The music danced over the surface of her snow coloured skin. Her eyes, as of a wolf who stares into the horizon with curiosity upon a prey faraway from the devouring canines. Such thought that humbles a wolf and makes it look innocent. Those eyes blinking over lips, pink as smudges of twilight that embrace the falling sun, force you to believe in one longing sight that falls on such beauty. A sight that makes you trade your very existence for it.
This writing won’t replace the cold slabs under my stiff buttocks though it might make my indifference colder. There’s a competition between the stone and 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 the winter of my confinement will end but I won’t break until the end. This irks them the most. They are mere command following officials. 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 details them to watch over me, where in the vortex I dance with the victim.
Are you the victim, love 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 beastitly. Prison is the only place that harbours beasts and the 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 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.