the gut but I felt it today when I saw the people in those pictures, ran an eye across the room and failed to spot any of those faces around. I felt it when I realised these pictures were from  two years ago. The fist stuck to the gut and ground itself in more firmly. I wanted to somehow magically put my hand through the picture and pull us out here again but we will never be what we were. Now I can't decide if that's good or bad. This exact question will probably cling to me for quite a long, long time.
Some times, I don't know what's more unsettling: the amount of time which has passed by this speedily or the thought that we've moved ahead too far to ever go back to being the way we were. But then I ask myself if I want to be let gone of the same way. I remember my position in the scheme of all things. I see my own lack of power over our time and I also see the necessity of change. So I keep the pictures away in a safe place and I let you go. 

She taught me how to walk. But now why can't she walk on her own? Why can't I be her legs? Why can't I be her back when it's given up on her? Why can't I give all my strength to her? Why can't I give the rest of my long life to her in exchange for hers? Why can't I when it's probably one of the few things in life I very willingly want to do? Why is there no answer?
A part of me is crippled for life. 

And again.

It's almost 4am. I am about to switch off the lights and curl under my blanket.
I know I won't fall asleep for another 3 hours though. I feel a slight shiver run down my spine. We're in the middle of summer but I feel a slight chill come on. I think it's here again. It doesn't let me sleep at night. I think...Yes, I sense a light draft of air crackle through the hidden crevices of the windowsill. The windows are quite old after all, creaking, reeking... It's all quite old to be frank. All with its fair share of cracks and fissures.  All with their fair share of cries for repair jobs.
I think I just saw the hem of the curtain ruffle again; almost caught a glimpse from the corner of my eye. Ruffling curtains, that's how it arrives: on the wind. Every night. Softly pushing the door open, only a few millimeters ajar. Tip-toeing... leaving me searching the empty corners of  the room, half-moons cradling my heavy lids for another night. I can't sleep again because it's back. There's the sound. I'm not remotely tired. I should get up. The sound again! The bratty laugh of a bunch of school children in the playground. A whiff! Smells like warmth. I can't stop staring at the light. It's like sunshine even though there is no sun.  Looks brownish. I don't want to switch it off anymore. The brown frock. The gray kameez. There's still sunshine. A sudden lull in the room now. I think I'll crawl  back under my sheets. Maybe if I just shut my eyes first, I'll fall asleep automatically. Wait, did I just hear a step? Those footsteps. I know that clicking sound. Typically him. He was such a good friend. It's 5 am. He can't possibly be... My parents will kill both of us if they see a boy in the house. And at 5 am. Umm and after that they'll shoot themselves too because they won't be able to live with the fact that they killed their own child. Ridiculous. Yes? We were almost best friends. There is no one. She was right, I'll buy a sleeping mask tomorrow once and for all. Maybe earplugs too. In fact I need the earplugs more. Shit! Where are my headphones? I hope I didn't leave them in the office drawer again. I wasn't even hungry I don't know why I had that tikka. Bitch, stop whining. I probably would've been asleep by now. What shuffled?! Unannounced. Like every night, it won't let me sleep before 7am again. I just know it. Can't forget how we skyped  through the night till 7am once. Crazy! Fuck. These memories don't let us sleep.

This, again.

Every time I set a limit for myself, I eventually end up breaking it. Every time I map plans, I end up deviating from them. For each of these times, you may call me careless or carefree or plain reckless but what I see, on each occasion, is the inability of life to be held back with reins, the inaccuracy of our judgments as naturally as they may come to us. For each of these times, I feel as if I have been reminded that even though I thought I had got it right this time, I haven't yet. It's cliched but it's true... how do I put this? Life is funny? No actually. Life doesn't have a sense of humour. We do. We develop one eventually when we realise that we never quite will know it completely or know it all.
Actually, this is upsetting. Not funny. Humour doesn't come naturally to you when you see yourself doing the things you probably never saw yourself doing. It's not funny when the winds suddenly shift their course, their temperature, jolt your body into adapting again and it's not funny when you observe people change right in front of your eyes, jolting your entire being into adapting to this idea of a new person within the same body, with the same face.
I guess we must eventually see that the seasons, the weather, the winds and the behaviour of the people around us should not move us more than it has moved itself. Acceptance; in every form; And it only comes to us when we understand that nature is not constant. We perhaps must at some point in time understand that in order to keep walking we have to tackle the turns at the corners and the twists and bumps on the ground. We must understand that those twists and turns are not the grounds' vengeance upon our feet but merely the nature of the ground- the earth beneath our feet that does not care.
This doesn't end here though. It is a mere link in this chain.
 The stage is circular, surrounded by an audience at every turn of an inch, and you imitate the earth as you revolve. You, like a dervish continue to enrapture us with your repetitive motions but we keep looking in search of an imitation, a fleeting reflection of our self. There is more to figure and this again, is not it. So we don't know what it is towards but like this dervish, we keep going on and on...

