The Sunday after

 I sit here today as I try to ponder on the inner workings of my mind on this silent afternoon, the Sunday after my escapades. It is something I often do after a long bout of extroverted-ness, my chronic condition of expanding more energy than I would care to on various musings of life. So much has happened in the past three weeks, but most of it too private to tell-tale on a public blog.  But know this: there's a bitter coffee to my right, just within reach, and then the ever pervasive sound of the ceiling fan running as my mind tries to count its rotations with accuracy. I sit donning a jade shalwar kameez, buttons of the sleeves in place, back straight as it soothes the pain, I am back in the confines of sunny equatorial Lahore, the city of gardens, home to guardrails of the Punjab.  I am reminded, suddenly and somberly of my grandfather, typing as I typed, with both hands on his keyboard, fingers pushing buttons, the learnings of his typewriter days being translated to the memo
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Moss Green: The End

MOSS GREEN: THE END

In a distant time the thought of oblivion would have ignited anxiety - the simple thought of pure darkness would have been enough to overpower me. 

    Now I welcome it.

I close my eyes, and instead I am standing at the edge of a stone entrance. 

    The war era tunnel, has made its place between an overgrowth of trees that have fed on the rain and remains of the fighters long buried underneath. 

    Green moss creeps towards the top of the tunnel entrance reaching for the topmost jagged stone, staining the once grey and silver walls with much needed color. 

The wind tastes heavy and cold on my tongue - the eerie silence is cut only by the dripping of dew from leaves I cannot see - the sound amplified beyond comprehend-able reason  The ground beneath my feet seems unreliable as my shoes struggle to grip - squeaking and slipping in the wet Earth 

    They say there is a light at the end of the tunnel, but all I can see is the end as it would be, reflected perfectly as if someone was holding a giant mirror on the other side

Yet, I don't see my reflection, so I know the short passage is just that

    Billions have passed through it before me, and billions will follow. 

***

I open my eyes and I'm back: 

    Amid the dim hue of my screen, my fingers are working furiously. 

Keystrokes bending to my will.

    Each clipping noise transferring the evidence of my consciousness onto digital paper 


Is it not a blessing to know that there is an end?


- Muneeb Naeem 


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