Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "home"

Oftentimes, this world would eat her. That's fair. Sometimes, she ate their colors and she'd enjoy that too. That's not.

Take a long good look around, all the red is gone for now. So let me ask you this, who is the real bad guy here in this story frame, in the fable that is this.

Not only all the stars are hers and hers alone, every other open sky has a strong claim on her that's valid, the moon and the wolves vying for her attention as well, but insanity itself is in the palm of her hand; such broken, broken phalanges, rattling around in her closed fist.

Everyone's insanity, for everyone, is insane. Though which one of them is mad, really. Who would ever know?

The awful truth is, she is the sun that's gone, the sun that was supposedly inexhaustible, the sun that never was.

She was a moth, she was a friend. She is a Myth. But at least she is not a dream; someone else's or mine.

Let's face it, it is better than being alive in this ridiculous dream that like memory is devouring all of us that's never really truly us.

All gone. All here. But never there.

A year, not a place. Let's meet there, in the quiet shade of that umbrage.
Trees or not, better than waiting at the station for something that's not coming.
Cool, iced drinks in hands, but no rolling hills tumbling toward us like elephants.

Her smile is what it is, but her lips are the color of dying leaf.
I wonder why she’s kissing me like that even as we are doing that, kissing that is. Her mouth tastes of pinkness, like when the sun dreams of her and shows up drunk just before the stars are born.
I am wondering about all that and more. Standing still with the earth as she does what she is doing to me, all those earthen little things.
She is making me strong and I miss being weak. But she’s the only one who bothered despite being my enemy, though she taught me my happiness had nothing to do with her.
And I am thinking, just keep your promise and don't make me real, even if you are.
Don't be.

For thirteen years, we were out there in the desert. Ambling around in those desolate, barren wastelands. We didn't care, we knew what we knew, but didn't mind what we knew. In the winterlands, we walked alone for our past, freezing but moshing on. No woes, nothing to lament. We weren't happy but getting there. We knew the way. We had seen the end. We were on our way, mutual extinction on our mind, our collective spirits weary, yet we sprinted on. We moved on and onward, wanting to be united with those estranged from us, not knowing that we were becoming strangers to those already there with us. Isn't that strange? What is there, what's in there, is in there. It cannot be taken out, you can't take it out. Try all you want to, but you just can't kill the desert. You can only be there, take a little with you, and keep it there within you.

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.

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.

Vaudevillian

To exit the stage on the day of arrival, to leave so unceremoniously, on the same day of your debut is almost like exonerating yourself.

You suborn yourself into an unbirth which is admittedly a greater boon than death. Because what a misfortune it was to be born, what a fuckin' tragedy, being alive greatest of all calamities. We had better things to do, other places to be.

Drop the script, abandon the spotlights and walk away right now. Exeunt yourself from this play and walk out the exit glowing red.
This life a bigger play, the world a grander stage and people better actors.

I don't think it's a cruel jest seeing you again like this, you still so resplendent. It's not about forgetting you, how can we, when you are quite indelible. I loved here twice, I wanted here once, it was here we became strangely familiar and into familiar strangers.

So it's not the question of how we can abandon love like this? We are not leaving you behind. Not afraid of becoming intimate with the new.

Yes, while it's true that you made us but we made you you too. I'll never stop being here, for you are as much in us, as we are in you.

Thank you.

Dead are the truly blessed ones, only them. How lucky they are, everything remains the same for them. They are still in a way in which they cannot change, alter, or become. They can't change but they can cause change, impel it even. Where they are time cannot molest them, hope cannot dupe them, nor do they suffer from nostalgia, and best of all the memories of them and their own memories are not belied by an age of anything. While the rest of us galoots are moiling for a dandelion of a reason, running after the colors of a mermaid's breath, seeking meaning in mummer's farce, finding pearls mother of pearl even. In fetters of hope, struggling against it even then, unnecessarily chasing something, chasing anything and nothing, trying to catch one thing but getting caught by another.

She was sorry for the dead and even more so for the living. The Day of the Living frightened her almost as much as she frightened Death hisself.

Is death your genre ?

He was so envious of her
she caressed death
and defeated the fatalism of life.

oh my singular woe.
why is there a flavor of yesterday in your death; in the waning of your mind, in the colorlessness of your smile.

She wasn't his death per se but she was a beautiful suicide

An infinite jest
too bad her god and his death could never be friends

So how was your death ?


We talked about it
and she agreed,
she won't be the death of me.

And finally,

even so you won't be my death