of cricket and corruption

One thing after the other, and I'm suddenly taking my mother's words seriously:

It's the wrath of God, love. We are all guilty.

just another article on the lynching

Any self-respecting, 'humane' individual would respond to the Sialkot lynching videos with a variant of the following phrase:

'I hope all those merciless attackers- those murderers- die a horrible death'.

Ironic, isn't it?

But if you still don't see it:

It would appear that our natural reaction to what befell Mughees and Muneeb would be one of anger; uncontrollable anger so potent that one's insides weaken. Fury so vivid that the red pales to, if not completely white, then to a very light gray.

It is this gray that frightens me. Sure, my stomach felt a lurch, but it possibly won't at the copy-cat lynchings in say, Sheikhupura. It is highly probable that my curiosity is satisfied, and that my thirst to know and see humanity's latest lowest is quenched for a long, long time.

I will not google the next uncensored lynching video.

It is beyond doubt that our nation is diseased. To this we all seem to agree, but differ on our diagnoses. Though young in my years, I too learnt of said disease early in life when my first love moved away.

We believed, at 15 years of age that we would stay together forever. This childish notion was brought on by a combination of excess emotion and ignorance. While the former can be explained away through the teenage hormones, the ignorance was in the assumption that we would stay the same people, that we would feel the same way.

Through the gradual decay of our castles in the sky in the face of circumstances we could not help, we changed. While one grew stronger, the other weakened. Lo and Behold, an excruciating, unexplainable divide, bridged only by a misty indifference.

We are not a whole, you say?

Understanding that most of us don't speak in colors or relate well to seemingly trivial narratives, a simplification is in order.

I ask you this: you would hang all those who laid a brick, stick or bout to the brothers from Sialkot, but for what crime?

They were burning 'witches' back in the day, an offensive launched by the church. As with any institution, abuse is a natural consequence. Justice is a term thrown around.

As with any institution, ignorance is the most effective opiate for its army. And what better way to propagate ignorance than by suppressing rounded education, and allowing by means of filters and censorship only a particular doctrine to be spread and taught?

Everyone fasts in this country. If you don't fast people look at you with contempt and even disgust. But if you're in Sialkot and you're fasting, you're welcome to join the rest of the devout in beating two teenagers to a gruesome death.

back to this

whirlwind. from the big city to the small. to the mountains and back home.

home.

funny word. it's where the heart is, they say. it's ironic that without the big city this sheep is pretty lost. or too found for comfort. i miss you. and you, and you...but if we're going back in time, i miss you the most.

it's strange to be back home for this long a stretch. they throw at me free love and wads of cash. they show concern and i show disdain. i'm a wretched thing.

i'm being stubborn. what point i'm trying to prove is beyond me. that i can do it all, on my own.

when in reality, it's quite the opposite. it happens by itself, really. right place, right time.

oh-so-lost.

but the point being: every defeat leaves its mark, and i have fallen one too many times. this war has left me weakened and as I spend these months recovering, i will chant a new mantra...

fight only for something worth fighting for.

in retrospect: you were worth it all. in comparison, you were above these grey beings. (am i now doing what i always do and hate myself for- this need to worship?)

so let us gather our strength. let us build our muscle and soldier on. let us not be fooled by shiny things, and let us fight for true beauty.

this inconsistent bastard. x

windy

Voice of Reason 01 -

mehboob: ...remember when we talked about the straight path and virtuous life decisions?

me: there's no reason to believe that it would happen that way! that's what they all think- that's the deception, innit? i know you and your plans, this would only work if everybody did it. any negatives elements can and will exploit your system while you're selling your idea. furthermore, and in line with yin-yang philosophy and that newton feller, there's always them to opposing forces in either equilibrium or constant flux, take your pick

mehboob: but our cause is just and fair.

me: your cause is a cause, and that is all there is to it. you think you're the only ones selling virtue? claiming to be the life choice? pah!

...and yet this track...how did he KNOW? those two notes on the bass. and that line...maana keh teray qaram behisaab...

mehboob: what's that now?

me: oh nothing, nothing. just a little ultra-perceptive to rythms and vibes.

mehboob: wali ULLAH!

me: tsk. and plus it's not like I can, anyway. i'm not supposed to!

mehboob: but that's a direct contradiction!

me: i know it is. there are forces, of course but those of human desire and ambition. our thoughts constantly and without bondaries. c'mon man, kleinenberg is a God in his own right. forces of human bodies swaying to those rythms. RYTHMS. there's a point for you if you want it.

mehboob: might as well. yes?

me: well yeah, again, man. humans. i want to worship. not a spinner but this storm, sure. storm, there you go. but i'm bored of this drift. throw something else my way.

mehboob: ...you think miss current is worth it, then?

me: nobody's worth it, really. but in the moment, anything's worth it. i feel like i might be a moment-maximizer.

mehboob: freakonomics.

me: akhh man, don't remind me.

mehboob: haha. caughtchu.

me: tsk. from YOUR side of the fence, fool. i don't WANT to be there, or think I should.

mehboob: uhh, no, you know you should.

me: you're wicked. you know that, right? cruel. sadistic.

mehboob: hahaha. no sonny, you don't have it easy. :)

me: how do you know?

mehboob. scroll up. capital G?

me: @#$@#$@#

mehboob: exactly. nice pattern, mr. piano-man.

me: why thank you.

mehboob: so? your windows need taping. it could be worse tonight.

me: thanks.

mehboob: playing that again...you're losi- what is it?

