The Red Pill(1)


When we were kids we were taught mathematics in school, for the A graders- it was fun, it was an awesome subject! But for the rest of us pathetic and averages by grade 4 it was boring in class exercise, the cringe in our homework and a tear jerking grade on our result cards. (All of you autistic math-geniuses can fuck off- we know you just liked it because you were good at it.)

I hated fractions- still do, every time I see that line between two numbers I know I’m fucked. Unfortunately I didn’t realize how fucked I was until I started to teach kids and eventually meet the bully from my past- and this time I was the one who was going throw the punches as one day when I was teaching my baby sister(and freaking out at her constant capacity of making the same mistakes), I realized how fractions work like odds- All my life I made bets on luck with the illusion of being special- of the idea that my perception could dominate reality on the whim of my desire; That if I select to roll a proverbial dice I would have the odds at 1:1(50%) instead of 1:5.(17ish%). [Hahaha]

Why didn’t the many teachers that taught me maths didn’t make me count my odds? Screw that why didn’t they make it fun? Why didn’t they elaborate it? Why did it all have to be cramming and practice? They could have made it an elaborate joke of grades- a funny story or anything but no they just had to come in write the question from the book and pretend to be teaching.

And here is where I would say again- Conditional. See here’s the thing people do things “conditionally”, my teachers they didn’t want to teach me maths for the sake of it or because they liked or loved to, they didn’t teach me maths because it made them fulfilled, I’m beating a dead horse here but it was a paycheck.

See they didn’t care if I learned maths- they didn’t care if I applied to my life- as long as I could count, multiple or add to the amount of zeros on their paychecks they were happy to beating the shit out of me when I screwed up and get paid for it, oh and don’t forget to take that X and X with a side of 0 out of 10.

Now before you jump on a high horse let me stop you because you wouldn’t know how to get down from it. It’s all bullshit when someone says they do it for the fulfillment- it’s all bullshit when they say they do it for love, it’s all shit when they all make you think you’re special. See when you shrink or take away that paycheck- the teachers they’re not going to stand by that speech they gave to look like lovely people; that they love doing it, that they cared, that it fulfilled them- the truth is everyone wants their pound of flesh. And the outliers making a difference out that you do see? There is an excellent and a very special word in the dictionary for people who do shit like that- it starts with I and ends with T because guess what no one can sustain in that direction because somewhere, someone in the universe is chopping cute little nuggets of flesh filling up the shape sorted TV dinner trays.

Okay still- let’s say we find that magical person- That. One. Good. Person; who has gone green and can sustain it, Okay yeah sure let’s entertain the idea of good people existing but if you’re telling me they’re one in ten,twenty, fifty or a hundred- I again introduce you to the concept of odds and tell you those are the odds of you not being the I to d T person.

Now this whole babble- it just doesn’t apply to the context I’ve put it in- you can pretty much see it happen in all kind of social relationships- friends, parents, siblings, lovers, coworkers and whatever wait- PETS too, There is always that one condition which acts as hinge in a relationship- It could be blood, It could be character, it could be nature or just plain old mutual dependency, whatever, It is that one thing you can’t bet against and expect to win. This fucking condition is what dick-tates the unspoken rule- you can break any other rule in the world and get away with it except for this bastard- And when you think you’re special or dealing with special the circumstances will not change in your favor just because it’s you and your desires. Adapt to have odds in your favor, eat a cupcake and run don’t voluntary to be a senile fat cupcake.

Lets move on,

Love and Nature-

Let’s see, look to the skies- see the stars? The space is ever-stretching? See how far the stars are from each other? And the space keeps stretching between them, they’re burning- look at the sun, look at it burning over and over, feeding the whole system- see how it’s feeding life- wonderful isn’t it?

Now imagine being the sun, imagine space being the nature of someone you care deeply about- guess what?

You’re fucked.

You see- The moment you decide to bet against somebody’s nature- You’re going to burn out but their nature? It won’t- and no matter how much you wish for your rays to reach them, you’d be a void in space before they cover half the original distance.

See when someone you love or trust breaks you- break that one thing on which the whole thing hinged upon- they reach that speed of expansion where no amount of rekindling will ever thrust your rays fast enough to stop the suffocation of life that sustained you; and when somewhere in time where you decide to fool yourself into thinking that one day things will change with this person- you will be empty when it hits you, as you realize you’ve wasted all that time wishing, hoping and wasting because you bet against somebody’s nature to change, the fact is you have been factored in the equation And it isn’t you or your worth that changes them.

