Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "dec"

A man can love a woman, earthen and real who smelt of today, even yesterday
but she will not love him back
maddened he is raging, he fights with her when she insists on being real. She tells him to-

A girl can love a man,
but it's wrong
because she is wrong.

A boy misuses a girl and she lets him because deep down she is pretending all the thrones are hers
they are not
a girl won't see.

Then there is a woman that heartens the winter. She loves a man and the man not yet estranged from reality loves her back but they are separated by commonness, they suffer she more than him.

He wants Tähteä and they do end up together but in another story.

It happened during the day
when all the monsters are away
the ones roaming around in the gloaming of our discolored disillusioned decadent minds were the ones that are ever there that are everthere.

Impelled into unnecessary action, the red-cloaked girl belatedly looked for them, but when she finally went after those bestirred monsters, they were gone, not even leaving behind ribbons of smoke and bones; none of them were to be found in their usual haunts.

Unbeknownst to her a not so random moonless wolf at her side was aiding her, staying beside her an unlikely succor; the one she needed but couldn’t pray for.

Unwittingly, she had been in fetters wrought out of Other’s thoughts, tinged with their disapproval and disappointments, her future bethought by others was not her own, it was a stray thing whilst she was not.

Tangled in sudden thralls of misguided notions of divine retributions, silly rabbit, in severe grips of misshapen mistaken misconstrued misconception of romantic ideas about setting the world right and doing the right thing, she went searching to root out the evil that was all too inherent thence a pointless fight.

But the red hooded girl needn’t look under the bed or wander out into the forbidden forest or even stand before a filigreed closet door to find them.

All she has to do is look deep into her watery reflection and see all the monsters residing within her, let her look while trying not to let her human mask slip and see the monsters in you and me.

Fallacy it is to seek even shard of humanity, even a tinge of it, when all of that shattered self is skewered between what is lost and what will never be found again.

The night was unusually hot. She was sweaty but she didn't dirty the ruffled pillows underneath her head. She had dirtied everything else that she could as she slept on and on. The dust from her skin was quite dirtying things nowhere near her, somewhere else, something else, and certainly not anywhere on her person. For she wasn't a person at that moment, just not yet anyway.

No, no, no. She wasn't the cause or the culprit, just or otherwise. She refused to be a cure. She didn't impel any reasons. So she wouldn't cushion any blows. Sometimes, she'd do a lot of blow, and blow stuff up or just blow people. She was an addict, addicted to things she couldn't possibly describe. Or tell apart.

But she wasn't a compulsion nor was she compulsory. She was. She was a cornucopia of sounds lost in places history forgot. She was in those books the writers no longer wanted to write. What's funny is, she is older than any recorded history, Sumerian or more recent less accurate one, but she's already been written about. She certainly wasn't a curse but she was most definitely cursed. She was simply curious. Since she had already killed her cat called Curiosity, she was even more curious. She was curious. She was so curious about herself. And there was no one here to wake her up from her sleep.

So no. No, no, no. The pillows under her head were stuffed with the helplessness of the day, all that swollen hope, and the possibilities of the night. All the goodness of the good nightmares. Restless, she murmured, turning in her sleep. Her pillows were stained from her bad dreams. Spindly and liquidy, they tumbled, rolling off the soft, fluffed bump. An absence of dull dreams gleamed on the pillows. The surface of the pillowcases drenched in the sheen of the words written in different places. From other inky places. For she wanted different things now. One of the things she wanted was her own sleep, dusty from the particles that were glowing in her dirt, taking root. But of course, at the peak of shadows, she would abandon everything and leave. Leave it all behind, and leave everyone else that hadn't already left. Leave. Leaf. Lief.

She had already left somewhere for nowhere.

But she wasn't leaving her sleep ever. Little else, she could do other than finally accept the final moon here.

