Write.Unwrite. Erase. Delete. Adjectives for the inevitable End to words, and pasts. To what they have done, and what they could do- in your head, of course. It only ever mattered in there, where your own demons chase you around in echoing circles that never cease to exist. Unless you erase and delete, of course. But how does one go about erasing and deleting chapters of one's life? How can your mind regurgitate the blank-slate-state-of-being, throw it up and slip it on- at any rate, it's never going to be the real deal, is it?
It can be very convincing. True. And if you stop it from chasing you, that's half the battle won, perhaps even more.
But where to begin. Really, where?

One of those tired spells where you feel drained of all energy and power, and there's pouring rain outside. Words are incoherent, even as you try to form sentences in your head.
But then you give up.

Home Part II

It smells nothing like the sea here. Nothing like the salty, smoky smell of a Karachi breeze in the night, no sign of balmy air catching you by surprise on an oppressively hot day, no smell of tikkas and kebabs sizzling on skewers across the street, and the hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps. Never, not when bombs are exploding, not when people are killing or dying, not when the electricity conveniently goes out and comes back on. The city takes it all in her stride, and we as her children, do the same. So when I wake up in the morning not to sights of crazy-coloured buses wreaking havoc in heavy traffic, aided by motorcyclists who quite evidently seem to be on some sort of death mission, when I don't hear impatient drivers blaring horns at other cars and instead have to rely on an alarm clock to wake me up- it bothers me. There's only so long you can stare at a clear night sky with an abundance of celestial bodies before you start missing the tell-tale smog of Home, and only so long when walking out of your dorm in the morning you to see squirrels scurrying about over leaves in various different shades of yellow and orange is a novelty.

I'm not sick of it here. I probably would never be, but I guess it's a tough one to let loyalty face a head-on collision with awe.