Reality kicked me off my high horse....

Today when I turned on the TV, the news was on. This is what the headlines said:

"BOMB BLAST INSIDE UNIVERSITY OF KARACHI"

I sat down with my breakfast, thinking. Hmm. That's right next to my brother's IBA campus, in Gulshan...

Suddenly, I froze.

I rushed to my mother's room, begged her to call my brother.
She did, wondering why I'd suddenly started displaying my feelings for him. I stood there, praying silently.

And he picked up.

I don't think I have ever been more grateful.

Right now, he and I are alone at home. We fought twice, then we made up and took turns playing our favorite songs on the new home theater system. He's made me coffee and now we're going to play PS2.

Dear God, I am never, ever, ever going to tell him this. But I am so grateful. I can't even express how relieved and happy I am to have that annoyingly perfect brother of mine in my life. Thank You, thank You, thank You!!!!

What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.

I pause mid-action and take a big sniff.
More than a year now. But the smell remains. Musty and pungent. Whitewashed walls. Servant smells.
What it was like then. What everything is like now.


Where are we?
What the hell is going on?
The dust has only just begun to form
crop circles in the carpet
Sinking feeling..


I peep through the open doorway. Old trunks and paintings, dirty books, seventies London outfits, rags, medicines and keys. The history of a single phase.

Amidst she crouches, wrapped in thin, sickly blue. Her hair is disheveled, her clothes worn. As always.
Change? For her? An anomaly!
Where will she go?

What is this I feel?

Spin me round again
and rub my eyes; this can't be happening
when busy streets a mess with people
would stop to hold their heads heavy


The grand curtains are pulled shut. The floor is now bare, the carpet pushed aside. The bookcase still contains his unstolen treasures.
I remember staring at her bare white bed. Screaming.
I recall a frightened kiss on a withered cheek. Days before I stared.

Dust looks beautiful in the sun.

hide and seek
trains and sewing machines
All those years
they were here first


I laugh for her sake. Two prominent wrinkles beneath her lips. Her skin hungrily snatches the sunlight.
The paintings are beautiful, destroyed. Time shrugs and grins.
I ask if I can take a memory. The four bedroom portraits are on the floor.

Oily marks appear on walls
where pleasure moments hung before the takeover, 
the sweeping insensitivity
of this still life


Why didn't this happen before?
And I recall the torture, the pain that was not mine.

I encounter Jekylls and Hydes. I push them away, I pull them back.

Golden sun filters on my face. The car is accelerating. My stomach is turning over.

Why do both left and wrong have 'right' as an opposite?

We turn left.
Fear.
Anticipation.

hide and seek
trains and sewing machines
(you won't catch me around here)
blood and tears
(hearts)
They were here first


We're going up the bridge. Speed fast, constant.
My stomach is still rumbling, but I love it. It's faded into the background, a constant feeling.
Change. Beginnings.

Mm whatcha say?
Mm that you only meant well?
Well of course you did
Mm whatcha say?
Mm that it's all for the best?
Of course it is


They don't let me think. They start to chatter. They play their music. They need my advice.

Mm whatcha say?
Mm that it's just what we need
You decided this
Whatcha say?
Mm what did she say?


Pink, cobalt and sienna blends together and fades away. Cold, mysterious night awaits. My prayer vanishes in the air.
Favoritism. Arrogance.
Day will dawn.

ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut-outs
speak, no; feeling, no; I don't believe you
you don't care a bit
you don't care a bit


I lose myself in conversation. Arguing, laughing, scowling, sarcasm. Being.

(hide and seek)
oh no, you don't care a bit
(hide and seek)
oh no, you don't care a bit




All will be right with the world.

you don't care a bit

you don't care a bit

*song: Hide and Seek by Imogen Heap. I do not own this song or the lyrics.

I LOVE this guy.

I watch his 'Alex Reads Twilight' videos often. I had no idea he had his own frickin' albums, though!

That just embarrasses me. He's making up this awesome crap using ordinary household items, and I can't even come  up with a decent tune.

Ugh. STBM. -__-

I Hate Dove.

My hair smells like a frickin' supermarket.

Ugh.

I can't love.

This defense mechanism has formed of its own self, somewhere in my unconscious. It cuts me off from all society, prevents me from letting go.

No matter how much the other person does for me, be it a friend, or a sibling, or a cousin, or whoever--I feel nothing. Yes, I am grateful that I have them in my life, and yes, I try to reciprocate the gesture. But I find no meaning in the task.
Sometimes it drives me crazy. I try going to all extremes, try to somehow let them in. But I can't. I just can't.

I spent all of yesterday night analyzing and typing up my muddled thoughts and emotions, trying to straighten them out. I'll post it here after some editing. Maybe it'll help someone. Or maybe it'll help me. Or maybe it won't. Whatever.

:)

The last post was such a rambler. Sorry guys. Haha.

