I was wearing a silver mask I had made myself that evening – it was shiny silver, flamboyant pink swirls (to match my wonderfully fun & scanty shirt), and over the top sides that winged out way beyond my face.
He had grabbed one of the free masks that they passed out at the entrance.

We hadn’t been out in such a long time, I loved every expensive second of it. I came out of the Ladies (very nice, extremely miraculously huge and clean) and he was waiting. We were having some normal discussion about food and where to find it before we entered the noise and darkness, and to make a point, he grabbed my arms and shook me and said something like “I need food dammit!”. We were standing close as we usually do, I automatically leaned my arms on his chest as his hands slid from my arms to my waist. I was saying something like “well baby we’ll get food first then” and as my face leaned up to his, I noticed the slack jawed stares from the corner of my eye from the people at the entrance desk, gaping at the unaccustomed display right behind them.

Soloman (cont.)

She reached him, carried on five slaves only. it could have been a thousand if she chose it, but something about the whispers around this man spoke to her dreams. she had to know more about the light.

He stood when she crossed the last dune, unable to help himself. his mind blanked for a second, and he understood what it meant to be mortal, truely mortal, in a way God had not been able to show him before.

She almost gasped in shock.
Her chair. In the middle of the desert ten days away from where she left it. What was the meaning of this trechery?

"There are more things in heavan and earth your highness" said the strange man standing near her throne

the gold shimmered in the desert sun, almost as blinding as the gold headdress if she knew it. then suddenly - it was gone.

the priests and advisors edged nervously together. what was the meaning of this? was this an attack?

"what do my dreams mean? what does this mean. who are you" she whispered

"i am a messenger of the God of all the worlds. Worship him and only him, and be saved in this life, and the after life."

"heretic" hissed the men around her, priests and advisors alike.the guard tensed around their spears.

suddenly, as they stood surrounded by nothingness for miles around them - started up another whisper - "believer" "believer" "mesenger". a thousand voices around them, coming from nowhere. around them inside their head.

priests and slaves fell shrieking to the ground. "what is the meaning of this magic." she shouted

"not magic your highness. more than that. worship my God. i have shown you. your dreams have shown you. belive and be humbled before him before it is too late for your nation. "


the voices in her head screaming, not knowing, not liking being forced, not listening to her heart and soul but her the depths of the inner being as dark as her skin - "never" she whispered

"i have given you ninety eight chances your highness. i sent letters and emissiaries, all of which have been killed or slaughtered. i have shown you signs and given you warnings, but still you do not believe. but believe this, God has cursed you. God has cursed you and your people. their nobleness will not survive. their stature, your stature, will account for nothing. they will be the slaves for a century and more till the end of time and you will be bound to the sand to view the downfall. i will give you one last chance, the ninety ninth, repent now, and God will forgive you, he is oft forgiving and most merciful..."

lahore lahore lahore
how you call to me. you are my adopted city. the city of my late orphaned childhood, the city where i went away and the city where all is green and the roads are clean and the parents are happy and the house has no economic terror and no sex and no happiness or sadness just oceans of comfort to drown in while playing golf and swimming and contemplating taking up tennis again
of teaching and loving it
of gathering pots and pots of money and spending spending spending on anything my heart desired
why did my heart desire this?
sitting, unsated, frustrated, awake, unable to sleep as he snores in my ear, the only caring being a tobasco bottle retrieved from upstairs at dinnertime and much appreciated
where are my promises?
where are my three meals a day?
where are my back rubs and my cuddling and my stolen kisses and unearthly wonderous lustful amarous attempts at my virginity?
where?
where?
where are we? why are we here
why am i here
where did we go and why can i go there too?

This is where it started

I am dead. I have died. I have drowned in a pool of electric blue, looking up at the hole of light and I reach for it, lungs dying, hoping praying cringing reaching, and missing, still underwater, unable to breathe choking taking in water one more breath no air, blissfully not shaking anymore at peace, in silence, black hair floating, face down, not moving anymore staring at the dark

We are made up of silences you and i
The silence when we first saw each other across the only phone in the building, I blinded in spiritual shock, knowing, knowing, the blinding light, the uncertainty, the lying, the childishness. I loved you then, more than possible, you burnt like an afterimage into my soul, making me search for you in loneliness forever after. I am a one man woman. I cannot find you in anyone else. I have looked.