Adrift

You don't need caffeine to keep you awake when you have anxiety and uncertainity pushing your thoughts to the edge of sanity. You need hope and comfort to put you to sleep. You need faith to have one night's peaceful rest. You need to know your compromise will lead to something of pride, something of contentment if not happiness. You need to know you're alive.
There are so many sensations my mind rejects often now. The need to touch you, the impulse to feel your skin against mine is almost natural. I'm almost afraid to say I've never felt it, almost afraid to see my own name on the tombstone before the opportunity to mourn- or maybe just too afraid to confront herself. How do I say that there is nothing to confront in the first place. Perhaps I am just the ghost that I thought I almost saw from the corner of my eye when I was all by myself. Dead. Dead other than the ghosts of the memories that meander inside and out almost every other night. How do I say I have no narrative to this very-essential chapter of life without sounding like an echo or looking like a shadow? To look in the mirror and see no reflections of your own touchable, tangible body but only the circling, buzzing wisps of words flounder around you, the words you exchanged today or yesterday or want to say tomorrow and maybe even publish some day, only the smoke that comes from the fire of purpose; the purpose that lights up your conscience every morning and turns every carnal need, every desire of the flesh to ash.
 If to want touch you is to live, then I was never anything more than an apparition. Perhaps I am a projection of your thoughts, and if I confess to you, I'm afraid I'll read out my own obituary.

Every atom of her being shouts, "Live!"

Dear O,
I wanted to write this letter to you months before but couldn't find the-- to hell with the excuses. Today I finally found the courage to put pen to paper.
At first I wouldn't have chosen to mention your name openly here. But then I put you first, before this letter. I decided this letter should bear your complete name, declaring to the world out loud, 'O is this friend. O is the one this letter is about' and there was absolutely nothing I did not want to tell the world about you. I want this letter to be like you- brave, sincere, unafraid.
A part of this letter will be a product of sheer selfishness but I hope you don't blame me. It is because you have enriched my life to this extent that I am compelled to speak about you, on you, to you.
You bring joy. You bring hope. I don't think I have known anyone as extraordinary as you, ever: Someone who is as frank about the vulnerabilities that come with being human, as she is ready to enjoy the moments of happiness. Most importantly, someone who is as unassuming and brave in the face of the consequences of those vulnerabilities, as she is in the face of all the good our lives have to offer.
When we receive good news, it is natural for us to want to tell it to possibly everyone we know, flash it on every public platform and tell the whole world. I think you have come to occupy this important place in my life because you are there in the tough times with me as much as you there in the good ones. In speaking to you, I find the strength to show the wounds, share the bad news, the little complaints we bring with us more often than the good news, the guilt, the gray areas we are afraid to confess for the fear of being labelled as the vile ones. I find it because I know you will know the meaning behind every word I say. I find this strength because I see you face the same and deal with the same with the spirit of a hero and the smile of a princess. The winner's smile. The winning smile.
I am often forced to compare the people in my life to some image, create some metaphor or symbol, a place for them in my mind. O, when I think of you I don't see any image other than a strong, bright, shining light. Not the kind that's too strong too look at, or makes the eyes water. It's the kind that calms the eyes, gives a sense of complacence to the mind and sends warmth to the heart. I will not attempt to paint a perfect picture of you. You are full of flaws. But I never want you to be without them. If you ever were, this light would lose it's warmth. Don't you see, you are perfect because you are flawed? You are flawed and you completely fit my definition of perfection.
O, you make me want to be brave. You make me want to laugh at things I seethed at before. You made me see things I have never seen. You made me see that to carry on, we must be able to laugh, at a time in my life that had very little room for humour. Most importantly, you made me realise, that to laugh is to hope. You made me realise laughter is the greatest form of generosity- a means of only giving, sharing and never taking away from another, a means of forgiving, of moving on and in return gifting to  your own self a piece of the happiness we all so desire.
It's funny how so far in this letter I haven't felt the need to mention once how we have never met face-to-face; how we have never physically met but talk to each other as if we have known each other for years on end. I think remaining friends with you is a lesson in the power of words. Just words. Isn't it only words and our voices that got us this far? With someone like you, words can never be a handicap. I think on your birthday, this letter full of words is only apt as a testament to the power of words in our friendship
 O, in my opinion, this freedom, this ease and trust is the greatest gift any human being can give to another. It is the gift you have given to me. So even though on this birthday I would prefer to give you something more tangible(because yes as much as people matter, material matters to our existence too and does hold a considerable value), I hope some day I can give back something to you that is equal in worth to what you have given to me. I hope someday I can be to you what you have been to so many.

