Will I ever find my Fiza? She has always remained an illusion for me. Too good to be real. As ethereal as a soap bubble. As ephemeral as the bubble's life.
They say people are imperfect. The only way seemed out was to make peace with the imperfections. Trying perpetually to derive a meaning out of a meaningless collage of random people. While loving the perplexity of meaninglessness. Embracing the nothingness while digging deep with clasped nails & gritty jaws to find something out of the nothing.
Days roll by. Events take place. Significant ones. Not so significant ones. Blasphemies condemned & eventually embraced out of choicelessness. It has always been a choice to be endlessly panicked by the darkness or to come to terms with the surprises I might grope in the darkness. Something that might prick in the dark can only be a thorn of a rose waiting to be cherished for its beauty. Post-adolescent rebellion that ran its course without a cause rooted for the silent indignation against the dark but aging is irresistibly obsequious to fondle the gropings of the dark.
Along with the events, people came. Few memorable ones. Many forgettable ones. It's ironic only the memorable ones caused the irony but is it just the vice? Are they remembered only for the irony they induced?
But because of inherited penchant for the darkness, the memorable ones remained back in the darkened backstreets of life. They jauntily walk around to create a fear in me - the horde in which my Fiza tactfully escapes my sight?
But my Fiza would never leave me. She knows I will be lost without her. She'll wait through the darkened alleys, blackened faces & obfuscating & wicked grins of the 'many forgettable ones'.
I have embraced the darkness for life & she'll embrace me for that.
They say people are imperfect. The only way seemed out was to make peace with the imperfections. Trying perpetually to derive a meaning out of a meaningless collage of random people. While loving the perplexity of meaninglessness. Embracing the nothingness while digging deep with clasped nails & gritty jaws to find something out of the nothing.
Days roll by. Events take place. Significant ones. Not so significant ones. Blasphemies condemned & eventually embraced out of choicelessness. It has always been a choice to be endlessly panicked by the darkness or to come to terms with the surprises I might grope in the darkness. Something that might prick in the dark can only be a thorn of a rose waiting to be cherished for its beauty. Post-adolescent rebellion that ran its course without a cause rooted for the silent indignation against the dark but aging is irresistibly obsequious to fondle the gropings of the dark.
Along with the events, people came. Few memorable ones. Many forgettable ones. It's ironic only the memorable ones caused the irony but is it just the vice? Are they remembered only for the irony they induced?
But because of inherited penchant for the darkness, the memorable ones remained back in the darkened backstreets of life. They jauntily walk around to create a fear in me - the horde in which my Fiza tactfully escapes my sight?
But my Fiza would never leave me. She knows I will be lost without her. She'll wait through the darkened alleys, blackened faces & obfuscating & wicked grins of the 'many forgettable ones'.
I have embraced the darkness for life & she'll embrace me for that.
