A leaf swigs every droplet but burns with thirst for the last one one resting below on the shard of grass. Have you seen a falling leaf as it breaks free? When it gives itself into the hands of morning breeze that makes it pure by cleaning off all the droplets resting upon it. As the leaf touches the ground and prepares to hold the last drop into it’s embrace, a shoe tramples it and makes it filthy again. The first and last kiss from the drop makes it all worth it for the leaf. The worth diminishes though as it is raked along the dead leaves. It cherishes the ecstatic death only to realize later that it’s thrown back into the same pit, the same cycle. Even love is an illusion and so is success. The end is to come and it is ‘the end’ no matter how much glorified it is. Every cause worth fighting for will be forgotten, a thousand years from now. Every pain worth crying for will fade as the mind gets bored and looks for a new pain. Every beloved droplet, worth dying for, will lose its purity after life parts ways and lose earth would trample upon the lover. Come let me make you a drink while you sit beside me holding hands, watching all the falling leaves until there’s no dew left worth dying for. Maybe the leaves won’t take birth as there’s no more dew left to give them the pain of droplets. I want to see that void with you by my side. I want to see you watch me fall in love with that void and then being pushed off to my last. When you witness that, do remember every moment that unfolds. Start from where I leave as I started from where left the leaf. Let this cycle go on till eternity. Then you would have the answer to whether the leaf’s death was worth it or a mere pity.
First long story draft. Give the PDF a read:
Music danced over snow coloured skin of her cheeks. Those eyes, as of a wolf, staring into the horizon upon a prey faraway from her devouring canines. Such thoughts humble a wolf and then follows a look of innocence. Eyes blinking over lips, pink as smudges of twilight embracing the falling sun, forcing you to believe in one longing sight. A sight that makes you trade your very existence for it.
This writing shall not replace the cold slabs under my stiff buttocks though it won’t make my indifference colder. Here we have a competition between stone and a man’s perseverance. You must have heard about ice over oceans which gets harder against harsh winters. These slabs are water and I’m the ice. I don’t know when this winter of my confinement will end but I won’t break until the end. This irks them the most. They are mere officials who follow commands. Hard working young men, trying to break me everyday but failing. I hate to see them exhausted and angered when they throw me in this isolated cell for revolting with my silence. They are not at fault. They exist in the same whirlpool that keeps me confined and makes them watch over me, where in the vortex I dance with the victim.
Are you the victim, love of my life? I might be a loathed rapist but the implications have made me a thinker and transformed thought into word. What a wonderful experience it is to be disgusted in courts and public and papers as a perpetuator of beastiality. Prison is the only place that harbours beasts and these inmates respect me in the most heinous ways. I don’t stay with them because I’m not one of them but they don’t know. No one knows that but me and you darling. I can taste blood in the corners of my mouth from yesterday’s punch by the prison warden. My bones creak under the flurry of batons. But I sit alone, in the calm, memorising these words to write them on a paper until I’m provided with one. I see you in the dark. I see ‘Me’. You are the best con of my life but I’m the artist this world doesn’t dare to see. I’m coming! And I would love to see the look in your eyes when you see me. You won’t be scared I know, but the look of defeat in your eyes and impatience for the next plan to throw me back would be my ecstasy. I’m coming! Alive? I don’t know but life has never been a medium for me. Just a life imprisonment more and I will be there. You know what I would have become by then. You out of all the people know that well. Convey it to whom it concerns. Prepare yourself before I put these words on the first paper I find. Prepare yourself for I’m coming!
There are an infinite amount of books with unfathomable sea of words pouring out of them. We all have read many such books but there are only a few that can be related to our lives. Irum Zahra’s ‘Psychaotic’ is a book related to poetry with little toppings of sweet prose. It successfully stands out to be a great collection of poetry because of the bond that this book develops with the reader and gives a serene moment of soul surfing. Not at a single moment, while reading, anyone would develop an impression that this book is written by someone else. It turns out to be a rhyming and rhythmic story of our own personal lives. Psychaotic touches our hidden passions for tragedy at first by cherishing on its aftermath. It then moves to pain, both emotional and physical. A unique taste is served here by giving both perspectives of pain; when it is inflicted on the victim and then finding the joy of sadistically throwing it back to its origin. Themes of love and its evolving stages are beautifully explained along-with a narrative on different perspectives about such themes. Psychaotic slowly engulfs the reader by providing the comfort of feeling and connecting to each word and emotion written in it. Indeed a great work by a very talented poetess and writer.