My warmest wishes, selfless and sincerest thoughts with you always, no matter what part of the world you are in, or how many years later you read this.
(I would totally catch a plane to Lahore right now.)
Happy Birthday!
From
Cocoa.

Doubts and stuff.

Often we may observe that the things which we cannot perceive with the eye, or feel through our skins may either be irreplaceable to us in value or non-existent all together. Similarly, the limitless idea of trust and belief is invaluable. The moral and emotional support we receive is borne out of it. It is irreplaceable. You either get it or you don't. There are no prerogatives for moral support. If you find it, you are shaped by it. It will build you and make you whatever you go on to be. If you don't find it, it will break you. Mostly because you're looking for it so hard.
It, however, does not have to come from outside. It doesn't always have to come from sugary words of kindness and appreciation either. Mostly, it does not necessarily have to come from anyone other than your own self.

If you search and don't see it around, create it! If you don't find it, have it find you. A lot of the things that we get done in life are with the encouragement the people around us, important to us, have to offer to us. A lot of what we will go on to do will be through their moral and emotional support. But if it isn't there, there is just one less contributor to this equation. If they aren't there, they perhaps shouldn't have that much power over you. Maybe to achieve things, you have to be able to have them solely through your own power. Dependency doesn't do much for productivity. Maybe you don't have to depend at all. This may be life's attempt to teach you that you should learn to find inside yourself what you find lacking outside. Perhaps, you should be enough for yourself.
In fact, scratch the perhaps! 

Lists

Hello life! Please slow down. You're moving ahead too fast for me. Don't get me wrong. I love racing along.

But

 let me think a little to myself, talk to myself, and before I forget, make a list of the things I should never/or just shouldn't do: 

Dear Self,

1) Never take yourself too seriously

2) Never take Ayn Rand too seriously

3) Don't wear sequinned shoes to work.

4) Never talk about plans.

5) Never ignore a call no matter how much you wish the caller would get hit by a bus. 

6) Never discuss your faith. Hear others out when they discuss theirs, by all means.

7) Never talk books with nut jobs who thought you're not a well-read person "because of all your jibber jabber". Ever.
I'm serious.

8) Never tweet unless you have something revolutionary, smart and funny to say at the same time. Not just something smart but not funny because well, no one takes you seriously when you're serious. You're supposed to be intellectually stimulating, damn it

9) Don't watch bad movies/TV shows only to feast your eyes on a perfectly beautiful looking man. Even if he's really beautiful... and gorgeous with those broad shoulders and that chiseled-- You're supposed to broaden your mind, god damn it!

But you may. Occasionally... Only if the fridge is out of dessert. 

10) Never discuss Carl Dreyer. 

11) Never talk about your interests unless asked to. Listen to someone else about theirs more.

12) Never for-the-love-of-all-that-is-holy EVER crush on a gay guy.

13) Never bring up your dude friends with mom or she will leave you convinced that both of you are in love.

14) Don't even try telling anyone that you don't believe in love.
15) Don't try eating ice cream with a fork.

16) Never go to the gym with your mom. 

Or just go, be convinced that tread-milling that fast will leave you with no knees for the rest of your life, and suffer the consequences.
17) Never say "Later, Alligator!" to your boss. No matter how cool he is. Just don't... (Whatthefuck were you THINKING?!) ever.
18) Never ever ever pair black pants with white tops.
19) Never feel too good or too bad about your work.
20) Never forget someone who had the patience to talk to you when you had none for yourself.
21) Don't go to an outdoor dinner party with half-covered legs... unless you want to become dinner... or the life of a blood-sucking, drunken mosquito party.
22) Never stop believing or disbelieving in things. It is the fuel to your moving feet, your working hands, your discerning eye and your doubtful ears.
23) Never, never be that obnoxious, over-confident person with a smug smile, and a too-full-of-myself attitude. They all look pathetic.
And mostly smell bad, bulge out of their clothes and grunt too .

[More coming up soon....]

The Rest is an Act.

