Tale of a lost quest



It was a horrible day.

Someone told me something that engraved a filthy mark on my soul. Question marks were floating inside my mind. But a fearful instinct was holding me back. Only one sound keep resonating “you can’t handle the truth”.

Heart injured.

Mind incapacitated.

And body tired.

But arousal of morbid curiosity was hard to overcome. I was fearing I may give in and took plunge onto the heap of bitter truth, residing in someone else jurisdiction. Despite all the preventive instincts I gave in.

And some part of me won and some lost that day.

I won because my apprehensions were true. Indeed I was living in delusion. Truth was falling on my feeble soul like debris fall from a collapsed building. How can anyone can keep you like a substitute. How can someone can treat you like a guinea-pig. But it had happened now.

After plethora of awe-struck movements I recalled I have failed the test called life. Then I entered into the cave of my thoughts. The most desirable place for someone who had lost everything. It was a damage beyond repair-I know somehow.

Just around midnight I, with my scattered piece of soul, headed towards a place once called home. The traffic was scarce on the road. Wind was rushing hard, blowing my hair and flurrying my dress. As if wind was trying to take me back to the consciousness. But it failed like I failed that horrible day. A car struck me and shattered my lump of mass into pieces, whose soul was already absconded.

I died wholly.

Now being in a state of limbo I conclude,that I wasn’t life that I had lost that night, what I lost was all the possibilities, the chances, and the opportunities that might struck me later and that might better my life.


A case of exploring drafts

I belong to that part of the world that is quintessence of political turmoil, deplorable law and order conditions, religious fanaticism, ethnic blood baths and plethora of other evils. Being a product of such country I lament and muse over anything relating to my country.Our lives revolve around politics.Living in politically robust society saturated with bipolar ideologies is never easy. Everyone is fighting war of words either in social networking sites or in drawing rooms. As I am assimilated to this culture so deeply that my grumblings are manifestations that how deeply I resent our system and want change.195554808789877979_syTQN4OJ_c

But sometimes the type of change I want is exit myself from this roller coaster atleast for a time being. I am tired of the threadbare discussion running on the idiot box.

So this morning I take a mighty task of opening my Drafts. Perhaps still better than exhausting your mind with empty rhetorics of leaders.

Opening my drafts I realized that my every blog has a reason to be in this destitute corner.

In my first draft I write about my aversion to cooking. The tedious process involved and my inability to mix the right ingredients. But as I was writing ”why I hate cooking” my abomination fades off and I end up liking it—but unfortunately hating the blog.

So the blog takes it’s deserve position and so did my propensity—to cookery.

One dreary night of winter, my mind was brimming with the remembrances of the past. So I decided to write it. I began fervently. I jotted down everything—winter blues and my fears. I solemn to publish it next morning but that morning never come. I procrastinated and finally it also moves in the same way as its predecessor —in drafts.

Somewhere in between I try to publish it but I always shies away from publishing something subjective. Writing about your fear is never easy; it’s like pouring your inner self out and this is something I dreaded. Anyways winters are already on the verge of leaving and I didn’t have winter blues in the same way as I experienced them before. So there isn’t any point of publishing it right now.


The third occupant of my draft box is a ”Letter to life”. I am not sure I will ever muster the confidence to move it from there.  After writing all about afflictions given by my dear life I felt at ease. I don’t know from where, but i felt my repine feelings are tempering. The surliness is vanishing and so my desire of publishing it.

We all think life is unfair, isn’t this makes life fair—please excuse this threadbare cliché. I scorned myself of being a petulant creature. Als0 considering this a hackneyed phenomena I snubbed this blog to take its rightful place yes to the drafts.

Writing can be therapeutic and my drafts are harbinger of this. Sometimes you don’t need to exhaust vast treasure of self-help books for a solution, because answers lies within us. Merely putting words on the paper is sometimes more appeasing than any clinical solution.

Writing is one of the most solitary activities in the world—Paulo Coelho. Dead on, but for me it is a meditaton, the only thing that never pissed me off.

P.S I am a Pakistani.


The Battle Inside…

“Inside every man is a struggle between good and evil that cannot be resolved.” – Homer Simpson

I do not follow conventions. I have no scruples in saying that I like the company of social outcasts (a synthetic term conferred by our society to a loner by choice) and search humanity in them.  I believe that the best side of people is often hidden from us.

Good and evil are two facets of a person. A wise man is clever enough to highlight its good side, battling out the evil into stupor. The evil residing within is never powered to outdo good. But the scenario of fool is quite opposite. Evil is always the boss leaving morality in the distant corner. Blessed are those who are exposed to situations that strengthen their good side, but hapless are evil ones who are confronted with life so often that it damage their beautiful side.

My quest to struggle out evil is the battle of mind and body. Nobody knows that behind the façade of serenity I am fighting a battle inside.  With my conscience.

For instance, many things going around me that I cannot approve, things that make my inside filled with ire, but from inside there came a voice of my conscience “never lose yourself”. I sometimes hate that voice.

How many times I wish I had a dormant conscience. Sometimes I want to put in a jar and throw it in the river of obscurity. Harking back and I see that depending too much on my conscience had made me a tad over-cautious (or coward).

My conscience told me many things.

  1. Pretending is something in which you are not good at, so keep your nose out of it.
  2. Never focus on outcomes, focus on steps.
  3. Don’t think highly of yourself; mediocrity is meant for you.
  4. Steer clear the stuff that tempt you most, it will strengthen your will power.
  5. Never fantasize over future prospects, whenever you did you failed.

For some conscience is an extinct thing. They are occupied with this notion it is something that only inhibits primitive souls. We certainly live in an oxymoronic world, where religion is swapped with conscience. For me the more you are close to religion, the clearer your conscience is.