And now here we are, in our happily ever after. The fights in the dripping ceiling, the angels crying at our stupidity, me packing, ready to do, ready to die and return to the ashes, shopping, shopping, shopping, one thousand not enough, not two, not four, not ten, not fifteen to finish the loneliness in one blow, to get the courage to rip out my heart and leave it behind and go to the nurturing perfect place that I know will heal me

And then the crazy psychotic man following me to our house, me not being able to find my phone, groping in my bag, mentally terrified, wondering if my doors are locked as he speaks to me through the window with his crazy vacant rapist empty eyes telling me to get out of the car, and you answering after two bells, coming, coming, running, hitting, beating, nearly killing

I still hated you for killing me. How could I ignore your bashed knuckles, your shame and horror at your mindless rage and stupidity and base blind hatred. How could I not heal you, how could I not hold you to my soul and make you whole again as you wept, in fear and horror and self hatred and gratitude that I was ok

How we love each other you and i? how can we break and make each other and break again, and leave and threaten to not come back and know what no matter what happens, we will never ever be able to leave a room alone ever again

alas poor anabelle

god i love this guy.
its a little weird because he was born a century ago. but oh well.

i'm not going to bother. everything that can be said has been. but i can't resist: i predict that at the end of it, when the dust eventually clears and the petrol prices are at Rs. 110 /liter, it will be told history as a great strategic offensive that changed the map of the region; or it'll be told as the greatest war of independance every fought. if anyone is left to tell it to that is. i see the hezbollah as the balkans, and it frightens me a little that i'm on the wrong side of the fence.

the nearest spiral galaxy was in view, so to honor the soltice of the orbit, the star deck roof was transparent and held no educational filters. the fuzzy pinpricks of light against the startling navy blue background suspended in deep space made the spectacular view.
but no one noticed.
they hurried to their tasks by the millions, like the thrumming ant colony they had been modelled after. They dutifully ignored idiocyncrasies like the view and the weather, or the startling spectre the main deck was with its layers and layers of interconnecting bridges that spanned over a hundred stories.
Such was the life of the hard ones.

Just one thin cellular wall away, lived the softs. Allowed to exist in zero gravity, they were balls of jello like energy, lounging seemingly aimlessly in the spectacular incubator that was their womb. They studied nothing but the stars, and the orbits and the planets and the teeming life that lay just beyond their reach. And the one question that every soft dwelt upon, the one burning question that seared their existance, was "WHY". Till they found the answer, they would not stop.

It had not always been the case. in a previous reincarnation of the planet, the two had shared completely different planes of existence. but the fourth world war had shaken more than the land, and so the two beings had been forced to co-exisit within the same realm and confines of the ship. the virulent hatred against the softs was instinctive and absolute. the hards plotted, schemed and strategized to destroy the softs in any way possible. the experiemented and captured and tortured and planned and re-planned. but nothing ever worked, and so after a millenia of trying, the hards finally evolved and decided to throw the softs into a dividing compartment where the two would never interact. and so it had been for a millenia of a millenia more.
*****
Life was hard in the Ship. One could only put their head down, and bustle about and complete their job plans till they died, and there was a certain solitary and noble satisfaction in that.

JZ320 whistled along his way across ramp divider 56th on Main. He had five communicators wired into the portals of his brain, and a mobility device connected to the energy source in his spine. his job plan was fairly low level and stress free, he had to maintain the cellular Divider. He donated his superior DNA once every month to the wall, and allowed it to ferment and grow for one solstice. His job plan, like everyone elses, was encoded in his DNA. he happily whistled his way to the donation chamber as his several communicators beeped and buzzed, home delivering sensory data from all across the ship directly into this brain.
****

sarturo focused his aura to his surroundings, and waited. sure enough, like clockwork, the busy little hard bustled into the connecting chamber.
the stars were right, the galaxy was near. it was time.

****

Jz320 felt strange. he felt! after connecting to the donation chamber, he had experienced an alien energy flow, and then his form had changed somehow. the deep internal cellular structure of his DNA slowly unwound, disconnecting the communicators and the mobility device without his knowledge. the jello filled him, consumed him, filled him to bloating till his outer shell cracked and bulged like old chewing gum.
it was like a virus. the second his job plan completed, everyone on the ship was exposed.
in a matter of seconds, everyone was infected.
the hards fell wherever they were, choking, suffocating, stuffed to the hilt of their coverings with jello. how had they escaped the divider? why?!

****

the ship thudded gently into the blue planet. as the teeming masses spilled out in bewilderment, the last of the softs that had remained behind fulfilled their last function. they imploded the ship, and the shock wave spread across the planet, fossilizing the indiginous species for inspection at a later date.