There is much more truth to theatre than to our lives. It's a mirror, it's the raised curtain where an act is taken for an act and not called reality. In truth, theatre is reality. That which we call life outside it's walls and boundaries, hides which the stage dares to see and speak . There is truth displayed that is hidden in reality.  We purge ourselves of that which we hide, bare all lies, shed all hypocrisy. Naked under the spotlight without our masks but with the face that shows as it promises, as it is known. It's a mosque, it's a temple where we kneel, we raise our hands in prayer, we bow our heads in submission of guilt, in remorse of sin, and step out doubting, feeling new again. It's the river, it's the Ganga, unquestioningly carrying away the dirt of poor-rich souls.

Every song is a call, a call to awaken and a reminder to rejoice. The music is a celebration of the rhythm, the rhythm of the footsteps with which we move ahead. The flow of its dance is the ebb and the tide of time, the circle of day and night. Broadway is hope. The stage is life. Broadway is a celebration of life. Theatre is humanity, it's purity, it's faith. 

All drama is reality. The rest is an act. 

Invaluable

You really cannot attach a value to some things in life. This heroine always knew that but never understood what it meant. Maybe she hadn't had anything like that in her life perhaps. This heroine understands that now. It's her friend. Yes, this heroine also writes about the other heroes in her life. He's just such a good friend. He really is invaluable and probably someone she had underestimated the most. That Audrey Hepburn key-chain she finds when rummaging through her drawers. That D.F.T.B.A note in her cellphone. That birthday present, that bloody brilliantly creative birthday present he put so much thought and effort into. The call that lasted till 7 am in the morning when she needed someone to talk to the most; someone who would simply listen, be there without questioning what, why and when and hear out her anger, disappointment and embarrassment, in short, all the drama. 
 This might sound deathly cliched but really that is all there is to a real friend for me. He/she needs to be here. And that's still not it when I really sit down to think about it all. That's the thing about him, I guess: the amount of thought he puts into everything. How he always goes an extra mile to make his friends feel special. You know what? I don't even think he tries. It's just naturally him. The fact that I came to his mind when he randomly came across that Audrey Hepburn key-chain, the time when I couldn't stop stressing over my stupid weight issues but he actually bothered to guide me through a workout routine; the fact that he stayed up till 7 am to simply listen to me when he probably had a final exam to study for; the fact that he's ALWAYS ready to listen to my sad-ass sob-stories without fucking judging me one single time. Honestly, I can keep on quoting instances but I'll spare you the boredom.
Eventually, if that sort of thing isn't invaluable, I don't know what is.
What leaves me speechless every time is that without me leaving any signs, he knows. I think he does. He sensed the trouble last summer and wouldn't stop asking until I finally ranted one night. Of course he is full of flaws. Those moments when he tries really hard to act all smart and sophisticated, are priceless! He ends up coming across as adorable, actually. There are times when he says the shittiest things but I even that out by being the phenomenal bitch that I can be.
I have seen in him what I have not seen in any other; Something I have always found missing in myself: That endless, unconditional capacity to give, give purely without expecting anything in return. That is probably the gist of what you can grasp if you read everything I have written about him. If I think I know him, he really is unlike any other boy I have ever come across in my life. So now, every time I open to check the reminders in my phone, that D.F.T.B.A note is always there to make my day complete.
He's a friend. It's his birthday today. It's quite sad because if you read all of this you will realize most of this is about her as much as it is about him. It's true. She probably hasn't been even a quarter to him of what he's been to her. She realizes this and goes through the most terrible, inexplicable embarrassment. I hope she can be his friend too one day and make it all up to him. She knows he's changing. She hopes he changes for only and only the better like he has so far. Despite knowing she hasn't been that friend to him, she hopes, hopelessly, like the only thing she can ever do,  that he doesn't change to forget and make this drama queen a part of his fond memories.

Deaf.

What is it about the sound of twisting knuckles and ticking clocks, and footsteps that makes us so anxious? Can a sound, as simple and momentary, reach so deep into the senses and wring them into reaction? If it is so, then how come the sound of a lot of words goes unheard?

The Minor Costs of Living

There are times when I want and only want. The rest of the time I try to work a way around it. Sometimes, the 'Should' of 'The Way It's Done' happens. Most of the time there are just diversions. I scare myself in the most unpleasant way, by wanting to own. Obviously, I say nobody owns nobody. Empty spaces are only good to lose yourself into but they are anything but good to look at. At times I want to fill the spaces around me with people. Of my own. And then I say, people cannot be owned. Nobody owns nobody. Nobody thinks of it that way... like you yourself have been thought of all your life. That's not how it works. That's not how life works, I say. Fancy bed stands, jewels, vacant chairs and empty rooms are one of the few things that you can completely own. And your own self. I say, it's right. I daresay, love comes with costs but not for a price.