And that day inches closer when you wouldn’t know what happens and the fuel runs out. And people call that romantic? It isn’t when you’re alive and not conjured from some Shakespeare’s novel.

Of course this isn’t a rule- it’s not a norm; Yes people change- not enough, mostly late and when they’ve been kicked enough times to the curb- Is that what people wait for? Is this what you would wait for? A kick in the head?

I hope not. Why?

Because if you ever take them back after that profoundly awaited kick- they know they could do it to you again because it becomes your nature to take them back.

The scorpion stings the frog and they both drown; Fooled you once shame on them, fooled you twice shame on you, hoping they’ll develop a character as they beat their own nature and recognize your worth WRONGO BONGO.

Here’s the thing- the only thing you can expect to change in life are your own choices- not your nature, you can give up to your own nature and call yourself whatever or you can choose to build a character by making a choice- See it’s sort of like reverse-revenge, you expect something profound to happen to this person who will become a prince/princess from a frog and endeared of you but here is the irony- they tell you dig two graves on the path of revenge but this in wished upon a star quasi reverse-revenge you only dig one grave. Yeah the whole idea of hope is WRONGO BONGO here.

Unfuck yourself and move on or cleave up a pound of flesh-

On that note a pound of flesh please.

To be continued.

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Protected: Because it was alright even if I didn’t.

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The heart is such a strange organ.

I can recall what I was going through last year but-

I can’t really ascribe values to the moments I had or even remember them vividly, I can’t remember the dread, the terror of things I fear or the horror of things I couldn’t stand; but my heart sinks. It sinks when I look back, it sinks to the same depth or perhaps It sinks all over again.

I can’t really put it to words but here I am trying. A part of me thinks it’s a bad idea to look back; I mean I understand now what people meant by not looking back-

I’ve come to know the feeling of not looking back. And I find it remarkably comforting, to get over things I thought I never could, there is a threshold you have to cross-

And I regret I learned that late.


You only have to look back once to feel the dread creep up on you. And the weird mix of feeling that follow-

A toothless maw slowly squeezing at the chambers, the strings stretching until they break, a silent thud like someone shot you in the heart. And the pain feels so sweet it’s guilt-ridden to pursue. This mixed feeling-

This dread, it’s not something I could get use to. It’s not something that will cease to lose it’s potency-

The only remedy being to not look back.

I think I understand some people more now, the people who don’t look back-
The unfathomably willful. The shaper of their own paths-

They’ve mastered the skill of not looking back.

I try to follow them and today I failed. But I can’t deny how much I keep wanting to look back, even though I’ve grown to look forward to the point I thought it wasn’t possible. I have crossed that threshold. It makes me sad to realize people from my past– have always been priceless to me.

I’ve lost many. I’ve left many yet I can’t forget them even though I’ve blurred what I felt with them and for them; But I’ve come to realize- I had forgotten myself in them.

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I’m not sure if writing to you; now that you’re gone- holds any meaning, but I know I’ve been waiting long for something to catch me in strings and make me do this– It’s been long, the wait has had it’s toll.

I haven’t slept, I couldn’t- I know you disliked that. You never asked me why? Or be you already knew- The first time it happened.

It was 2 am, I couldn’t sleep. You and Mother got back together, it had been months- I slept in a small space in grandmother’s room and now being back in my own room, my own thoughts kept me awake- where was all of it going? I couldn’t figure it out and it robbed me of my sleep.

So I came down stairs and sat next to the dinning table, the music box on the gallery caught my attention- I picked it up and opened it. I didn’t want to turn the key- it was too simple, I had to open it, fiddle with the comb and see the teeth get plucked by the pins; seeing the cogs fickle and sing on my whim; forcing the key to move on its own.

It felt good.

It felt good not having to think about anything anymore. You entered the scene with your big mug of tea, You asked me if I couldn’t sleep. I shook my head and then I looked at you,  you were smiling.

It was the first time you smiled when I couldn’t sleep and it also became the last.

You wanted things to end like paperback novel endings sold in the children’s book section, but the story didn’t end that day did it?

But now the story has ended for you.
I don’t know the last moments you experienced-
I didn’t get to be alone with you.
I didn’t get the chance to show the letters I wrote to you,
I didn’t get to see you read them.

And I didn’t get to hear that you don’t even remember half of it.

