Broken Conscience

The air is hot, stale and nonexistent. Seems like every breath you draw in, is a struggle, a mouthful of nothing but emptiness and fragments of polluted oxygen. Overhead the fan whirs in aimless lazy circles even though it is set to maximum speed. It does nothing to help the suffocating atmosphere as it lethargically stirs up the thick warm air. The sun seems to filter right through the thick dusty curtains that stand still and undisturbed, heavy as if with longing and despair. A musky smell fills the room, saturated with sweat, fear and loss.

A limp hand falls off the edge of the rickety bed, every time someone turns in it it creaks as if taking its last breath. The hand hangs there, the fingers opening and closing ever so slowly, clutching through the thin air. The pillow is a chaos of thick brown hair, combed away from the face and neck, matted with sweat that also glistens on the face and leaves dark patches on the clothes that cling to the body. The chest rises and falls, struggling for breath through excruciating pain. The air wheezes in and out in a futile attempt to nourish the body.

She stands in the doorway; eyes weary and body slump, her eyes fixated on the figure in the bed and the constant whisper of a prayer on her dry chapped lips. Her hands hang by her side in a defeated gesture; as if there's nothing more she can do with them, her legs shaking ever so slightly. As the light recedes from the room, the room doesn't cool.

In the early hours of the morning she turns, averting her eyes from the bed, her feet shuffle towards another door, not so far away, which leads her outside. Her tread is slow and painful, as she walks through empty roads. Eventually her feet give away and she drops down on the pavement, on an unfamiliar. Overhead, the clouds rumble as if with anger, making the little light at this hour look rather eerie and unusual. Her eyes scan the empty roads, the stationary cars and the dark houses, suspending her into her worst fears.

The sound and the dampness brings her back, the rain falls slowly at first. The heat rises from the hot road, pushing its way up, escaping in the tiny puffs of dust that rise as drops pelt down harder. It comes down hard, so hard that it burns her. It feels as though it will cause depressions and groves in her paper thin skin. It hurls down at her as if it were the sentiments that she's lived through, as if it’s the abuse and loss she's suffered through life. It breaks her down bit by bit, cracking the shell, bruising her flesh, her existence, her conscience.

-Momina.

Crazy Rambling #10

Lately I’ve been finding extreme fascination in withering flowers, roses, to be specific. I pluck them off from our garden a little before they are about to shed their petals, and arrange them into an oasis. Eventually they become limp and flaccid and dry out in their dropped posture. They are incredibly fascinating if you take your time to look at them, to really see them, not just a glance. They are untold stories, incomplete, yet they hold a charm far more precious than all the finished stories, all the happy endings. Even though they dry out, they are pretty, worth saving. 

I've never understood why people press roses between the pages of a book; there is little beauty in something you are forcing to die. And personally, I find nothing interesting in looking at a rose flower that is pressed until it’s flimsy and lean. It’s a full blown rose that darkens in color, that closes upon itself as it dies and dries that holds my attention. It’s beautiful, still intact. Somehow still living and fragrant. It’s the incomplete story of those roses that fascinates me, and I've always been a sucker for unfinished stories.

-Momina.

Sabotage and Assassinate

Wisps of hope peel away
Opening up the insides, frayed.
Touched with time and unwanted change
Browned and worn out ashen face
Screaming out, yearning to surrogate
Limp hands for attention, wave.
"Don't look away, don't look away,
Fold yourself into the details,
Realize the mistakes that you made.
Whispered secrets, riddles and slay
There are the answers, you didn't appraise".

-Momina.

Reminiscing

'Yes, I reminisce in the past; the past, that sadly had no future and that crumbled while we were till ravishing in its pleasure.'

-Momina. 

Break us down.

Sometimes we lose to expectations and then we fall hard, on our face. We deny it, we scream and we look for unseen closure. Thinking of all our hard work, our prayers and our expectations, all failed to nothing. We cheat ourselves. We act. We pretend. Because we know, deep down, that we never really worked hard enough, we lacked. We prayed, yes. We kept expectations higher than necessary, yes. But we failed so we pretend.

We crumble under our own expectations and the carry the weight of those hopes that others have from us. We hide from the truth and the acceptance of our faults. And so we blame. We blame it on every possible option. We break, inside. We doubt and we lose joy. In the end we just sag; unable to carry the weight anymore, of the acceptance and expectations and reality.

-Momina.

I cried...

We have a high roof in the lounge, higher than that in other rooms, so sometimes I lie down and stare at it, and I think. Last night, I stared at it because sleep wouldn’t come to me and I cried. I cried because I had lost friends. I cried because I knew I was losing the rest. I cried because I had no idea what was going on. I cried because I didn’t know the path of my future. I cried because I forgot what went on in the past. I cried because at that moment I forgot everything and I cried because I was lost, not known when to be found again. I cried because I was unhappy. I cried because my unhappiness made others unhappy. I cried because some people suddenly just stop. I cried because I wasn’t sure if they trusted me that moment. I cried because I was alone, because I was sad and for some reason guilty. I cried because sometimes nobody understands. And I cried because sometimes they understand too much. I cried because I misinterpreted people. I cried because everything is just an illusion. I cried because there really is no perfection. I cried because the end is always too close. I cried because it all made sense but then I cried because I was confused. I cried and cried and then I fell into an uneasy slumber. I hope nobody cries like that.

Momina.

Crumpled Fairy-tales

It's in the middle of the night, at times, that I get the urge to write, vent it all out. Everything. I am hopeless, I have been proved wrong over and over again by life and people. Everyone and everything is deceiving, lying has become 'trendy'. Was there really a time when people valued and kept there promises? It doesn't seems so, not in my case. I don't say much about myself to people, but there are times when I am talking and I let something slip, at the time it's all fine because it's finally out but then it bothers me, gnawing on my consciousness. I hope I'd stop caring about all those times when something spilled out but it's a very open world and secrets are as explosive as bombs. It's saddening how there is no room left for honesty or secrecy together. I loath change, it's followed me through life yet it fails to come by when I want it. It seems like all's changing around me; things and people all too fast and it pains me to see the change it makes me hopeless. It's an evil world where people don't admit their own words, a promise reminded of daily is crumpled after a new surprise, the old things lose their sheen and everything replaced.  There are no forever-s or never-s in life. We really just walk alone, nobody and nothing is reliable. Not even words it seems so, they tend to draft a fairy tale of their own.
Momina.