****

recursive right

this feeling of near throw up seems not to have left for three years now.

i'm sitting at my cubicle, its all a bloody mess, the man standing waiting for me in one of the nicer vendors. by nice i mean he actually is relatively less of a lying cheating scumbag out to fleece me of my budget in any way he can by making any kind of promise he can because promises don't go in writing and can't be legal. sometimes i think thats what every single person is out here to do. strip and rape any available surface, scrabbling for any last shred of flesh clinging to carcasses killed by the heat like the vermin we are as a nation. this will just continue till we finally get blissfully bombed/taken over by a superior more organized and probably more ethical race.

so there he is, at least having the decency to get the orders delivered at the time stated, and following up with integrity and efficieny and a little bit of flattery (it works). except his shipment failed my quality test. the warehouse passed it - i haven't.

my fingers hover over the keyboard, as i get ready to type the letter that will get him kicked off the panel. i feel like i'm drenched in slime regurgiated from his filthy belly. he's very apologetic, his excuse makes sense even to my now suspicious mind. writing out the form will get him screwed, legal action, kicked off the panel and he'll lose the Rs. 3 mil or so he sunk into the shipment.
i'm leaving in two weeks, the brands have been handed over, i have no loyalty to this giant evil corporation that eats souls and spits them out for breakfast.

no one, i mean no one, will ever know if i don't submit it. i don't know of anyone else in the department who's ever followed the procedure and filled one out no matter how bad the case.

i close my eyes, and press send.

this feeling of near throw up seems not to have left for three years now.

i hate surprises

standing in a garden at midnight is weird.
its hot, its humid, you can smell the heat in the air. a fountain rustles in a corner, something slithers in the bushes making your heart die and your soul shrink bracing itself for the disgustingly repulsive crawl of legs.
but the mission is paramount. for king and country.
you a little girly foot shake type jig hoping that the bloody thing in the bushes stays there. you ignore the sweat making tracks down your stomach, you lean forawrd hoping for a breeze, but this stupid city has none.
is it worth it?
just as your faith wavers, just as the rustling gets joined by unidentifiable creaking and whirring, and a scream is building in your throat and you're about to go runningstarkravingmadoutofthedarknessandintoLIGHT you see a light come down the road.
the signal! are those cretins even there? how long have you been there?you flap your arms wildly near the window (its the signal!!). nothing happens. bloody simple minded short attention spanned fools. you hop over to under a window (so strange to stand on the wrong side) and rap impatiently at the idiots within.

you see the yellow cracks though the curtain extinguish. the car lights are almost at the gate.
is there time to run inside?
too late. car driving in. you make a judgement call and stay put. damn the plans. flexibility is key. you can sneak in afterwards.

he brings the car into the curving driveway, way too fast as usual. she's sitting in the front seat, co-conspirator and part mastermind. i giggle silently, because i feel like we're ten (and they're five) and at mamoo's huge rolling mansion playing hide and seek in the trees again. we used to play with walkie talkies shaped like care bears. why did we not find that strange?

the car doors slam, they say something, voices murmuring across the lawn and don't reach the shadow of the tree i'm standing behind. i can see them through the branches.
and suddenly, while they're laughing the carefree cackles of youth, he grabs her arm and pulls her into him, and plants a kiss!. on the lips!

my mind shuts down in shock. i gasp loudly, but it doesn't cross the lawn. i straighten up, my first thought "are they crazy the chowkidar will see this isn't karachi what are they DOING" and the second is "oh my God YUCK why did i have to SEE that" and the third overlapping "oh my God since when" and then "oh my God why didn't i see this way before" and "oh my God its been happening for so long how OBVIOUS"

and revolted to the core of my being, they leave me alone in the lawn at midnight.

i hear the yells of celebration erupt a second later, lights coming back on, front door left open, and i run really fast and go in throughthe kitchen and pretend i was there all along no one will notice the timing.

i can't hug them in celebration though. its too creepy. and positively incestuous in my book, but i guess what a perfect story book ending for them?

but they're such babies though! MY babies!
yuck yuck yuck YUCK.
eW. why did i have to see that. WHY!

i can never remember usernames. i'll remember the damn password, but bloody usernames are beyond me. and most bloody sites don't have reminders for usernames. bloody hell. i'm destined to get this damn newsletter forever.

she sits at the desk, feeling slightly bloated and more than a little nauseated. Flies buzz irritatingly past her ear, her coffee cup, her monitor.
the flat screen blurs in and out of focus. the video feed jerks and breaks with third world connectivity, and she tried to frown in concentration at the voice.

