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’ve always been against the notion of “hard” love.
A love that does more harm than good to your soul is not the sort of love you should strive for. Like a lot of things being in love sounds very poetic but living “a life with the love that you want” is an entirely different concept.
There is a moment when you need to decide that there is no place for a love that makes life hard.
A moment where you need to recognize that toxicity is not a synonym for liberation.
Love is a poetic concept but it should not make you dwell in riddles for long
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.
People don’t break you
Until or unless you show them the crack from where they can
When you know someone well enough then their tone of voice is sufficient to give you the answers.
I was at a darbaar, couple weeks ago and this old woman who was sitting right next to me said something really beautiful that I added in my “quotes to live by”. She said,
“Khuda ko dhoond ne se pehlay khud ko dhoond lo”.
(Before finding God. Find yourself)
Sanity and my mind don’t get along that well.
My soul keeps knocking on the door but my heart won’t let it in.
Love and insanity anchored my gut.
I camouflaged the hurricane
As mild winter rain, instead.
You know your are dead but you feel your heart beating and your lungs breathing.
The curtains are closed and the shimmer of the day still peeks in to your dark abode. Under the layers of blanket, you’ve comforted yourself.
4 in the evening and you had another glass of whiskey, two pills to put you down because one never does the trick.
The voices from the street tone down as the drowsy state of mind engulfs you.
What a lucky son of a bitch I am, you think to yourself, after mastering the art of not needing people in my life..I’ve mastered the art of not giving a fuck about time as well.
So, underneath the sheets you pat yourself on the back and fade out to nothingness.
Today is officially cancelled.
I will consume you with the urgency of a last cigarette on a cold winter night.
My last, my savior and in the moment my one and only.