A Whisper of a Thrill
I’m trying to kill hours.
And while I would love a speedy expeditious death, Time seems to be lingering on endlessly. That’s the thing about evenings. The night continues, until creeping through the shadows comes the crack of morning sunshine.
Ordinarily, I would saunter from one sofa to the other, but that indulgence does not make allowances for the laptop, which given its clinical functionality must be within the range of the wireless. Also, the words ‘saunter’ and ‘laptop’ juxtaposed in my metal picture do not evoke a comfortable thought.
So here I am on the floor, next to the somewhat overgrown money plant, sitting on the marbled ground, under Sadiq’s chalk-white table with a flattened glutes that’s feeling the cold. But, I want to write—nothing, something—so I suppose one must brave the floor, overgrown plant et all.
Today I found out Richard Moore died. He died in his sleep on September 4th, but the news caught up with me today. It was strange hearing of his death. He wasn’t one of my favourite people. In fact, he pretty much made my life a living nightmare. But his death did throw me off.
I’ve never seen death. Not close, and to be honest not even far. Strangely, yet thankfully, I have never felt death effect me. The last time I remember consciously thinking of someone dying was when Mustafa Tiwana died. His death seemed poignant. Maybe I was young. Maybe it was the summer preceding his sudden death when we met in Nathyagali and had a bonfire. Maybe he was young and handsome and could ride a horse, as well as exude a confidence that went beyond his 16 years of age. Maybe in my sensitivity to his death I fancied myself in love. Lots of maybe’s. But he was the only child of his parents, born after 12 years of marriage. And he died of cancer when he was 16.
Many people from the family went to meet him while he was sick. I never did. I still remembered him as the strapping young boy on horseback on a pakdandi. Waving curls flying. Beautiful and perfect in his enthusiastic, energetic youth. I couldn’t see him sick. His mother once expressed her hurt after he had died that I never came to see him. It remains a guilt that still bothers me. But you see, I couldn’t.
Since I’ve grown older I realise more consciously the frailty of live. I have enjoyed all my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. (Mashallah). It’s hard to imagine life without any one of them (even thought their irritating nuances or eccentric habits have driven me crazy on more occasions than I care to remember.)
Yet, I am them. I am references to card games, cheatings in flash, Eids in Alipur, broken silver spoons, carved names on a tree, pithu gul garam. Oh I am so much of that :) I am fights. I am broken garden lamps. I am tears. I am joy. I am elections. I am “big daddy cool and small mummy hot.”
………And I am me. Old, sensible, mature, reconciling.
I suppose I’ll always have everyone as I grow. I am most reluctant for things to change. Someone close to me recently said that I don’t like the real world. Most of my dissatisfaction stems from the fact that I largely live outside of reality, and when occasion calls for my presence, I am reluctant to play my part. That may be largely true, but I do love illusions.
“Illusions are dangerous people Sabrina. They have no faults”.
And thus, continues my love affair. Illusions never fail. Never disappoint. And never hurt. And they are remarkably mouldable to personal fancy and whim. Delightful little creatures!
Retreating to an old thought: so death comes but once, yet the memories withhold. There's hope in those words.
And because only I know where my thoughts are directed from, I’ll pen down an old song. It reminds me of someone, a very wonderful afternoon, and a very conscious good bye. Perhaps appropriately, its titled Foolish Games.
But it was only in my mind, so I'll play on:
You took your coat off and stood in the rain
You were always crazy like that
I watched from my window
Always felt I was outside looking in on you
You were always the mysterious one with dark eyes and careless hair
You were fashionably sensitive, but too cool to care
Then you stood in my doorway, with nothing to say
Besides some comment on the weather
Well in case you failed to notice, in case you failed to see
This is my heart bleeding before you, this is me down on my knees
These foolish games are tearing me apart
Your thoughtless words are breaking my heart
:)
(I suppose another goodbye is in order)
Bye.
And while I would love a speedy expeditious death, Time seems to be lingering on endlessly. That’s the thing about evenings. The night continues, until creeping through the shadows comes the crack of morning sunshine.
Ordinarily, I would saunter from one sofa to the other, but that indulgence does not make allowances for the laptop, which given its clinical functionality must be within the range of the wireless. Also, the words ‘saunter’ and ‘laptop’ juxtaposed in my metal picture do not evoke a comfortable thought.
So here I am on the floor, next to the somewhat overgrown money plant, sitting on the marbled ground, under Sadiq’s chalk-white table with a flattened glutes that’s feeling the cold. But, I want to write—nothing, something—so I suppose one must brave the floor, overgrown plant et all.
Today I found out Richard Moore died. He died in his sleep on September 4th, but the news caught up with me today. It was strange hearing of his death. He wasn’t one of my favourite people. In fact, he pretty much made my life a living nightmare. But his death did throw me off.
I’ve never seen death. Not close, and to be honest not even far. Strangely, yet thankfully, I have never felt death effect me. The last time I remember consciously thinking of someone dying was when Mustafa Tiwana died. His death seemed poignant. Maybe I was young. Maybe it was the summer preceding his sudden death when we met in Nathyagali and had a bonfire. Maybe he was young and handsome and could ride a horse, as well as exude a confidence that went beyond his 16 years of age. Maybe in my sensitivity to his death I fancied myself in love. Lots of maybe’s. But he was the only child of his parents, born after 12 years of marriage. And he died of cancer when he was 16.
Many people from the family went to meet him while he was sick. I never did. I still remembered him as the strapping young boy on horseback on a pakdandi. Waving curls flying. Beautiful and perfect in his enthusiastic, energetic youth. I couldn’t see him sick. His mother once expressed her hurt after he had died that I never came to see him. It remains a guilt that still bothers me. But you see, I couldn’t.
Since I’ve grown older I realise more consciously the frailty of live. I have enjoyed all my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. (Mashallah). It’s hard to imagine life without any one of them (even thought their irritating nuances or eccentric habits have driven me crazy on more occasions than I care to remember.)
Yet, I am them. I am references to card games, cheatings in flash, Eids in Alipur, broken silver spoons, carved names on a tree, pithu gul garam. Oh I am so much of that :) I am fights. I am broken garden lamps. I am tears. I am joy. I am elections. I am “big daddy cool and small mummy hot.”
………And I am me. Old, sensible, mature, reconciling.
I suppose I’ll always have everyone as I grow. I am most reluctant for things to change. Someone close to me recently said that I don’t like the real world. Most of my dissatisfaction stems from the fact that I largely live outside of reality, and when occasion calls for my presence, I am reluctant to play my part. That may be largely true, but I do love illusions.
“Illusions are dangerous people Sabrina. They have no faults”.
And thus, continues my love affair. Illusions never fail. Never disappoint. And never hurt. And they are remarkably mouldable to personal fancy and whim. Delightful little creatures!
Retreating to an old thought: so death comes but once, yet the memories withhold. There's hope in those words.
And because only I know where my thoughts are directed from, I’ll pen down an old song. It reminds me of someone, a very wonderful afternoon, and a very conscious good bye. Perhaps appropriately, its titled Foolish Games.
But it was only in my mind, so I'll play on:
You took your coat off and stood in the rain
You were always crazy like that
I watched from my window
Always felt I was outside looking in on you
You were always the mysterious one with dark eyes and careless hair
You were fashionably sensitive, but too cool to care
Then you stood in my doorway, with nothing to say
Besides some comment on the weather
Well in case you failed to notice, in case you failed to see
This is my heart bleeding before you, this is me down on my knees
These foolish games are tearing me apart
Your thoughtless words are breaking my heart
:)
(I suppose another goodbye is in order)
Bye.
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