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I have been listening to Erik Satie. A few months ago, someone in my dream played that piece I have been trying to find. I was relieved. Then, I woke up. But, do you ever wake up from a dream? I have always thought that to wake up from a dream is to forget it.…
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Anatomy of a temple.
Indian temples are traditionally built in the image of the human body. The ritual for building a temple begins with digging in the earth, and planting a pot of seed. The temple is said to rise from the implanted seed, like a human. The different parts of a temple are named after body parts. The…
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जो दवा के नाम पे ज़हर दे / उसी चारागर की तलाश है جو دوا کے نام پہ زہر دے / اسی چارہ گر کی تلاش ہے
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On Trees.
Someone in an attempt to create a tree, created green. A tree like a still photograph. Of what? Sometimes, when I look at a tree long enough, it moves. Almost. But, then I move. The tree always manages to look at me longer. I walked in my room and found a tree…
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Night. Day.
And, the light went off right when someone switched on a light in the story I was reading. “There is no night darker than a night of fires. There is no man more alone than one running in the midst of a howling mob.” My friend said that they showed no remorse. “Showed…
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A history textbook.
A black and white print of Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, which I had seen years ago in my history textbook, came to my mind today. Suddenly. A memory I never knew I had. I had almost forgotten that book in which I first saw the grainy prints of The Scream and Guernica. All black and white,…
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Originally posted on Biblioklept: If on a winter’s night a traveller… Biblioklept View original post
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The time disappeared in music. The night wavered like an old video tape. Was it the wind or my imagination? I remembered the hills in fog and rain. The silence of uncertainty. The kisses I didn’t like. It was strange how I did not smoke the cigarette I had in my hand. I looked at…
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Borges said, in an interview, that it is pointless to find new metaphors, similes. Life is always going to be a dream, it won’t suddenly turn into a metro train. I look at the closed library and think. Faces of my classmates suddenly flash. Awkward smiles, shrill voices and reluctant kisses. And, a closed library.…
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There is nothing to do. Except end. The dreams disappear. I disappear because I am a dream, too. I am my own imagination. I did not exist before I existed. In one dream, I remember dying. I asked myself as I felt myself vanishing, would I become me again? The wall of paintings. The pond…
