Uncomfortably Numb

Blink blink blink The curser stares words to describe The emptiness That song in my ear Something familiar Does nothing for me The music stops Nothing there to numb Nothing there to hide Their lies bare No remorse in stares They still roam free Black hearts, lustful eyes Pay they must turn to dust What else is there No faith and despair Rotten to the core That face I abhor Rage is all I feel crave that final squeal Crushed to paste Dogs have a meal

Nothing prepares you for the betrayal of those once trusted and respected. I often wonder how vile and petty people can be, and time and again I am rewarded with examples—even from those considered untouchable when it comes to trust. They roam the world cloaked in masks of piety. They pray five times a day. But it is all theater, a facade to hide what festers inside: a sewer of pus and bile. Everyone has dark impulses. That is human. But evolved beings, guided by intellect, morality, and faith, learn to control them. These people do not. They refine their impulses into intentions. They plan, they connive, they act with malice. They are a rare breed that should never have been allowed to spread their poison further. There are no words strong enough to capture my contempt. Their very existence is loathsome, and everything they touch is tainted. They are a cancer eating through the fabric of morality. And like every cancer, every tumor, they must be cut out so the body can survive. ...

 وہ کہتے ہیں دل کی دھڑکن  کو نکالو اور پھینک دو وہ کہتے ہیں یہ سامان کسی کام کا نہیں جو تم ساتھ ساتھ لئے پھرتے ہو جسکی حفاظت تم نے فرض سمجھی وہ اب اک ویرانہ ہے وہاں کچھ بھی باقی نہیں رہا اسے چھوڑ دو اسے پھینک دو میں کہتا ہوں تم نے کبھی محبت کی بھی ہے؟ یا شاید تم سےمحبت کی نہیں گئی اگر یہ احساس کبھی ملا ہوتا تو تمہارے لفظ کبھی  اتنے زہریلے نہ ہو پاتے تم دنیا کے پوجنے والے اِک ٹوٹے کیواڑ کا مول کیا جانے جو کبھی ایک ماں کے آنگن کا  پتہ دیتا تھا تم خودپرست لذتوں کے مارے اِک پرانےصندوق کا مول کیا جانے جس میں ماضی کے نہ جانے کتنے  سنہری لمحے  بند پڑے ہیں جس میں سے اب بھی َََِاِک باپ کی خوشبو آتی ہے ان پر ترس آتا ہے  جنہیں کبھی وہ محبت نصیب نہ تھی جو وجود کا حصہ بن جائے  لمحہ لمحہ ہر نصیحت بن کریاد آئے تو ہاں میں ضرور پھینک دوں گا ان سب کو اپنی زندگی سے باہر جنہیں میرے وجود  اور اسکی یادوں سے کوئی  سروکار نہیں

Somewhere between the stillness of childhood afternoons and the rusted gates of departure lounges, a quiet wind began to pull at him. It wasn’t a map he carried, but a pulse — a knowing that the ground beneath his feet was only a chapter, not the book. His sister drifted toward the southern sun, his brother to the cobblestones of Europe, and his parents had already spent much of their lives under skies far from his own. The restlessness grew like an untended vine, searching for a wall to climb. And then came the fracture. A single day split into before and after. A goodbye at the edge of a road, a wave, a turning away — and the world folded in on itself. Two souls went with the dusk, one small hand still remained in his. He would carry both the weight and the light of that survival forever. Loss was already etched into the grain of his life. It had come before in hospital rooms, in whispered diagnoses, in empty chairs at the table. And it never ended. Now it wears a new face — the cons...

When you dream about migrating yo never realize how much toll it will take on you emotionally, at that time you are just worried about the logistics and once that’s done you are then ferociously hit with the enormity of your decision. I was definitely not prepared for it. My life, my work, my position, all the things I thought defined me are gone. The things that anchored me like my house, my neighboured, my city, all that is gone as well. I feel like a discarded thing, of no value. The worst thing about it is that it’s of my own volition. I am not here to complain cause I knew it would be staring from scratch, but knowing something and experiencing something are completely different things, Ive come to understand.  It’s like becoming a part of a well oiled machine, where you are seen as redundant maybe useless as well. I am writing this to document not spread blame or shade on anyone, just trying to understand or just withstand the shear ache of it. I know, I hope, that there will...

The banjo of life keeps bajjing… Life main changes are here but the bullshit bakwas apni jaga… Sitting here at the dentist one does ponder upon one’s choices… The fitay munh people you have encountered along the way and why you have to still endure their bakwasment. Why you ask you ask yourself, why was I meant to deal with this… why of all the falooda people I was stuck with this kachi lassi...  Speaking of dealing with things—when I was in Brampton, noticed many quirks of the people there. Like there are more desis there than Jhalandar. You see the person sitting next to you on the bus and wonder, “Iskay ghar fautgi hoyee hay?” There’s a stark difference in people’s faces in Brampton and this city… Over there you always saw faces that were tired and bewildered, I guess some bewis had to do with some of that, but I saw women like that as well. It’s the running, I tell myself. Running towards something or another but always wanting more, never being content with what you have. You ...

Emptiness—that's what I feel,  Emptiness all around me. Eyes blind, nothing left to see, I thought I was meant to be free. Prisons of the mind now travel, Across the sands and distant seas.  Hidden darkness from within, Clouds the sun in all its glory. Welcome back to misery, Your default way to be. Relish the aching heart, Savour the agony’s reverie.