I have been writing, for weeks now. The words spill out onto paper, making my thoughts real - because I believe in the power of the written word - but even their reality is lost on me sometimes. The sentences are grammatically correct but they don't make sense, for this cannot be what I am thinking, what I am hoping, what I am dreaming. Are my thoughts this morose? Am I writing unbidden for the sake of it? Whose words are these? Is it true, what one of the most well-read men I know in Pakistan said to me all those years ago, that what we write is in essence what we have read and absorbed?
The clock moves slowly, my heartbeat races and slows down, if something were to happen to you unknown, I would never forgive myself and never forget it. If you could've understood, I would've tried to tell you, but even this does not make sense to me. I wish my life would've been easier. I would have stayed at home and filled my heart with discontent I deserved, not that which is created by myself.
The cold does not matter, my thoughts are swirling around and it is only when the trees whoosh that I feel that there has been a change. If you could explain this increasingly strange phenomenon to me, I would keep you awake, keep all of you awake for hours and try to explain that these words are nothing but empty rhetoric, a failed excuse of how sometimes what I am thinking just pops out. The lamps are lit around me, but not on me, because I am enveloped in my thoughts that are keeping me alive. I have been writing, for days, for weeks, for months, for years but all of this is unknown to me still.
The clock moves slowly, my heartbeat races and slows down, if something were to happen to you unknown, I would never forgive myself and never forget it. If you could've understood, I would've tried to tell you, but even this does not make sense to me. I wish my life would've been easier. I would have stayed at home and filled my heart with discontent I deserved, not that which is created by myself.
The cold does not matter, my thoughts are swirling around and it is only when the trees whoosh that I feel that there has been a change. If you could explain this increasingly strange phenomenon to me, I would keep you awake, keep all of you awake for hours and try to explain that these words are nothing but empty rhetoric, a failed excuse of how sometimes what I am thinking just pops out. The lamps are lit around me, but not on me, because I am enveloped in my thoughts that are keeping me alive. I have been writing, for days, for weeks, for months, for years but all of this is unknown to me still.
