It was perfect. the winds, the disapproving greys of the clouds, the tall palm tree behind Zaya’s house, wildly shaking about; almost begging me not to pursue. It was the coldest night in Egypt.
I didn’t feel the cold. Only sand, and dust, and dry old leaves; clinging on to me, as they always have. Today, I was grimier than usual.
Continue reading “Midnight Murder”She said,
“Why pick a grape, from this rusty ol’ vine”
Friends disappearing all in time;
Blood red was the grape, ready to dine,
Her hand taking the leap; quick but in line
Something macabre sure lerked behind.
The last bloody grape, far from divine
Took all the time to commit the crime.
Made her glare at the group of nine
Different surely, as she stood crooked and said “All Mine”.
It’s crazy how everyone is made up of the same organs and mass, and yet it defines them in a completely unique way. The same raw tar felt by the tender feet of an infant and weak ones of my neighbour. At any point of time, I wonder how many different pairs of eyes are secretly wandering off into oblivion; that is the sky. My nineteen year old gaze, must be so different from that of the thirty year old who cleans my hostel room. Be that as it may; hell, my gaze yesterday was different from what it is today.
When people say they’re passionate about something, I think few, truly comprehend the essence of it’s meaning. Being fully absorbed into a space and being able to respect its energy. Be it a person, an art or just hollow words. I like to think of things in the manner they wouldn’t normally be admired for. I like to think of what’s behind the curtains when the show ends. What people hide of themselves in order to be consumed by something they think to be passionate about. True passion, engulfs you, and yet you feel free. It accepts yours scars, and mistakes. We lose so much of ourselves trying not to feel; and then wish to experience the wholeness of a journey. I think we bribe ourselves with euphoric unborn happy endings and fantasize our reality to match with it. Ironically, we manufacture our cages, only to find ourselves screaming desperately to be let out; when all along, you had the doors open.
If only you’d let yourself feel.
The abruption of moments – Why are we scared to let go? Aren’t the incomplete trails the ones that lead us to understand, it wasn’t our path to complete?
Enjoy the raw, organic experiences that come to you. Learn to let go.
There’s beauty in the incompl..
” To feel nothing, so as not to feel anything – what a waste! “
André Aciman
It was yesterday. Anguish and pain; Lamenting the narrow halls Screams and cries; Music to some's ears; they were . A tremendous loss, in a fraction Fraction of a depleted moment. Women and children; Thousands and thousands Move to the grave in procession. Burying their beloved; Burying their cursed; Burying their memories too. Little did they know, Money couldn't buy; and Bullets couldn't kill Chauvinism.
Maddys Blog 