but it doesn't really matter because she'll be leaving in a week. such a shame. not.

ok i want to re-edit that last stupid post.
this is what happens when you forget how to write (struck by lightning bolts of writers block)
my words seem to jumble into repetitive words and hitch and pitch and lose their grip on the rain wet tar of concrete roads.

i'd stopped writing because he kept sneaking into all my words, turning them into wet candy floss hearts and fl0wers mush. and i have my pride, i'll never blog such drivel.

but this post is for all those in the tunnel. there is hope. its been around a year now, and my world has spun more than one revolution around a sun.

the gaping black hole of emptiness is gone. the hitch and stride of a day of hard work has meaning. how can i describe how the sun shines for me, how the rain falls so i can run screaming crazily happily through it? how can i write about how a drop falling off a leaf can hold so much beauty that i cry?

i'm sure it can be because of any given reason. for a work you love to do, for a friend you love to have. for me, it was love in itself and that is what i am here to tell you despite my lost ability to write.

love exists. whatever anyone tells you, don't listen. there IS a perfect happy ending, there IS that snow white picket fence, there IS that stomach flipping, electric bolt giving, giddy mushy madness with another person despite all your flaws and their flaws that survives for so long that you know just know it'll last forever and are still unbelieving when it does.

don't listen to anyone who tells you it doesn't exisit. don't listen to anyone who tells you it only happens once. and don't listen to that inner voice that slyly whispers saying you don't desearve all this.

embrace it. wait for it. your time WILL come, i am living cynical shining happy proof.

but remember that men are manipulative bastards for all that :)

this feels weird

i almost, almost wrote to him and told him that i was in love, crazily trancedentally optimistically posititively in love, but that if i had one wish (and wishing for other wishes doesn't count) i would wish that my one true love could write like he could.

that his random words would make my soul twist and eyes blink, suddenly alone with words again in a world where all holes had filled and all emptiness had fused into the white care bear stare.

but the electricity went, which is rare in this place where the generators are infrequent, the trees are green and the roads are new. and in that profoundity where all blips and hums and haws go silent and the alien rumble of distant cars and rishaws become louder, the moment was lost.

but it was enough to bring me back here, down a forgotten twisted lane of memory. Which in itself is no mean feat. and for that i salute him.

yummy

my new passion is Lays. salt and vinegar. the green ones. yummy.

going at midnight for the third time to the supermarket just to pick them up. and getting noodles, pancake mix, shower scrub and new shower gel in the process. yummy.

of standing at the cashier insisting on paying myself, having a six year old little girl looking at me in total wonderment, amazed at my credit card, car keys and ability to buy groceries at midnight all alone. with an expression of awe, and an almost disbelief that she could ever achieve such great heights one day too.

back rubs are yummy too.
snuggling under covers, warmth against cold AC air. jean clad legs intermingling, naked arms intertwining to shut out the artificial cold. yummy.

stepping outside into ever present restless wind, whipping hair into eyes as ears adjust to the sound of the sea.

feeling sand sinking ankle deep.

sitting in a board room, kneeling incongruously on the alien floor only ever stepped on before, leaning into the silent stand, bend, stand, kneel of prayer. sitting for a stolen ten minutes of a crushing brutal rapacious day. watching out of floor to ceiling windows from the top floor while squatting in reflection, looking at balcony plants being torn by the wind outside. hypnotized by the serenity of the wharf as a seagull arcs over a boat buffeted at its standstill. wrapped on a ray of rare pale sunlight in utter silence, eternity poised in the restless wind.

i had a dream. in a giant cafeteria looking out onto a huge green valley, complete with rainforest blanketing the mountain sides and a waterfall and snaking river off into the far distance.

of being in heaven before life started. of sitting on a long table with all of humanity on it. opera in the background. starting and stopping like musical chairs. the objective being to hold hands in the split seconds of silence, and hold onto two partners for the rest of the song, for the rest of life. of watching mesmerized the ocean of criss crossing hands. of reaching forward in the next silent gap, and latching both hands onto him.
of the archangel himself pausing at the incongruity. at the ingeniousness of humanity. how can someone change the rules and just hold onto one person? he’s more conventional, holding onto two. the music restarts, too late to change, all eggs in one basket.
the opera reaches its crescendo, the people stir, awaiting the next change. she waits poised, but notices he isn’t looking at her. he’s struggling, but his attention is waning, eaten by the other hand he’s holding. he’s going to leave her. she who broke convention never broken by humanity before, broke it for him. she weeps, and he weeps for her.