When we came back home, I realized,
I wouldn’t get annoying midnight calls from you,
wouldn’t get to talk to you,
wouldn’t get to have lunch with you,
wouldn’t get to hear your voice,
I now knew the ending.

No more new moments.

I broke down.


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At the edge of the coast
staring blindly at the sea
the sands of your time lingered on my lips.
Seven years had passed, in chains
I kept from you.
Drowning in my memory,
had the hurt had been like the storm,
when you asked me to feel it for once;
That kiss that brought us to tears,
On that horizon where the sails sunk,
like my heart in your ocean;
Did it cross your mind to think
my disclosure meant my hurt?
When your voice had grown on me
and squirms traveled, when
I missed you like the brontides.

On that glimmering seafloor
where you thought I
loved the idea of you;
my heart crackled like timber,
because you were a storm,
I wanted for the wind.




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To take a step.(Short)

Observing the nature of people around me and of my own I’ve come to realize people are less understandable in colors and more as canvases– motivated by innate and complex mix of evolving ideals; but always changing from point A to B.

Everything is fluid, ideals, nature and reality– the perception of them, all the sudden absolute truth feels like an absurd term for denial. I think I’ve misunderstood the expression ‘true colors’ — I thought it reached a singularity, constant, unchangeable and eternal; but now the concept of eternity feels skewed.

We have all the colors– dots, in wholeness of a spectrum ever-moving and still, the limits of a prospective grow narrow the longer it’s observed and in a click or a fickle the center is lost.

I admit– I did not feel comfortable with this openness; where you have an exposed back but I realize a new meaning of strength; to know yourself is all the strength you need.

After that should come the first step– Not the last. -(02/Sep/2015)


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Protected: This one’s for you Raven- your first name is the password(lowercase)

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Where are you?

There is a wall between us, I can’t seem to break or climb; and I admit I don’t lean against it everyday but at nights and morns I get lost and in my aimless wandering, my feet drag me to back to this moment and I’d recall from my fallible memory when I’d use to be at the length of your knees and held my hands up to you, you’d notice me and sigh, you’d pick me up and I’d hold onto your neck- sometimes too tight for your breath.

It’s a strange watery feeling to remember- you use to kiss my face, the peach fuzz on my cheeks doesn’t make me feel the same. And I wonder what went on in your head.

and then you started to disappear- libraries unchecked and books unread, no more sodas or chocolates, arriving back home before 4pm, who was this person that took me to school. The monotony of  black memory developed.

Years pass by- and I chose you; somehow it wasn’t in me to see it all break. Seeing you talk to walls made me cry- I hated the fact I couldn’t be with you. And I ran every time back to you and you’d take me, I hated it that only one bigot supported me to be with you. You told me I wept too easily but then you told them “Please take care of him he is sensitive” The world didn’t matter to you anymore.

And then the coaster was ready for an other ride- your laugh gained infamy with the neighbors, you brought the libraries home and you wouldn’t get mad if I misplaced a book or two.

You’d bother the family cook for recipes, the first time you cooked, I saw a small mountain of spice on a burning chicken with no water- the chicken bits swimming in the stew looked funny in the end- you didn’t make chicken stew ever again.

Years passed by it was time to come back down again, people blinded you or maybe it was just you, conned you out of hope and I had to leave again- the faint tunes of the music box kept playing in my head; from the night I lost myself, you picked out a chair and asked if I couldn’t sleep- and the smile on your face follows me to this day.

Sometimes I hope on this side of the wall that coaster isn’t broken when I hear your voice crack on the phone- the last time we talked you asked me if I wanted you to bring something and then told me chocolate can be bought from anywhere

and I hope this wall breaks where ever you are- so you could see what it means to me as I hold on to your words :

“گھبرانا نہیں بیٹا”

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Parents- our first cognizance in the universe. Sanctuaries emphatically residing in our memories. Roaring synapses of incense beheld with tactility- ramifications in variety for each individual.

24th- My best friends’ mother passed away- This was the third time in my life I was woken up to the news of death- I hadn’t slept the night before, my cellphone rang but I didn’t pick it up, awoken I checked to see who it was and I had received more than one text from different contacts

“Shani and Mani’s mum passed away”

The fleeting seconds were slow, I was already drowning in the past and nightmares- I did not know how to respond, I couldn’t feel anything and all I uttered back was,

If it’s possible please come over”

If I could trade a limb to have felt pain at that moment- I would have- but I hadn’t. I went to my mother and broke her the news- she remained silent and I hated it. I did everything as fast I could and it was dumb luck there was a raincoat laying conveniently on the bed- in this killer summer this year there was no hope for rain but the sky was indeed weeping that day. I was contemplating if I would be able to hug my mother, things were not good between us but we did and she told me to convey her condolences. I took off on the motorbike.