I think we're going to settle in here just fine. Sure, it's a bit quiet here, because the people downstairs are like super relaxed and calm, unlike my adorably cantankerous aunt. (I hope she never finds out I said that.)
But then, it's only been a couple of days. We're only just turning this house into a home.

Speaking of which, I'm getting my first dose of homemaking. Every morning, I get up and I do all this random cleaning and assist my mom in all these chores. Just because I want to. It's so retarded. Till now, I have always loathed cleaning with a passion.

It's just the two of us in the morning, because Dad and my brother go off to their respective office and university. We play songs on our portable speaker and joke around. Mother-daughter bonding time. I love it. Especially because my mom's my best friend. She's so cute! She keeps getting these advertisement messages from her bank and then she grits her teeth and fluffs around like an irritated pigeon.

It echoes a lot in here, though. It can be pretty cool and pretty annoying at the same time. Cool, because my voice sounds amazing when I sing. Annoying because the walls have ears.

Yesterday, when I went out on the terrace, I noticed a newspaper lying there. I thought it must belong to the people who live downstairs, because we haven't arranged for a newspaper yet.

But today, Mom went out on the terrace, and there it was. Another roll of the daily paper.
We opened it, and we saw that the paper boy had scrawled his name and number on it, so that we could get in touch with him and coordinate the fee and everything.

It's kinda stupid, but I thought that was very sweet. I instantly felt welcomed into the new neighborhood.

So, yeah. A paper boy made me feel better about shifting. Why do the most insignificant people have the most significant effect on my life? First the flower man*, now this.

Anyway. I found this in my laptop. From back in the old house. It's me, singing.

PS Sorry about the kinda weird ending. This song always makes me really emotional.

*Will update about the flower man later.

Shifting: Making a mountain out of a molehill. Thanks a lot, heart.

Frustrated. Angry. Depressed. Annoyed. Lethargic.

Ironic it is, that I was the one prodding everyone on to get the business over with.

And now the whole house is empty. Except for my room.

I don’t have the energy to move this stuff. I feel like lying down here on my downtrodden mattress forever. Forget about the beautiful new room waiting for me. Forget about the pretty lounge, the sofa, the view from the new rooftop, the terrace, the housewarming. I don’t care. I like it here, in my cluttered box with its musty smell and dusty carpet. It’s me. It speaks of me.

It’s just a freakin room. Just a freakin house. It’s not even pretty. Nothing special about it. Old walls and broken pipes and cracks and marks everywhere.

But this house is where I came to be known as an existing truth. More importantly, it’s where I watched life unfold. I watched people being born, people dying, people getting married, having birthdays, anniversaries, praying, fighting, laughing, crying. I made friends, I made enemies. I made memories with people, of people—some of whom I can never make memories with again.

Every single crack tells a tale. Every mark a story. And it’s really frustrating that I never noticed it before.

Our tiny nursery handprints still adorn the windows. Glass-paint apples made so tenderly, only to be ruined later. Stick-ons on the wall and the door, first supporting growth charts and drawings, then certificates and pictures of celebrities, then notes and to-do lists, and until a few days ago, university posters.

And to think I thought the final thing I’d hang on those doors would be strings of roses.

But the marks, where our furniture existed not a few days ago, still stand out dark against the white. “We’ll tell your tale to the world,” they say cheerfully.

Stupid blotches. What does the world care? If the average man had even a spark of imagination, the world would be a much easier place to exist in, now, wouldn’t it?

And then I wouldn’t have to face the horror and misery I know I will when this house reaches its impending doom.

Yes. Some stupid moron will trample down with his big blazing bulldozer onto every scribble I made on the walls, every plant I grew, every hope I cherished, every wish I made, every piece of evidence of my childhood and teenage. And what will I get? Nothing. Not a single damn thing.

Of course I’m angry. Shouldn’t I be? The seventeen years of my existence in this world may not amount to much, but they certainly don’t deserve to be trashed.

They’re going to have to put up a serious fight to get through me.

The walls are empty now. Icy white and mocking. They don’t care about me. It’s just me, being the stupid, wretched, empathic fool that I am.

What am I talking about? They’re not alive.

Lord. Something’s wrong with me. I’m talking about walls and cracks telling tales.

I should be happy. We still have the same furniture. My new room is beautiful. I can finally put my domestic skills into action.

And here I am, moping about leaving an age-old place. I suck.

Honestly, I don’t understand my annoyingly human heart. My mind keeps trying to make it see reason, but in vain.

My heart is a BLONDE!

Not like saying all of this is going to make a difference. Sure, I’m being slow and lazy. But I’ll move eventually. And things will settle in. I know.

And I’ll watch my castle crash down without so much as a single tear in my eye. Because I’ll know it’s all locked up safe inside my head.

Everything will be okay. I’ll be fine. And I won’t cry.

But Lord, if only this damn phase would fast-forward onto the settling part!