fire

my palms are on fire. my palms, the soles of my feet. everything I touch becomes red hot, becomes red hot and starts raining embers.

Fire in her gaze. The fiercest and most dangerous of all the raging mad fires that ever burned in the history of this fuckin' world.

And when she dances, she stirs up storms. Sirens start singing and the sky tears up and sends down bolt after bolt of lightning, red hot and ready to sizzle.

burka woman with your sexy feet

zhis.incaseyourewondering.

So I discovered this buried in my USB today. It's apparent;y vairy old. 

I have no idea what this means. 

I also have no idea about the mental state I was in when I wrote this.

It might have something to do with the fact that I used to be scared of women in burkas when I was little.

-__-

HIYAAAAAAAA the woman in the black burqa said. Hiyaaaa she said and I saw her flying towards me footfirst. I screamed IT’S A FLYING KICK and I jumped out of the way. She hit the ground rolled over and immediately got back up. I looked at her over my shoulder my eyes all wide and breathing like a fishy and she’s coming towards me and I run and I look back over my shoulder and I run and then she’s closer and I run faster and noo she’s gaining on me no

You want to know the ending don’t you.

You know you do.

fsc ki kitabein ukp hain.

I'm supposed to be studying these Godforsaken FSc books these days. The entire syllabus actually. For the UHS test. Which is like three days away. And I don't know shit. It's the centralised medical test for the wholeee of Punjab.

'kyunke mai barray ho ke daacter banna chahta hoon'

Anyhow.


The thing is, trying to memorize classification is made even worse when you have to deal with this:

Exercise is essential for the body. It makes us feel good all through the day.

Clip your nails on time so that dust does not get stuck in them. Also, wash your hands and feet regularly.

OMFG. WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK.

Are these guys for real. 

SERIOUSLY? BLOND CHILDREN? WASHING THEIR FEET? FROLICKING ABOUT IN FIELDS OF HAPPINESS?

And these are adults you're dealing with! Seventeen to nineteen year olds! 

I want to die.

No, I want to hunt down the person who put these in the damn book and torture them into insanity by making them listen to Chammak Challo on repeat and then suffocate them using a pile of their own dirty underwear and then die.

daal aur faisloo.

I hate maash ki daal. Ammi made me eat it today T__T


Oh and I went to Faisloo for Eid.

Heyman's Pizza: Chanies food at yer doorstep.

Hell to the yes.

Ah Faisloo.

Bullshit and preferences.

She lies on her bed, faceup, for hours. And hours. Listens to Portishead. Stares at the fan.

She wonders what dying would feel like. She wonders if she would ever have the courage to end a human life. Someone else’s. Her own.

She’s in her fifth hour. She stares at a spider on the ceiling, watches as it patiently spins itself a home. Tomorrow morning the cleaning woman will come and sweep it away. She wonders if it knows. Surely the same has happened to its mother, and its father, and its various other relatives?

Spiders never learn.

She thinks of rocket bombs suddenly crashing through the ceiling, debris and pieces of cement and brick on top of her, crushing her, weighing her down.

She imagines being trapped under a large piece of plaster, she imagines her ribcage crushed, she images coughing because of dust-and-rubble clouds in the air, imagines not being able to call out for help, imagines dying.

They’ll find her there later. They’ll come running when they hear the crash. But by the time they arrive, it’ll be too late.

Death by asphyxiation.

silence.

It can be so oppressive sometimes, the Silence. Pressing in on your ears with all the force it can muster, bearing down on you until you can take it no longer, until you begin to feel that you shall go crazy just because of the sound it makes. You crave, you yearn for a break, so you can hear it shattering into a million little pieces, so you can once more hear yourself think without that deafening quietness in your ears.

Anything, anything at all.

The barking of the lonely dog down the road, it's mournful howls.
The sound the Wind makes when it crackles through the drying leaves, rustling them this way and that.
A sudden snore from someone sleeping. The sound of their breath as it gushes through their airways.
The constant, rhythmic clicking of the clock.

The soothing sound Time makes as it goes flying by.

Anything, anything at all.

desparationdiaries.

Day 1:

Stupid internet, why won’t you work?

I spend a good fifteen minutes messing around with the router and starting and restarting my laptop, and then hunting down and opening up a different browser.

OMG YES ITS WORKING

*gasp*

And shudder.

Yeah that about sums up my expression.

It’s not.

A huge pink and white message saying that we have consumed our credit limit for the month is being displayed on the screen. I stare at it, willing it to somehow change.

It doesn’t.

Ah well. What can I do now. This is a sign, you see, a sign from all the gods of academicity to me to start studying for this huge test that I have in September.

Deep breath. This is not the end.

This is not the end.

Day 2:

I spend the whole day sleeping. I wake up an hour before iftari, only to discover that I have wasted yet another day, a day that could’ve been spent studying.

After I’ve eaten I feel so full that I cannot move. I realize suddenly with a sinking sense of despair that I still have no internet.

All hope seems lost as I finally open up a ratty old FSc biology book and start studying about pons. Seriously, people-who-name-stuff-in-the-body, PONS? WTF, okay.

Day 3:

My brother and I are getting desperate.

He spends his time looking for books that he hasn’t already read in every corner and crevice of the house. I suggest that he read The Time Traveler’s Wife (which a friend lent to me, okay.) and he is on the verge of opening it up out of sheer desperation, but in the end his inflated ego prevents him from doing so. After a while I catch him reading Madame Bovary with a tortured expression on his face.

I spend my time staring at the FSc book. Its previous owner has underlined and highlighted practically the whole damn thing and has written her own annoying little footnotes everywhere. The fact that the said previous owner is now in her fourth year of med school at King Edward is not helping me.

Day 4:

I suddenly remember that my phone has GPRS. Oh happy day! I am saved! All I do is look at my notifications on Facebook and suddenly, I have no credit.

FML.

Day 5:

My brother and I decide to have a long-overdue Star Wars marathon. We’re ten minutes into it when we realize that soon our villainous father will be home (he knows the internet’s out, okay? He knows and he is still refusing to pay the bill for next month. Evil I tell you. T__T) and that I am supposed to be studying so we retire to our respective rooms and our sad lives that now consist of Madame Bovary and moaning, respectively.

Day 6:

Dad is away to Faisloo (as in Faisalabad. Except Faisloo is so much cooler, right. Like Isloo.) for some legal shit so we plan a bahir-ki-iftari with Ammi. The bahir-ki-iftari goes as planned. It’s fun really, plus it takes our minds off our more distressing problems. On the way back we stop at the office of our internet-provider, the one that is nearest to our place. It is 7.45 pm. We pull up and the windows are dark. The office is closed. Upon further inquiry we discover that it won’t open till another forty five minutes.

We resign ourselves to our fate and return, dejected, to our sad sad lives.

Day 7:

I have progressed from pons to dinosaur fetuses. At least that’s what they look like to me. I’ve spent the day either staring at them or drifting off into unnecessary naps that last too long. I have exhausted the playlist of songs on my phone and am now listening to this on repeat.

People just ain’t no good.

My brother is useless. He can’t even drive these days because he broke his foot by bashing it against his guitar. Someday, when he’s a famous musician, they’ll tell this story.

Ha.

I discover that the dinosaur fetuses are actually chicken. Fetuses.

Hurray.

Day 8:

All my friends think that I’ve died.

I put cherry-red lipstick on and practice my British accent.

Day 9:

Nothing seems to work. I’ve tried to crack the password on my neighbors’ wifi, but tariq1, coolboi and meganfox4eva don’t work.

Things look bleak.

Things look bleak.