when the music changes, he changes hands.

she wakes.

making hay

for Z: i can't help it.

i’m bored. i stifle a yawn. then turn to my favorite pastime of late. i look casually over to the head of the bed.
his hair is a little sweaty, and rumpled adorably. sitting from my vantage point, I can sneak a look at his face, and something about the pleasing set of dark eyebrow against pale tanned skin makes my heart give just a little skip.
he’s stretched out against the headboard, intently watching his Discovery behind my head somewhere to the side. I sit at the foot of the bed, our legs mixing at the knee at a perpendicular.
he suddenly notices me looking and I’m a little embarrassed at being caught. but then his gaze meets mine, and he does that look. like he knows.
how does he do that?
“Can you change the channel please?” I say out of the sheer awkwardness. and, well, because I want the channel changed.
he looks a little surprised. “But, but….baby! that the gobbeldygook car being blahdiblahdiblah car made in lalalala car land”. his hands gesticulate in excitement as he says "car". he looks hopeful, and tries to find a similar spark in me. his eyes flick longingly back to the TV.
I keep looking at him.
he looks at the TV. and then he looks at me. and then his eyes soften just a bit. he sighs. then hands me the remote.

I happily flick to BBC/star world/channel V/comedy channel. the sun is shining.

j'adore.

a whole new can of fuck up

i don’t want to wear your tshirt to sleep today. i don’t want to wear the clothes i’m wearing right now. i want to jump in burning hot running water and scrub the humiliation, embarrassment and stupidity off myself.

i can only wonder WHY i sadomasochistically choose to stay in a relationship that is making me feel so bad about myself.

i don’t know how to deal with you when you get upset. i can’t, i can’t open my mouth and allow the smooth oily words you want to hear to pop out like giant regurgitated pills.

and when i stare at you miserably and try to make fumbling apologies that involve me verbally prostrating myself before you, and you continue to look stonily unmoved, i feel helpless with lack of knowledge on what to say or do.

and in that ocean of not knowing anything and fumbling around in the dark, i do know one thing. any longer, and i’m not going to take it. i do know, that if we continue like this, no, if you continue to be like this, get hung up on stupid unimportant things, and make me miserable and teary and get satisfaction out of my misery, i will end this.
these are not the foundations lasting relationships are made on.
make your choice.

happy pre-valentines week to you too.

happy valentines day

he tiptoes in holding his shoes in his hand. the dog gives a little whimper, then continues to sleep.
he slowly opens the door.

the lamp is on throwing the room into a pale yellow glow. shadows everywhere. he looks around, hoping she’s not awake and waiting, and hence angry.
he notices the blanket askew, and figures she’s gone to sleep. he heaves a sigh of relief. guiltily promises to come home early the next week, after the project is launched.

she’s curled on the bed, arms incongrously flung in childish abandon of sleep. he strips down to his boxers, too tired to change. he snuggles into her warmth, and as always, even in her sleep she curls into his side in perfect harmony. he kisses her forehead fondly.

suddenly he notices her lacy lingre. a small part of her notices how deliciously sexy she looks.
red lingre? alarm bells go off in his brain. he fumbles for his PDA, and sure enough his calender schedule says valentines day in a bright red capital letters.

fuck.

sexual healing

relationships with a U rating are painful for several reasons:
(EFFECT 1)
manifested upon (i) the people in the relationship themselves
manifested through (i) fights, racy banter, physically violent reactions to otherwise normal stimuli (wresting match over who gets the last toothpick anyone?)
cause: acute sexual frustration.

(EFFECT 2)
manifested upon (i) loved ones of the people in the relationship
effects (i) excruciatingly embarrassing moments of being part of a third wheel while other two cuddle at the drop of a hat (that chair can only seat ONE, people!), watching while the couple dances slowly to fast songs, being part of a dinner table conversation where the couple ignores you but stares at each other instead
cause: acute sexual frustration

(EFFECT 3)
manifested upon (i) random innocent bystanders near the people in the relationship
effects (i) physically nauseating innuendo filled conversations, surreptitious hand holding and inappropriate footsie playing
cause: acute sexual frustration

moral of the story: after the legal age of fifteen, parents should give children an exclusive annex of their own where they can run wild with no supervision. a box of condoms and a birthing video can also be supplied to health safety and sanity reasons.

