Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "2008"

In this Age of Misinformation, shrewdly crafted and Misshapen fears that are purely manufactured and quite frankly nonexistent, Russel Brand an unlikely Hero? Anything's possible in the last days, or rather nights of the swollen moon of July.

Brand's activism and antics are entertaining that's for sure. Thing that is most endearing, though it shouldn't have been that surprising, as Human Clay points out generalization is wrong, pigeonholing someone is never a good idea.

Nonetheless, the most glaring aspect of all his efforts is his ability to think, to ponder, or rather to Rethink the established firm line of thoughts and the unchallenged status quo.

An ability to just think for yourself is an attribute that is sorely missing elsewhere and everywhere.

I want to write about the time we were there in the trenches, do you remember that ? Fighting what wasn't coming at us, warding off something that wasn't there. Toiling hard, going farther and farther away from what made us, well, us, exerting even further, then utter exhaustion. But later, there weren't any exhumations, there were no bones left to sift through. So there was no need for ossuaries of any kind.

But for a little while that we were alive and down there, there was only us, mists of blood around our heads, red ribbons twirling in the air, tying us together, binding us, keeping us there, making us remain there, even after we had left. Did I leave you there in the sodden muck in the midst of all the discarded shells, or am I still there. I didn't come to your side, you were always like a bullet on the ground, then you were one. That's where you are now, still hoping for some respite. Yeah, I'm not writing that. It would feel too much like a confession. Where we are now, even the ghosts refuse to stay in the corner. They are stirring, aswirl.

They were here, but we are not.

Then we were standing in the shanties the army had made into their impromptu offices, staring at all the letters soldiers of a forgotten war wrote to their loved ones.

We were looking at all the letters written on the Wall and the reflection of the fading words bounced around, kept rattling within the walls of our heads; indelible, ineffable, and ultimately inedible. We left the words there, but took the letters home with us.

I could never really understand, that was your problem. You understood only too well, that was mine. Words, yours and mine; ours in a way that we couldn't be, are not unreadable; you are just not reading them. They are inflammable. Now go lie down on your bier again. And wait. For the stones. For the flint. For the match and the flame to be lit. What am I going to do with your love? What to do?

What is it? The dull ache.. the soft moan.
The suppressed sighs
And dark nights

Glad and sad at the same time..
Plucking the petals
Counting the hearts..

Wandering thoughts.. can't seem to stop
The endless chase is still a maze
The run is furious..
Yet so calm
Holding the future in the very palm

Clenching the fists.. bending ahead
Catching the breath..
And keeping the pace. .

A single star shines down
Giving a hope to cross the crowd
To get the crown..
To win some Noun..

From ambiguity to clarity
Let it be a time travel
To find what lies in the deep down
More than atoms
And the voids

What is it? In that frown
Looking for the unseen
Hunting for the prey
Victims are all scattered around..

Sand.. dust.. and grains
We all are dying
We all are same..