Did I lose something last year? Looking at you, I wouldn’t know it. You can’t tell right now but I am sad, I am so very sad right now. You are with me; I have no reason to be sad. In this simple moment, you are here and I have no reason to be. To be here, be here, or simply be, or let it be for that matter and it does not matter. It hardly ever does. But you know something, no way, there is no way we could have made music of any kind last year. Nope. We made many nameless things, for sure, nothing that can be added on this page, or to this story. All the music sheets are brimming full of our misdeeds. You can’t read those lines anyway, all those muted staves are deafening. We made other things but not music. It wasn’t impossible, it just wasn’t possible. So I couldn’t stuff you with your own songs, you couldn’t spoon-feed me my words. I hadn’t been able to, you weren’t willing to do that either. That was then though. What to do, what do we do now? Okay. Well. Fill yourself with wonder, lust, stale poetry, faulty magic, and the possibility of all of it happening. All of it happening to you. All of it happening for you. Like what? Everything. Sure, I’ll hug you twice, you are so squishable, I want to squeeze you anyway, you are so plump and plush. Okay, I lie down with you. Of course, you can be with me, we’ll go together, at once. However, one little thing you must do before we do all that. We will do all of it. Leave behind who you are, and what you want to be, and just bring yourself. Come with me now. Stop dithering, why hesitate? Why wait? Why not? You didn’t turn on me, you didn’t go against me, you went up against someone other than me. Something else and it was something. You didn’t mean to betray me; you just fell a little in love with me, just a little bit. It was only a little bit, with only little bits of you, that's it. The thing is, the more you read, the more I wrote, the more you fell, and still, all that is making you fall even more in love with yourself. That’s when the trouble arises. It’s unacceptable, you mustn’t be free, what is there to liberate you from, aren't you smiling, you are so happy, so you are even if you can't feel that. Okay, you can stop now, that's creepy. Your smile is creepy now. So settle down, sit back, relax, and think about how disappointing all your heroes are, how you are disappointing all of them. Heroes and cons, it's not about them, it’s all about the endings. It’s a sharp end, better watch out. You asked me to make you human, you don’t understand. I can’t do that. Here’s the thing, things we do with each other, and things we do to one another are naturally awful, and that’s fine. But the pretext, the horrid excuse, we use to bind ourselves to ourselves is quite unnatural and unnecessary really. Even though people need people. The love that makes us abandon the ones we love is what makes us humane. It is what fixes us and we don't need any fixing but we are fixing to find out anyway, especially if your mouth is involved. Anything that makes us human is plain wrong. Listen, shapeless as it is, unconditional love is unsettling. It is upsetting us. Love is there only to make us monsters, nothing else. These are the badlands after all and this is the only afterlife you are going to get. Not as green as you had hoped it would be, it could not be. And the otherness of the others? Well, what about it. We all abuse women in the language of loneliness. Even other women. Women can be just as bad as men; women are as bad as women. We are all complicit in the fall of men. We felled the remaining trees. But we were talking about one woman. You. With other people, I can’t be myself. When I am with you, I am something else. Look, if you keep looking elsewhere then what we have will never be enough. What we do have, is that not enough? It’ll never be enough for you. I know that. This I know. All this. All of me. Enough. I have got to rest but I won’t forget the rest. Forget all the bad thoughts, you can stop battling your mind, you should, you have already conquered this night. In this silent womb, we can reach out in the darkness to hold hands, we did hold hands, though what we were holding felt wet and globy. But what were we really doing that day other than holding in our crumbling world, or at least trying to, while ceasing to exist, looking for an exit? Cut to now, we can cut some more of this. It doesn’t matter what is on the murder board, this earth cannot bury us, no earthen mold can keep us for long. I am not going to murder you, okay, get on the boat, but we can murder all our friends. Don’t look up, stars die every day where there is no light, dying stars notwithstanding, we are all, every one of us, desperate desperate creatures behind our masks. You are close, but come a little closer, scoot over, not so close though; you smell of dead earth and death. What are we doing here? We are surrounded by these newer ghosts when we still have the old ghosts with us, oodles of them, you are not the only ghost here anymore. When the dreams turn terrible, you know it’s time to wake up. But can you wake up from this? Do you even want to? By the end, we don’t become ghosts. In the end, we are nothing but stories our ghosts would tell. That’s the prayer, the litany we repeat like a prayer we don’t have. We never do. We never have the time to think about anything. We don’t have to. Not here. Still, we must toil. Listen, this small piece of plastic cannot prevent our future. Our future is female. What? Are you walking away? Are you walking off this existence? What happened to you, you were a god. Once and once was enough. Loki didn’t trick you into anything, only revealed you. Where did you go, where are you now? Where will you go. Where are you going? It’s all a mistake. Walk away then. I don’t care. You have to stop being afraid of that last song. Listen to it until everything is logical again. You must, must you? It’s okay, it is going to be alright, all right. It’s all fan fiction anyway. Aurally delightful as you are, I wish you were still fictional. Don’t fret, not to worry. I went away as a writer but I came back to you as a man. Now. Hold still, very still, might be I’ll be able to ease into your song for the final time. And hey, at least, at the very least, we have earned this end.

I have told you a thousand times and in a million different ways. I would know, I counted everything when I was with you and even more so, when I wasn't. You are nothing like Harley Quinn, not even a little bit, not even in any single way. However, you do look a lot like the Joker, especially when you smile in a certain way. Though your lips will always be the color of a dying leaf. You are definitely dead. Your very need for an audience killed you. Not very smart. But you are chubby in all the right places, with the right amount of fatness. Like that flaxen hair girl in the stone tower. You are gonna be so fat in the future that's not for you. How can you not be fat, stuffed with my feelings and words. Stupid blue shirt, but fuck you are beautiful. It's so unfair that you know that, that's really unfortunate. Still, cute butt though.