Obscure ornaments shining outside my window. My window is made of tainted glass of a colour ambiguous to my eyes. These poor eyes are cowardice ridden and can’t look other eyes in the eyes. Last night, my mind was weaving thoughts I didn’t want to have so I chose to look at written words in boring books. My eyes, my eyes failed me and refused to remain open. That pushed me into the marshy fields of peace swallowing thoughts and left me there. Once again, obscure ornaments came to my mind and this time obscurities were evaporating. Clear shapes were coming to the front, although they were mortal shapes just like myself. I could end them with me, although I’m not hurrying it up. Nobody will know about the shapes of the ornaments outside my window even if I told them, showed them or had them looked into my soul.
The only song that I care about at the moment is the song of merrymaking but I want the song to be coming from a two-mile away little village. If I am in a loop then I want to take the song of merrymaking to the next cycle. If the hurt is coming in my way then I’m ready even though I will say I am not ready to face it. Once in a while, a little hurt brings my bliss down to worrying about the inevitable demise and that’s a relief. The little control of the self and consciousness I have now is not worth claiming I have ichor flowing through my veins. I’ve not eaten brains for the sake of smart claims. Give me a minute to find faults but about what? That you don’t have to tell me. I will find a way to invent an abductor, whom I didn’t oppose and a prisoner, whom I didn’t acknowledge. Hence the bad luck.
When I will tell you the story of the misfortune that befell on our innocent prisoner, there will be a distant mourning symphony audible and you will feel the things that you shouldn’t. You will shed a tear for a story that is not true. I have failed to find the cure for stopping murmurs of the dead invented character merrymaking. I can’t put out the sound of their stomping feet in rhythm and their hands in hands circling around the fantastical bonfires. Maybe there’s no end to these murmurs but there’s definitely an end to me, nothing is more satisfying than being assured of this. Certainly, imagination could mean myriads of meanings to men of moderate reading. I know one kind, which is quite interesting. They think losing sight will limit their imagination. To them, seeing is just a bunch of little strands of fibres and with imagination, you twine those into ropes. Ropes big enough to climb your foe’s castle walls and tell them they’re wrong about the love stories. Love stories don’t have to be very long and boring. A couple of minutes will suffice in telling that chances will not come thrice for anyone. Have you spun around your desired one? That’s the least to be done and there are no caps on what’s the most could be here. If they have cut their earlobes, squander a choker on them and mark your territory. Throw some thorns on their way and rescue them before it goes out of hand or maybe feet, in case we’re talking about the bleeding. A well meaning gabber once told me, he’s not concerned about satisfaction. Nothing will be what I want as there’s no precision to my wants. A bird peck on a tree trunk all day to make a hole but that well-meaning gabber told me, he only shared so much to fill a hole. He wasn’t successful, I could tell. He calculated my judgement and still, he didn’t yell. Months later I realised the sorrow in the well-meaning gabbing guy's story. Like a burgeoning ricochet in a poorly designed gun range, this hiked my own anxiety. I didn’t want to relate to such things. Pains of others should not pain me, that’s what I had always thought and lived by.
Empathy is the death of uniqueness, what if all the people in the world are not supposed to have the same problem. Maybe some of us are not meant to feel the pain of others, why borrow it when you don’t even need these pins to nail your soul. Apathy had the best of me but it left me like most good things that always leave the miserable beings. That’s why I started walking aimlessly around the streets of noisy Multan wishing I was the best soldier of an amiable Sultan. Even in that story, I don’t want to kiss his ring and take an oath of faithfulness. Why bind ourself in a relation which is not equal? I had to share this thought so I asked an impressionable congenial fella why are most alliances not equal. His response marred the soul of my question and gave a cop out answer. In his opinion, it’s alright to get into an uneven alliance if there’s hope that you can turn the tables in future. I want to sit long and never want to turn the tables. He called me a pacifist and all I wanted to do was punch his eye out of the eye socket. Although his right eye is stronger than left so I was only thinking of aiming at the one. It’s absolutely asinine to kill the best of your foes when drawing the first blood. They’ll be depressed and that’s bad. Any depressed enemy is worse than a spiritedly enemy ready to gouge your eyes out. Although it’s ugly but it’s poetic.
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