It's not the darkness but the light that's unnatural. Out in the open, way out there and all alone, the constant darkness is the norm. All that emptiness always felt a little too intimate and spatial. The vast and empty space a little too personal. Where we are, there is never enough darkness to see anything, especially what's right in front of us, but I can see you in this darkness. In the dark I see the remains of you standing in the darkened corner of a dead house. But I will not steal, I do not do that, steal that is. You know what though, I'd like to get back to that darkening corner, where you are standing so wetly and darkly, but it's gone. There are no corners to cut, no attics here. As you know, Dead Houses are no more and there are no more houses that are dead anymore. I want to return to them. Even though they ate them all and yet the stars are still hungry. Maybe you shouldn't look at them like that, just a thought. Don't squint, stop counting them. Glowing in this darkness, it's the stars that are painting this war. But I fear that whenever I speak in this quickening space when I talk to you, I always sound a little in love with you. I must sound like that. But I assure you, I am not, in love with you, you just feel like a different person. That's all, that's it. Thankfully, I don't have that fever, don't be so gleeful about it though. But rather, it's about you. Every day is about you. It's about you being in love with yourself, it's about you falling in love with you, it shall remain about you loving yourself. So, keeping that in mind, can I still like you, can I keep liking you, please, just a little bit longer till I finish this story, till it ends, till you are in love with yourself again. Fully in love with yourself that is and that is it. And you know me, I never finish a story. Remember, Fridays were always about you, do you remember that? Do you remember that yellow dream in the quiet of the stream? Tell me something little lamb. How can I look at butterflies and not think of you. Don't think I love you but I have always been a little in love with you. Or something stupendously stupid like that, you silly silly aamurusko. What would I do without you? Probably everything. And I suspect, I'll do everything, even better without you. I can imagine. Not the monsters, but all men. Butterfly. Green. We gave up our sun, just like that. How could we have done that, how could we. And in the wintery depths of winter, we ate the Winter too. All our lives we have been foolish, there is no room to sway now. If you really think about it, every day is actually a groundhog day for all of us galoots; where each and every one of us is living a pitiful, small, irrelevant, meaningless, little life. Tiny. Over and over again. Every single day. Until we are all dead. And, lemme tell you something we've have been lied to, they lied to us man, they have duped us, we have had been had. Deservedly so, because we are all stupid assholes, for we never use our rather amazingly problematic noggin. Death is the primal release. It is the ultimate exit. You can fuck only to conceive, but me? I'll free. I chose to be happy. Death is not an aberration. It is the only way we get to live, to get out of this mess alive. All our sufferings end when we do, no more pain, no more this. What a cult, we are stranded here, with no aid coming, and we are still fighting, why all the cold conflicts. We are on a rock, all alone and by ourselves, what don't you get about that. Such a small rock, barren and angry, so aggressive. Floating around in a limited nowhere. Oh, how violent we are to own our shadows, how we must stop. Oh we must stop being so violent to our own. Now. You have to understand something, all the madness is not locked away in an asylum, it is in us. Magic of each other is not enough, which is fine, that magic is dwindling. There is no mystery left to anything. So it isn't much of a mystery that there is no story behind this story. Only a girl. Just her. Which isn't a mystery. Which isn't anything. But we are fixing to find out anyway. We have been made to fight for what we do not believe in anymore. That, that cannot be forgiven, there can be no forgiveness for that. How do I know? Well, I'll tell you. In a small corner of the night, in the dark, I saw a part of the moon, the side of it that is not there. Quickly, I locked it away at its request. I could have been better, I could have been more focused, I shouldn't be here. I am not here. Still, it is just a cat, said the thing that isn't the cat. In the night, around that corner, I finally found the blessed womb that's not blessing me. I found the broken ribs, we must abandon that arch, that maddening curve half submerged in water, and those fertile, fertile feet which I kissed. That tasseled belt around your calico dress, I must undo that string spun from the hempen rope that's begirdled around your waist. I shall undo the strap and help you take off your calico dress and the weakened womb I found therein the darkness? Within I must lay down and rest. I don't think you have quite forgotten how to love a book, not yet anyway. I would say you have been real enough for me, but what you have made from your insides wasn't. What you fashioned, nothing fancy, from your own body wasn't real or enough. See, an ending doesn't really end anything. But you must want it and as soon as you did, that was the end, of you. The thing is, it must be beautiful, your end and you have to be better than your ending. You couldn't do either. It's all about the endings. I don't really have any gripes. Just that. And it is not about the monsters, just the ones we couldn't make. You weren't blind enough to see the truth. That is why you are a ghostly thought barely haunting me now. The hint of a womanly smile, that ghoul in the darkness, silhouetted against the doorframe, that's you. A smile, a hint, a woman, a knife, a ghoul - all you. Every risk and all the dangers are female in nature. So close. This close to darkness, do not ruin this song for me. Rain. Finally, here is a song you can tremble to. Here you go, festoon yourself to this song and I will stay. This is harrowing, but it's my surrender.