Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "not-writing"
Red Letter Media Forever.
You know, something interesting happened recently. Well, interesting for me. I was going through Screen Junkies Honest Trailers. binge-watching them, because I hate myself lol any excuse to distract myself. And their humor and comedy style heavily reminded me of RLM, though of course, those guys are better. Anyway, I was watching The Dark Knight Rises HT, when guess who pops up, taking me by complete surprise. I was completely delighted and charmed. None other than Red Letter Media themselves. It was a video featuring them. Whoa. I like it. Heck, even Marvel's president follows them. And you know, he is the only president that actually matters. Hehe
Syeda Hafsa Nasir Hussain
He burned so many bridges with her
that when he was finally done his remaining world took on a subtle hue of gray.
All the bridges in his new world and the old- gone. No smolder, or flicker of flames, there weren’t any forest fire this time around, not even a rumor of wisps of any kind remained. No pall of smoke, no pall of sadness to entertain.
In the kaleidoscope of dust, grime, smoke and blood, he burned all the bridges or the bridges burned him- that distinction was still up in the air whilst he hesitated down in the trenches.
Afterward
When there was time for an afterlife
Everything became wet ash
The very sillage in the air was of smoke from her burnt dreams, the air resounded with the rosemary of her surrender.
Everything tasted like her ashen imagery, everything tasted permanent, tasted like forever.
The other remaining Muses, the one who he didn’t drain, brought him up to the green hill and into the shade of her tree all in the name of commiserating left him a placated mess, making him feel discontent with the residue of sooth he had come to cherish, ditching him leaving him all on his own grappling with the traces of what he lost and plethora of what he gained from the death of her mind.
Her dry memories were the dye on his hands that wouldn’t come off, what images he could save, her pink images were swollen with stale poetry.
What the ferryman demanded was too high a toll, what he was supposed to leave behind in his stead was too high a price, his pockets couldn’t bear the strain of this passage, unnecessarily the river was too deep for him to cross.
On the grassy knoll he found himself again in the umbrage of her tree, he reviving his words.
Tucked away in her cold shadows he finds unknown warmth
Standing alone under her tree, he was left with nothing but eight pieces of Tunglið in his hands.
But that wasn’t enough to bring her back.
that when he was finally done his remaining world took on a subtle hue of gray.
All the bridges in his new world and the old- gone. No smolder, or flicker of flames, there weren’t any forest fire this time around, not even a rumor of wisps of any kind remained. No pall of smoke, no pall of sadness to entertain.
In the kaleidoscope of dust, grime, smoke and blood, he burned all the bridges or the bridges burned him- that distinction was still up in the air whilst he hesitated down in the trenches.
Afterward
When there was time for an afterlife
Everything became wet ash
The very sillage in the air was of smoke from her burnt dreams, the air resounded with the rosemary of her surrender.
Everything tasted like her ashen imagery, everything tasted permanent, tasted like forever.
The other remaining Muses, the one who he didn’t drain, brought him up to the green hill and into the shade of her tree all in the name of commiserating left him a placated mess, making him feel discontent with the residue of sooth he had come to cherish, ditching him leaving him all on his own grappling with the traces of what he lost and plethora of what he gained from the death of her mind.
Her dry memories were the dye on his hands that wouldn’t come off, what images he could save, her pink images were swollen with stale poetry.
What the ferryman demanded was too high a toll, what he was supposed to leave behind in his stead was too high a price, his pockets couldn’t bear the strain of this passage, unnecessarily the river was too deep for him to cross.
On the grassy knoll he found himself again in the umbrage of her tree, he reviving his words.
Tucked away in her cold shadows he finds unknown warmth
Standing alone under her tree, he was left with nothing but eight pieces of Tunglið in his hands.
But that wasn’t enough to bring her back.
