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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On headstones, I stand


There came a time when I felt as though life did not need to know what I was thinking, that my thoughts were not as important as I gave them credit - that was when I stopped writing 

But I forgot, that writing has always been an escape for me, a means to flush out the melancholic, the erratic, the mundane and at times, the exiting currents that thrashed against the inside of my skull. 

As of late, the notion of death has been creeping its way slowly into my head, in things I can see and in things I cant. Its strange though, as last time I came face to face with death, I was knee deep in the Earth herself, six feet deep, lowering the body of a loved one - yet - for some odd reason, this time, she seems closer, more threatening than our last encounter

It is time, yet again, to make a few decisions based on the immense of death and  blissful oblivion that comes with her. 



- Muneeb 








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