Memories created with the intention of creating are as useful as platic surgery, they look pretty in the backdrop but are just as fake.
“I’m from Pakistan.”, I say and my gut suddenly starts to churn. I’m anxious about how they will react. So I search for signs that show their discomfort.
“Phaa-kiss-taan” someone pronounces. I’ve always hated how the lips come together like they’re breathless when they take the name of my homeland.
“Yes, Pakistan”, I nod.
I’m labelled even before I tell them that my country is not all bombs and barbarians.
This label I did not ask for.
My passport is green and my language originates from Arabic and Persian. I’m a mix of cultures but they define me with words that I abhor just like them.
“Isn’t that where they caught Bin Laden?” they ask and I nod.
I want to say, “aren’t you the ones who made Bin Laden?” but I nod and look at the floor. My heart bleeds red, just like the hispanic man who sits across from my table. But he’s afraid of the wall that Trump is going to build and I’m afraid that one of these days someone will jump my nephew and I won’t be able to do anything about it.
There is a lot I want to tell the world as I skip continents. Make way through paper planes and travel roads that lead nowhere.
“No, bombs and barbarians are not the synonyms to define me”
“I am the courage of a nation still standing even when the world said that it can’t stand a day on its own.”
I’m not good at letting things so. I guess that is why I try not to get attached. Attachment means vulnerability and I’ve never liked being vulnerable. Sometimes; it means exposing the galaxies inside your chest but how can I if mine is a black hole? I have no justification for what I do at times. The constant manic cycles that leaves you bloodied. Running back to you on lonely nights just to howl outside your door. At one point in time I thought I knew what love was like. It smelt like your cologne and cigarettes. Love tasted like tobacco and caffeine. Love felt a lot like shutting the world out on rainy days. Love was sneaking around with the adrenaline pumping through our veins. It was stolen. Our love was always stolen and sneaky. It was a chase. I still have no justification for leaving.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m not able to let go of you or the feeling of love?
Women are supposed to be gentle and kind. Men do not have to be gentle or kind. Women are taught to compromise. The higher a man’s ego, the better it is. Women are not meant to be loud. Being barbaric is in the nature of men.
Shameless women are shunned out by the society. It is okay if men don’t exhibit shame. Women are taught guilt before they learn about love. Men are taught to suppress their feelings before they learn about love.
I wonder where we went wrong in the process of bringing our children up.
We labelled them before they could even learn to walk.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m only worth your time during nights when you have nothing better to do.
A lot of times I wonder if this is the real me?
Or a mesh of what you want me to be and what I want to become for you
Give yourself time and maybe you will be lucky enough to forget.
Time and human distress travel in parallel paths. Time does not heal. Human beings just get better at tolerating it. You get conditioned to the pain, making it a habitual part of your existence that puts an unstable mind into a more stable state.
Human beings do not like an unstable state of mind. Time is relative to pain in the sense of making us more tolerable and later immune to what had hurt us before.
She said,”Is there anyway you can break a heart but make no sound?”
“Yes”, he replied
“I love you” he said but didn’t look at me and I got my answer
People don’t break you
Until or unless you show them the crack from where they can
Born from a spill of colors
On broken pavements and closed bridges
Hoping that the future wouldn’t be such a spill