Through Her Body

After engrossing in her body, I have more reasons to love. I know the roadmap of her curves. I feel like having visited every crest and trough of her body. There’s a special canal that runs down her spine at her waist, and my hands wave along her waves there. Like one feels close to a place where he has resided for long, I feel attached to her every part, having visited the smooth ways so often.

There are reasons to love her, even though I never needed one. To really fall in love is to fall in love with the idea of her, not her as a person, not her qualities, neither her body, but the presence of her, the sound of air when she breathes, the cries of soil being trodden when she walks, the flashes of her smiles and giggles in the conscience – all these but I doubt if her as a whole person, in entirety.

To fall in love is to set my mind onto her beyond these fields of explanation and comprehension. Mysetries, unexplained, unfathomable; that would make a wanderer lost if he were to search for ways.

And the love that has never been understood, as to what exactly is it that he loves, there can be no end to it. It keeps spread over the heart like the sky, which exactly is pure space and vastness but persists mightly than anything.

What cannot be grasped, can never be lost.


The Lost Home

The places where I lived my childhood do not seem the same when I reappeared there after a decade or so. They seem shrunken. As if silencing the forever echoing cries of my childhood, they were eaten from inside by the sadness that looms in the air. As if lifting and soothing the child fallen on ground, they were bent on their knees. As if the uncertainty of my arrival made them weak, like old parents feel for their prodigal son.

The places where I played are not deserted either. They are busy, with the children of time. I remember doing the same as I look at them, rather better.
And I walk past them. I am a man, I cannot roll on the sand anymore. I cannot punch on those heaps of earth.
I walk straight, dragging the child in me behind.

Mumtaz Hussain.

(I visited my childhood place after almost a decade in April, 2016. This is just a glimpse of what I went through.)

It is an unabriged edition of a facebook note i wrote under heavy influence of nostalgia after returning from home. Summoning it here along other writings, not changing a single word. Written in May 2016.

Old Love

​Overcame love, if we may ever talk about then hear me today:

To understand love you need to feel its purity first, and feel its enormous sacredness. If something exist empty of blackness, it is love. If something ever glows in pure rosy shades, it is love. If there is anything able to sugarcoat pain in sweetness, it is love.

Where do you think love finds its abode on earth but the heart.

It is hard to say if love ever tarnishes or is ever maligned. My beliefs hold that it ages within our heart. It never leaves once it enters, it only learns to accommodate and occupy lesser and lesser space within the heart.

Sometimes I feel it builds a small cottage in a corner for itself, and sit in there like an old woman. Feeble and aged. Silent. With a strange hope for a gentle knock.

And if you ever knock on its door, from my heart I say that it will gleam up again with an unimaginable shine of youth. It will rush to you carrying the fragrance of lovely memories, like evanescence of scent from old clothes. Ecstasy, as we talk of is what you will feel. For a moment it will cover you in a rosy dew, blurring everything else there is. In that moment, my dear love, the tear in your eyes will reflect all that we felt together.

Old love never dies, it only learns to be silent.

Nostalgic in advance of all that I’m living now, I want the time to hault

Misery stricken, I want to cease existing

Sob or cry or maybe just suffocate to this that seems stuck in my throat

Wither away like the petals of an aged flower, with a gust of wind and never to be found again

Go numb to the sun, the warmth or the light

Curl up and die in self infesting sadness

Cling to home and fuse into its belongingness and disappear into it

Cry out the heaviness through the walls of my heart

Fly away like smoke, and dissolve into the universe

Or simply liberate

Trap of Life

No matter how strong I make of myself, and how much I grasp my thoughts and try to conquer my particular life, life always works the way it has always been working and the way it has been with everyone. No difference induced by the fallacy of uniqueness. All my efforts may just change a shade or put a cloak of acceptance over it, but it always works the way it always has been and the way it wants to. 

One ignorant but adamant bitch, life.

Falling in despair, appearance of a gleam of hope, rising to it and then living a few cheerful days before the cycle repeats. Life works just like that, no exceptions with anyone. Certainly the period of this cycle varies, but everyone kneels or is made to kneel and taste both dust and pain. Time and again, over and over. That’s the reality of this comedy.

Then there are always ways out of everything, so is one out of this. That escape wouldn’t be really called a escape because there is nothing beyond it. The escape is: lifelessness. Feeling less of everything. Feeling only over the skin, far away from the vulnerabilities of heart. Both joy and pain. Monotonous smiles and tears.

You might as well just continue living as you were. There isn’t any escape out of it. We don’t really require one either.

The space between words and reality

Some things are just so real that you refuse to write them and let it be.

Words are great, and perhaps the greatest thing our kind has ever brought in existence, but reality is mightier. Words do not have the power to contain reality in its exact trueness. Because reality is too enormous to be possesed, too real.

When we set out to write about something, be it in forms of poetry or other creative writings, we use metaphors to state how something feels like, and metaphors lie far away from the real nature of that reality which we set to describe.

The more you make use of metaphors, the closer you move to poetry and the farther you move from reality.

No doubt we come up with exquisitely beautiful definitions in forms of poetry about the pain in our heart and the longing for our lover and everything that amuses us in nature but that simply isn’t reality. I don’t say that it needs to be, I just say that it isn’t.

What maybe drawn out of what I’m trying to say here is that: I am not devaluing poetry and words, I am rather stating the mightiness of reality that we often set out to describe in words.

The falling of a leaf in desolation under unguided force and waywardness is different from what we feel when our heart suddenly drops into some kind of congested abyss, but I surely can use the former as a metaphor for the latter – and, I must say, that’d be amazing. But that exactly which we had wished to describe will remain unwritten.

It is and it will be,

only felt.