Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "feb-16"
ANTS
She knew because she was thinking about it herself and no one else was, not really. They didn't think about it at all. Does anyone really see anything other than the reflection they cast on the brick walls of their mind that's the edge of their world?
No, she knew they weren't stranded on some grand Rock of Gibraltar floating away in perpetual coldness hurtling toward nowhere, no that nonsense was just a flight of fancy. They weren't hidden nor lost, what they were, were a speck of nothingness in a lonely space. Just that. That's all she did really, think real hard about how alone they all were in this togetherness. How utterly alone they were and will always remain that way.
Emptiness wasn't up there in an elusive outer space, it was right here in all of them in the nuts and bolts and mechanisms of all. Down here everything and everyone was strangely sparse. Here she was emptily trying to secure the sunlight in wet darkness, while no one was out there trying to procure her bloodied heart. Still pumping air and ink into her, sadly.
But she wasn't giving up this fight; she belonged to the night, the forests owe her much and the night was hers. She had the entirety of it to con herself into believing, already she was feeling the mass of its blackness pinning her down. She gladly welcomed its weight, whole of it, all of it.
She was everyone's wild card, but she had long since decided solipsism was the only way to go, it was even better than her fever dreams. What else could she do? All her heroes were dead, how was she going to see this through to the end? How was she to finish what was started for her? But she'd make do, she has to, she will win. For.
Once dragons knew her, now they knew of her. She could do this. One thing was for sure; she loved Ants, each and every single one of them. Even though they were eating her face off. So she was left without a face. She was faceless but not nameless, not anymore.
From first to the last chord on the final notes of the guitar, she was hers. Who her heroes were was no one's business but hers. Though she thought she was whole and she felt whole, but she had long ago accepted, she like history was in pieces.
No, she knew they weren't stranded on some grand Rock of Gibraltar floating away in perpetual coldness hurtling toward nowhere, no that nonsense was just a flight of fancy. They weren't hidden nor lost, what they were, were a speck of nothingness in a lonely space. Just that. That's all she did really, think real hard about how alone they all were in this togetherness. How utterly alone they were and will always remain that way.
Emptiness wasn't up there in an elusive outer space, it was right here in all of them in the nuts and bolts and mechanisms of all. Down here everything and everyone was strangely sparse. Here she was emptily trying to secure the sunlight in wet darkness, while no one was out there trying to procure her bloodied heart. Still pumping air and ink into her, sadly.
But she wasn't giving up this fight; she belonged to the night, the forests owe her much and the night was hers. She had the entirety of it to con herself into believing, already she was feeling the mass of its blackness pinning her down. She gladly welcomed its weight, whole of it, all of it.
She was everyone's wild card, but she had long since decided solipsism was the only way to go, it was even better than her fever dreams. What else could she do? All her heroes were dead, how was she going to see this through to the end? How was she to finish what was started for her? But she'd make do, she has to, she will win. For.
Once dragons knew her, now they knew of her. She could do this. One thing was for sure; she loved Ants, each and every single one of them. Even though they were eating her face off. So she was left without a face. She was faceless but not nameless, not anymore.
From first to the last chord on the final notes of the guitar, she was hers. Who her heroes were was no one's business but hers. Though she thought she was whole and she felt whole, but she had long ago accepted, she like history was in pieces.
Dolldrums
I gave you all the ingredients except joy. Then handed you what you needed the most, what that is you don't need to know, still you used your heart as a flint.
Making a fire of your own, you inhale my chaos, sucking in deep all the mess that's mine, pulling palls of smoke from me, all the wet dark matter from my mind now yours.
Then you exhale, settling me back into my world pacifying me.
Words. Or maybe a kiss, that's made up of more than just words but within words. It's a good thing we were talking about cashing in rainchecks and exchanges for dry wordlings.
Because I always write like I am being grazed by you. The world that you just gave me, I don't want it. I am more interested in you that's more than just you. Music. It's as much about slipping into a song as it's about slipping into you. Sip from the rain. And why not, I have to sip something while I not write tonight, while I don't work at all.
Everything is so loud now, everything's got an extra dimension. The night stretches on, the shadows are getting expansive, the stripped trees taking up all the space and everything else is getting smaller and smaller as the last dregs are being drunk.
So, pour in more coffee, refill it, top off my cup. The stars are lonely this night, still I must sip.
All that I need you to say, I have written most of it, but not all of it.
I know, I deliberately left you to fall by the wayside, but I want you to keep waiting for me, it's kinda becoming.
Look around you. All that you see is kindling. Sprigs not dry enough is no longer my concern;
I am not coming back.
Making a fire of your own, you inhale my chaos, sucking in deep all the mess that's mine, pulling palls of smoke from me, all the wet dark matter from my mind now yours.
Then you exhale, settling me back into my world pacifying me.
Words. Or maybe a kiss, that's made up of more than just words but within words. It's a good thing we were talking about cashing in rainchecks and exchanges for dry wordlings.
Because I always write like I am being grazed by you. The world that you just gave me, I don't want it. I am more interested in you that's more than just you. Music. It's as much about slipping into a song as it's about slipping into you. Sip from the rain. And why not, I have to sip something while I not write tonight, while I don't work at all.
Everything is so loud now, everything's got an extra dimension. The night stretches on, the shadows are getting expansive, the stripped trees taking up all the space and everything else is getting smaller and smaller as the last dregs are being drunk.
So, pour in more coffee, refill it, top off my cup. The stars are lonely this night, still I must sip.
All that I need you to say, I have written most of it, but not all of it.
I know, I deliberately left you to fall by the wayside, but I want you to keep waiting for me, it's kinda becoming.
Look around you. All that you see is kindling. Sprigs not dry enough is no longer my concern;
I am not coming back.
