Skip to main content

Objectified Memories. ✨

Memories are our own histories none will ever know. The subconscious self captures the millions of tabs open just like the child, child with a computer with different searches from the coolest plants, animals to insects on earth. 
We all hold that in our head, 
Right? 
If Your head is sane!
You are lying; living' a lie. 

History lies in the brain with roads of nostalgic and tragic lanes. 

The buildings of memories are on rent with some unwanted strangers while other apartments are occupied with the best of people. There's always a fresh lane green grass at the front and back porch, but the balcony plants are brown and crispy with tender eaves because of scorching thoughts that never leave anyone. πŸ‚

The chandelier is dull with dust of the storm this dunya holds, while the light it reflects at the darkest nights shows some hope- hope to survive amongst the toughest battles our hearts hold.
I don't live in the moment; always concerned about the future of past clutching onto the past that helps me to drown in sweat and worry. But I'm trying to get into the present, and sometime trying is all we need to survive. 

Death is free, so is livin'
But at what cost?
The cost of living in a world full of sham 
With your only bridge of truth by Almighty 
Where I rarely witness people.

The bridge is long yet appealing
 with bright creepers and wild flowers aside.

Let me just sit and sleep 
Sleep to remember the moment of death and reality.
Khwab brings the chain of beautiful past 
with millions of tabs not being closed at front.
Let it be.
Let it be as it is 
Indeed, no one has to worry about Shakespearean wonders
“to be or not to be."

Be!
Just Be.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

11:11? What a stupid wish-granting factory reset ⏳

Scene I   Lights Camera Pen☀️  How lonely and lovely at the same time, To live in a castle of own, How strange and fluffy  The winds from roof Where rain keeps showering  Like dancing along. I keep singing poems While doing the laundary  And hanging the clothes to go dry Some lose their charms Some crankles, some run  Some turn out from black to greyyyyyyyy! I tip toe the work I Like it's an art! It's always always better to do work this way. It's easy, and lovely  And as Mary⁵ and Bert⁶ says,  "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."¹ The people around notice nothing unusual as they're part of their own musicals. The kids love splashing in lakes, the women complete their everyday chores sharing emotions like an art, men walk around with an umbrella so dark making sure they hide their emotions, strangers both men and women whistle along (some hidden, most vague), cats own the roads and walk like Hadid sisters on Victoria's last ramp walk, lea...

Where the Mulberry Tree Used to Be πŸŒ³πŸ›πŸƒ

Walking by the lake, I’m struck by the ducks gliding effortlessly across the water πŸ¦†. It’s a beautiful sight. But then, sadness creeps in, like dark clouds gathering above. I remember the mulberry tree we had to cut down, it felt like losing a piece of home. πŸͺ΅ 🏑  Yet, as I watch the students laughing nearby living a life with innocence in heart, I’m reminded of hopeπŸ‘©πŸ»‍πŸ’»πŸ““✍πŸ»πŸ’‘. Their joy contrasts sharply with my heaviness. What is hope, I wonder, when everything else feels so burdensome? :') Cutting down the mulberry bush in the orchard wasn't the plan for the year 2025. Abbu informed me this news of separation months later because of knowing my longing for things. I find comfort in the mundane things,from new baby grass to colourful dupatta flowing in the wind as if it's dancing with nature, most probably running from the snatching away of monkeys in our hometown. I dislike the monkeys πŸ’ tearing the drying clothes, just like I dislike the idea of gettin...

Pitch, Poetry, and Parallel Times: What a Joka!πŸ“½️🍁✍πŸΌπŸ—“️

ΰ€•ुΰ€› ΰ€•ΰ€Ή ΰ€¦िΰ€―ा ΰ€Ήोΰ€€ा? ΰ€•ूΰ€°्ΰ€— ΰ€•ा ΰ€Ÿिΰ€•ΰ€Ÿ ΰ€•ΰ€°ा ΰ€Ήी ΰ€²िΰ€―ा ΰ€Ήोΰ€€ा? ΰ€Άाΰ€―ΰ€¦ ΰ€Έΰ€¬ ΰ€¬ेΰ€Ήΰ€€ΰ€° ΰ€Ήोΰ€€ा। The “if theory” is the wisest of all for the pitch — even for skeptical humans. Time traveling has always fascinated my mind, as it does for many of us. We often wish to leap into the future or alter the past. Last July, I unexpectedly got a call from the city of Jhilmil and Barfi. I felt the emotions exactly as Satyajit Ray’ s movies make us feel, with the metaphysical boundaries of dreams and reality, reminiscent of Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore’s poetry. Before my rotting thoughts could steal all the joy, as they did in the movie Lootera near lakes, I tried to reassemble my gratitude while being in sujood. Literature expertise would lead to an institute talking about consultancy. Phew! I never thought God’s pitch worked like that. If 25-year-old Munazza hadn’t heard that, she wouldn’t have thought of this pun: What a joka! No wonder I’ve stopped writing. Ideas only come in dreams, in waves, often butchered...