Through the streets, full of houses; distant, unknown to each other’s ‘terrific’. Ruptured hearts, faded beauties amid the deadly death eaters roaming like a film scene. Tied to the chains of Divine, finally, hoping the race of Smarts be making the medicine to fight the ‘death of Lungs’.
As the cold wind, touched my cheeks I could hardly be me!, it almost had suffocated me with the best of it’s Divine power. It, at the same time took me to the tracks, I had once walked through; meanwhile my smothered soul had lost all hope to survive. The wind had frozen my Chance to life!, like any brutal retort I had got in return of something I had not expected taking my last breath away. Stiffness of the joints, the painful pale skin and a frozen heart full of ‘Cold air’ … the seasonal’ death stare, sucking one’s everything and leaving a void to grow. I thought to myself, ‘Survival for the fittest’ had something real. However, a sudden gush of blood oozing out the wounds temporarily stuffed with ‘sweet and sour’ memories. What a fortune!!. Heavy and light snowflakes falling on the white blankets on the road, lifeless, tapping my shoulders positioned for no positions and dead as any tombstone having words on it. Somewhere, to the right corner a beautiful painting of thick red coloured painted by a fallen feathered friend on the hard floor of life! But closing my eyes and reopening didn’t change the view though and I succumbed to this morbidity as I succumbed to the realities of life. Through the passage full of windows of thoughts waving at me, discouraging me, cheering me, shouting at me, blaming me, and draining me amid the sleet, a turnout of everything for me!.
Staring me in the eyes, freezing my blood, wracking my soul, dragging me to unexpected doom. Recollection. Redemption. Life.
Somewhere, the horses running in the back of my brain’s yard wore a comfortable look to their very unreadable faces and a halt here and a halt there; to the songs my stereo playing at it’s best. A Diversion. Beautifully carved irregular path.
Truly said, writing is an art of exploring a self within selves. It’s a quite work. It’s an addiction and a hiding place for the people trying to calm their storms.
By Aiman Qadeer