me

i hate her. i hate her because she’s stupid. because she’s dumb. because she’s rigid. because she’s cheap. because she’s embarassing and idiotic and doesn’t read and doesn’t understand me.

i hate her because she’s a know it all. i hate her because she preaches and knows what she wants and likes interacting with people and has great social skills.

i hate her because she’s childish and stupid, and hates pakistan, and seems to have regressed since i last saw her. i hate her because she makes mylife seem pathetic and stupid, i hate her because she doesn’t understand and doesn’t bother to.

i hate her because she’s too stupid to understand that she has a good thing going. that she has a great life going. because she’s too stupid to make the most of herself. she’s too lazy to make the most of her potential. she’s too lazy to get the energy to work at her job like she wants to, shes too irresponsible and she’s completely floating through life with no direction and no idea where she wants to go or where she wants to be. she ends up doing things other people tell her, which isn’t what she wants at all, but she can’t seem to intelligently get out of the traps she lets herself and just crashes and makes an idiot out of herself and is unprofessional. she’s stupid because she thinks too much. because she can’t express herself and it kills her from the inside. she hates herself, she hates everyone around her who she thinks should understand her enough to save her from explaining herself. she hates herself for her inability to have the energy, conviction or the skill to debate anything with anyone to show them her point of view. i hate this one the most.

When I was around eight, our class teacher made us do this exercise one language class. She said we could write any three things about one person from the class, bad or good.
After a lot of struggle and pencil sharpening and erasing, we were all finally done. Even Turhan had finished. We all had bones to pick with someone or the other. What a great opportunity to legitimately voice them.

We all read out our essays.

They were hilarious. Everyone had a ball giggling on the criticisms of their classmates. Then one boy stood up. His name started with a U so he was towards the end. He didn’t have too many friends, and actually was the son of some teacher, which was probably how he could afford the tuition. His bags were always local and way uncool, and his shoes had the terrible worn out look of hand me downs. Social suicide to a eigth year old.

His essay was different in two ways. One, he had written about a girl who was his friend. Second, he spoke about three good things instead of bad.

He was the only one in the class to do so either.

I remember briefly pausing a moment in awe. In awe of his indifference to social custom, in awe of his ability to just say exactly what he felt like saying without worrying about which classmates would laugh at him. In awe because it was so many years before teenage rebellion would become cool. But that was just a moment. The snickers started, then the teasing, then the “X & U, sitting on a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G”. he had tears in his eyes before home time that day.

Many many many years too late, I salute him. I’m sorry U.

i will survive

i don’t have enough friends to host a party. thank god. the small talk alone to sustain a small get together would kill me. or drive me to drink. or something.

i walk up the steps into a veranda. the fairy lights are up, the people are quarter way through the bar stockpile, and the hum of general conversation is well underway. glittering strangers.

i grab my champagne flute of juice, and try walking up the steps to the dance floor, but get waylaid by a couple from work. we schmooze about this and that, she name drops and i smile and grit my teeth.

i’m on my fourth group of schmoozers, when it happens. through the melee of people, i see him. conversation blends in, lights blur, and i almost choke on cranberry and preservative. his hair is still standing up rebelliously. he’s holding a glass, talking to a couple of investment bankers we invited at last minute. theres a woman with him.
wife? girlfriend? mistress?
when sound returns to my ears, i hear the end of a sentence on tax reforms and the patriot act not being renewed at congress.

i leave early that night. i’ll make my excuses the next monday.

we are pathetic, apathetic, self hating single brained fragile fools. we rip open our souls and beg for company, beg for solace, prostrate our prostrates in the hope for salvation.

and we face moments of such profound lonliness that they cripple us.

in a crowded room, amid the hubbub of background chatter. in a bed watching tv with roaming hands, talking quietly shutting the world out for a few stolen hours. on an old sofa talking with a parent at the end of busy day, civility barely leashed with each lash of a bitter word that widens the gap of miscomunication and intolerance. in a restaurant talking to a potential man to marry, watching a beloved adopted brother interrogate and dismiss a poor wishy washy ambitionless man with no calling in life and no verbal skills whatsoever.

these moments sneak up and remind us that our lives are empty and meaningless, that we’re lost in the dark and will never find our way, that for every one step forward there are fifty crevices to fear.

but they are just that. moments. the clock ticks past, and we blink away our moements of mortality. we snap out of it, ignoring the gaping chasms that sit like pink elephants on our chests. we pick up the threads on conversation lost in our musings, we continue to thrust tongues into hidden crevices, and wind up lost causes and move on. and in that very facet of denial, is our greatness.