me: just realized that this could be schiz 101. goshdarnit.

mehboob: bwahahaha. you and your words, yaar. honestly.

me: go AWAY.

mehboob: whatevs.

what now, hero?

me: going to tape the windows.

mehboob: hahaha

me: fuck you.

may and before

past 3am on a wakeup-at-6 school-night. this does not bode well! quiet distress, and the damn apples. uh-oh.

it's been long, and much has happened- but has it now...has so muchreally happened?

i think of the months that passed and of what stands out.

fixation.

of goo goo eyes and the great rush. chemical romance? those tantric rhythms and rhymes- this is like a...

go away, come back another day. or, on second thought, don't. akh!

think, think- of anything but this! what of recent accolades, that morph seamlessly onto your mantel. what of logic, and reason?

i WISH. and i don't like thinking I have a passionless disposition, or a fear of rejection backing it. i don't like thinking that i'm too proud to get off my horse to pursue the elusive, to really get into the muck and mud. i can do dirty, i think.

the doe runs far into the thicket, wary of the encroaching shine. lest the armor be removed, and reality rears its ugly head. quick, think of the circle. of the merry-making and elixir. the clearing in the woods- saturday! lalala.

elixir. see now, on a conceptual level. very dorian gray in it's deceptive forever-young-ness. check it: to feel young (frisky?), every time. till you die. that's called forever.

forever young, but the receding hairline would perhaps beg to differ. crows feet? when do we stop playing, and let loose? the fearless, bold and reckless. battered and bruised, skid-marks to the casket, grave, whatever.

it's between being the freak and ring-master, really. to lead the circus, or be in it.

to fool or be fooled. to eat, or be eaten!

yada yada yada

it's sad that you deny me, sir that middle ground! the cave, the mis-match, the detachment. far from the madding crowd! cafe de hunza, and fresh air. the breeze, the berries and the beloved.

maybe tomorrow.

barkley: whose gonna save my soul now? how will my story ever be told.

--

he was the son of a big man. a big, communist man. a man with many children and many factories. I wonder often of his relationship with this big man, his big man.

enough.

all-star, all-nighter.

eager

spring creeps into this swamp, and the nymphs now speak in excited whispers of big waters and surprise. there's a distinct buzz in the air and it's not the damn mosquitoes.

here's to the end of a harsh winter!

plan

figure if i can fit enough things into m'schedule i won't have time to spare. this thinking business is what gets to me. think, think...wham.

to be reminded of the bitter truth, again and again! my failings, and then some more to follow.

missed lunches, more pretties and pokes. well, hullo shawty. sit and stare, and do nothing.

i hate me: actor, opportunist. the stage is where i belong. well, that's taken care of!

oh, love-for-sale world.

what's the point of all this, anyway- ungodly hours and self-pity.

cheers, cuervo. x

late night blues

to be the same again! we grow quieter with age, I reckon. by that logic, those who lapse into childhood, and those who never grew up- mao mao?

so what of growing. i pine for those days of abandon. duties, akh!

and we came to understand beauty. t'was a cruel truth to find- to have known and thrown the best of them. the resilient, the steadfast. the pure. we ask you of these others. of their shapely limbs and so what of their clothes and shoes. we bow to thee the righteous and stay awake in quiet homage to her strength.

would you listen to these blues the boys cooked up. in remembrance, in longing and in quiet resignation. consumed by our monsters, we're done-for little cookies! ha ha.

another little missy to prove the point. going in to lose, headfirst without a chute. again. all of you on a silver platter, pickings and morsels. for you, anyway.

bloodshot. x

no solace

early morning pilgrimage-

memories are a strange affair; strike without warning, and so vivid sometimes that it's cruel. i have not the heart to go back to where i know i belong. hear me, and know that i am, without you but a silhouette against a rising sun.

life passes this dark shadow and i bathe alone in unsung glory. x

well hullo, 2010

it's been ages, hasn't it.

the new year brings with it the looming fork in the road. the cross-roads clearer than ever, and just so in-your-face. i've turned 21. happy birthday to me. none the wiser for it all, it seems. except now i understand truly that i am a fool, and may remain one. the saving grace to this state, and the strategy in place is to thrive on m'ability to appear otherwise; knowledgeable, experienced...even trustworthy. trust. haha!

the God debate continues. i feel, and possibly know for certain now that there is no escaping my fate. i see the world for what it is, and i see the power-battles and political mechanisms in place, vivid and smack on. hullo, reality X10.

Wali Ullah. Protector. Friend.

i've given to free-writing, with no structure, no purpose- much like my wretched, existentialist state. why, mother must i go, yet again to the holy land. i have incorporated spiritual wandering into this life that i've created with daddy's bank account. for that, then i owe you, not the truth- because the only truth i've known is that there is none, and that when relativism comes into play, we're all standing on either side of the fence thinking we've got the one-up- but obedience.

oh well.

i've tasted defeat. it was a delightfully downward experience; a spiraling stupor, of sorts. i was in awe, and i became her. it's ironic how being empty can be so...wholesome. so complete in it's thematic entirety. i loved you, and the pain for which you stand, and for which you fight. the mourning and the rituals, vicious and cyclical- the quiet fury of an aching, broken child.

heavy hearts and the devil's piss make for long nights and sorrow.

i like this new practice of rambling without the strains of grammar and structure. pour out as it pours over, and we'll make lovely music out of it all. sing me a song, piano-man.

i am now convinced that man is a selfish, self-loathing addict.

and with that statement ladies and gentlemen, good night.

cheers.