As each blurry and soaked scene passed by my thoughts kept running faster than the engine-

What was I going to do?
Should I visit my father on my way back?
Will I feel anything?

But the only thing I felt was time slowing down- each minutes was too many nights my thoughts kept me awake. On the last turn a faint palpation went through me – this place was the closet home of all the homes I had lived but I felt like an immigrant.

There stood Mani- on the lane, his tearless eyes searching out for a ghost. I walked up to his blank expression greeting me- a sight my eyes couldn’t meet, I took him in hold and I could feel his pain watering up my eyes- He muttered a reassurance I didn’t register- A part of me kept pushing to utter but I couldn’t find words. it lasted a year-long minute.

I pulled back to meet his eyes but I failed and looked away to see his big brother- his tears visible, I walked up to him and met his eyes, they were easier to look at behind the cold glasses- I took him in hold and he whimpered

“She’s gone”

A hush finally escaped my lips and my hands rubbed his back- muffling his whimper. I felt my heart breaking and I was glad- I wasn’t dead inside. I nuzzled my face with his and I moved back to meet his eyes- I asked him what happened and he told me. Pulmonary fibrosis.

I wasn’t aware. We stood in silence next to each other- I kept staring blankly at the air hearing her voice echo- The conversations I had with her, every time my face turned I thought I’d see her standing behind me. I couldn’t believe she was not here anymore. Soon I saw their father hiding behind a mask receiving hugs and condolences- He kept quiet.

There were too many people, too many for me to approach him but in time they scattered and we both were left under the gloomy tent- trying our best not to make anymore eye contacts until one slipped from both of us. He approached me and It gave me the courage to approach him. As I hugged him like a cripple with no voice- he tried to utter and through his broken voice he said

“She loved you all like her own”

His mask breaking- I nodded with my eyes closed but I had no words- but it was true, they both loved all of us the same- from kids to adults now.

I sat with familiar faces- friends of friends, and I realized most of the people there were busy with their own conversations- smiles, muffled laughs- was I seeing callousness I wondered- Mani and Shani were attending to things, I wondered what they were seeing, if they were seeing what I did- but I shook my head and realized I couldn’t comprehend walking in their shoes.

I looked at her laying peacefully in the casket, I didn’t believe it was her, I couldn’t feel anything- until her voice echoed again in my head, the prayer of padre faded in the background and as they placed her in the grave- I stood in my place but I was in my memories- time had passed by too quickly and the roses were laid.

I closed my eyes and said my final good-bye to her.

In the middle of the night,
I was on my way back home
Tears kept watering my eyes
Everyone I loved Kept flashing in the red lights

It was a long ride back home.


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Well now-

I’ve reverted my blog back- It’s just that I’m too attached to it. And being who I am I feel I’m doing a dishonest thing. I’ve made a new blog but haven’t posted anything, somehow the urge to write has faded.

I don’t understand myself sometimes- my feelings. it’s like you’re in an accident and you’re in shock, crushed but not ceasing, like you wake up from a tremor and you realize you’ve woken a minute early but when you walk out to the world you realize you had forgotten to turn the clock back. You realize you’re a cripple sitting in a wheel chair and never saw it coming.

My point being- The damage I thought I could avoid was a delusion of the control I thought I had. Recently a month ago- I was told that I believe I can be a better person but I’m not one- for a moment the words strangled me until I pushed them.

I’ve changed a lot over the years except for some hardwired values but sometimes I wonder if it has always been the wires that split. That I didn’t gracefully walk in the rain, that I covered my scars in dapper and dapped pools I should have bathed in.

In all honesty I don’t even believe myself to be a writer. I think there is more to writing that I’ll never understand- and it’s a secret only real writers know. I believe people tell me that to give me hope but very little people have tricked me into thinking that I can try. I learned that I’m too suspicious for my own good. I’ll play the part of the manikin but not the customer.

Hm, I wonder which is a friend. Doubt or Belief.

I apologize, I wandered off. I have decided to keep the blog running- If I can. I’m lost- The last month wasn’t kind to me- maybe I’ll learn and pretend to be more kind.

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