Your silken tie, around my finger
A half-opened envelope, longing, stirred,
I dance in circles around the fire in this absurd skirt,
 stirred by the breeze that comes through
the shattered, misty windows
our yellowing, bare, chipped walls.
Now the room stinks of your dog's urine
outside
The train's whistle carried on the wind
like you
Would carry her first child on your back.
Your idea of
me
on that table
lies, rests broken beside the equally broken fountain pen.
The burnt wick, the blues radio, the black, shrivelled rose
My hair strewn across
your shoulder
I stand
you are
between you and I
In silence
in smoke
Scratching away the expiration date
Wanting, kneeling, praying
to forget
just this once
(I think of you)
more.

No titles for the lost.

Look. Turn around. Take a step back and pause. Just for a moment.
I look for him every day. I search for him all day long. I try to pretend all day too so that they know I'm still searching. I try to pretend as if I found him for their comfort to remain unperturbed... But then how is it a 'he'? Who decided to associate the masculine to His name? I just capitalized the 'aich'. Does that mean I believe he is out there? Is there a difference; difference between the fact that I search for him and the belief I have that he is out there? Or is this temporary cynicism as I am told? Cynicism that will be swept away with one blow; a tragic blow, they said. It must be tragic, and full of regret and remorse. I don't believe it. But I have felt it. The fear of being completely and absolutely unaware of what may come. I am not ashamed of owning up to my fears and never was. It's my lack of ability to display it all too animatedly unlike the immaturity I put up on display every moment unabashedly. I am not afraid of being called shameless or immature. I am afraid that might be too right. Too much than I know it to be. And just like them, I fear too. Sometimes people are blind to the difference between unabashedness and fearlessness. You want know where I think the line is drawn? Perhaps, there is a transcendental quality to fear, that is unlike the very humane shade to shamelessness and unabashedness. I rarely feel shame. I do however fear if that's all right.
Not that I was forced to think today. In fact there isn't a moment my head stops talking these days. I don't think it stops talking even while I'm asleep. But here I lie, and here I sit. With my palms stretched out beneath my eyes and I simply stare and try to win the staring game with whoknowswhat. I barely stand. Here I sit, angry, unable to do, unable to stand. This ability to speak, write, type and express! Express this anger coupled with this inability to act. A disastrous pair. A situation sold to hopelessness. Anger for naught. Corrupted. Maybe he was just joking. But I know he's right. It did hit home when he told me to take a long look at my jokes. It was a stale joke too. Then again, I guess all those jokes always were. Maybe I'm just trying too hard to get a sense of humour about all of this. But I hear that tone every other day, that glare, that sigh that indicates a critical case of worthlessness. Their expressions that suggest and perhaps, just maybe even mock the dormancy and aimlessness of this time of my life. And I know there is truth in it. It's a little scarring.
Perhaps it's all right for us to carry scars. Shamelessly. At this point, when my friends' return to their moving lives, their lives that are much ahead with speed of purpose and momentum of cause, I try to calculate and recall my worth but the figures say zero and I spend another chain of hours doubting every part of myself like I have every day of these two years. Slipping. Tastelessly. Losing. Slowly. Every hour, every day. Doubt scraping at these walls that have set themselves up over these two years. Screaming. Screeching it's sharp, tormenting nails down these bare, chipped walls.
It's just another day when my anger will not let me sleep. Another day when it can't stay unspoken, unwritten any longer. I don't even think this is anger. Anger is supposed to be productive. I say something clever and then the utter futility of it hits me. The fact that those 'clever, well intentioned, carefully thought-out words just dissipated into a vacuum-space. "Har waqt bolti rehti ho par kuch kar nahi sakti." It's frustration but it's all in vain. I contemplate him, contemplate my search, contemplate if even this search holds some meaning. I try to stand up but fail to find my position in all of this. I don't know what this is. Out of the 24 hours of an average human being's day, the averagest of our kind probably spend 20 blinking, lying awake with exhausted eyelids that want to retire but do not know how. I don't think crises have homes to retire to. They just die. Die down, die out. Like those epidemics we hear of that take hundreds of lives in one day, out of nowhere. Gradually we stop hearing of them and forget about the whole thing all together.

Wiping off the fog my breath forms on the looking-glass, I look at myself and then I realise how much all of it is nothing and might never be anything. I look but I don't see what I'm looking for. I don't see myself.