My last post was written a while ago and while everybody insisted me to blog soon, I had a perfect excuse; i.e, my brain is rusted temporarily. It's not like there isn't anything to write but somethings are better untold, better unsaid, better unwritten. Yeah, it sounds heavy. My body is aching and not just with metaphorical pain but physical. I played throw ball with a proper ball after almost two years and my muscles have too much lactic acid to break. And tomorrow's eid. Though it doesn't feel like. And I'm going to whine again about Eids and does-not-seem-like Eid and about Karachi but whining is such a small word. Moving is not easy. After one whole year of staying away from 'the home' has taken it's toll on every single of us. We've been reduced to haunting figures of ourselves. We go out in an attempt to be cheered not just because we have to celebrate life and happiness.
This is going to be long and honest. Maybe. Sigh.
Karachi. For a person who boasted about moving on easily, I've done a poor job. Yes, moving is not easy. The worst part is it won't be same when we go back. The house is in ruins, the air silent and melancholy. The shrubs are growing wild, the grass too long. Dad will smoke more, reliving the events of the day at night alone in the back garden. The fear that we'll have to face everyday with the possibility that some family member is not going to make home. The fights, the noise, the gazes, the meetings that we wish never to take place. It is complicated. The ball of thread tangled and I'm at loss to decide which end is which.
I wrote this few days ago,
I grew up. Maybe, a little too much. What's wrong with growing up? Those dreams have loopholes.
When in sorrow's stream we had
Pushed out our boat of life
In our arms there was such strength
In out blood there was such red.
Now what? Now I teach myself to live through it.What about them? They are not going to have any idea. And afterwards? Things won't remain same. Are there no other choices? Not that I know of. But you do. That isn't a good choice. And this is? This is who I am. And who are you? A grownup. What happened today? It was a bad one. It matters so much? More, actually. Why? Because I can not afford it to happen. And Him? He is there like always. And? And what? You know. I don't. You're not going to ask? What happens will happen. This will pass. And what if it doesn't? I'd have taught myself by then to not feel. But my experience says it will pass. For better or worse is another story. Aren't you afraid? Not more than I should be. And tomorrow? Tomorrow will be another day with a sky.
I finished reading Moth Smoke by Mohsin Hamid. It reminded me that we are all dark shades of gray. There are things we teach ourselves to live with. There are things we come to terms with. I'm always talking to myself, which is absurd. I can not decide which book I like better, Moth Smoke or the Reluctant Fundamentalist. Moth Smoke is kind of pathetic with nothing good in it but it seems more real. I hate Darashikoh, though his leap towards self destruction is understandable. I like talking to myself or think about myself. It feels good. Here comes the self obsession.
Here, when I look around me, I feel the people are living a life of reality, they're living a life of dreams. My judgement could be clouded and biased though. Maybe, their version of reality is different from mine.
P.S. The verses above are from Faiz.