Hello y’all
Here’s a little update on this WordPress page I miss very much.
Lately I’ve been posting my writing on Instagram. Please follow me at @sadiakhanwrites
Link: https://instagram.com/sadiakhanwrites?utm_medium=copy_link
With love,
Sadia.
The surface
Had I any other way to put this, I wouldn’t
Of all the ways one can embrace to be
The most impactful is our necessity
Of eachother, of no one outside of ourselves
The more the words, the less concentrated the meaning
What good is expression? If it narrows down doors that should’ve welcomed, all minds, all sorts
Of integration, in this disintegration
Call me. I probably won’t pick up
The danger isn’t in disagreement, it lies in our bereavement
Would you walk with me till your feet are sore?
What if I told you the journey has nothing to do with physicality?
Mind-fuck
And just as I’m about to rediscover the pieces of the puzzle
I am no longer intrigued by what I can’t shuffle, with my own hands
The lesser beings of a man, surround the profound errors of his ways
Concluding with the One and Only
The surface signals towards internal state, time and again
The hollower the guitar, the more the senses raise, in retrospect
None but ourselves can hit bull’s eye without first imagining the dartboard with our instincts
Euthanasia
I am here
Flesh and bone
But that one time keeps luring me back
To this state of timelessness that engulfs me away
Every house that I’ve ever lived in
The balcony is where I sit, in my mind
The outside looking in
All the places that I’ve been, animate now
It is your voice that gives all this meaning
Pointing the obvious, the red in the red
But somehow, without you saying it
All these shades, I wish I was colorblind just for them to burst
Reaching out through the inanimate
Stone cold, transitioned into this, we have adjusted
The moral dilemmas in our heads, have justified themselves
Mercy, mercy. While I’ve given in to one aspect of life, I have conquered another.
Honest mistake
It’s everywhere, it’s everywhere
I feel crowded in this empty room and alone in a crowded room
Paradoxical only when you haven’t been there
Only when you haven’t felt the same words mean different upon repetition
“LEAVE me alone” “Leave ME alone”
“STAY gone” “Stay GONE”
Serenity
Where have you abandoned me?
It happens everywhere now, did I tell you? It happens everywhere
Triggered
What theme do I fit you in? You were everything
I see a glimpse of you in every tangible, intangible only in these distorted memories
I’m doing it again, this little thing where I trace back my steps
To make sure I don’t step on the lines I’ve already stepped on
Mistake
noun
Definition 1: “an act or judgement that is misguided or wrong”
Definition 2: “something, especially a word, figure, or fact, which is not correct; an inaccuracy”
verb
Definition 3: “be wrong about”
Definition 4: “wrongly identify someone or something as”
I burnt every page, except the corner of the last one, last abstraction
Because every time you ended a thought, you pressed the ballpoint a bit too hard
Almost to the point where, the next page, inherited, the pain of the precedent
Your subtle ways a secret I have kept
You, on the other hand, have vanished
“Just because you’re around doesn’t mean that you’re around.”
Don’t dream about it
Undulating on our way to the finish line
At docks with ships waiting for nothing
I pace
You starve
We figure eachother out
The difference between your cunningness and his naivety
Is that one thread that holds the soul intact
Had you an art for it, rather than a way to get away
With it
I wouldn’t have to spell it out for you
Portions, fractions, ratios
To stigmatize the dog for being restless
For the night to be too demanding, on the loaded, rolling on it
Find a better way to say it, man. What does you in?
Do you, buddy.
Kindle on the flame that remains pure
After burning off all that you look for, about, like firewood
Lay it to rest. Don’t think about it, don’t talk about it, don’t dream about it.
Kudos
The fragility of it, the harshness with which you face it
All these patterns, we fall in love with
You have taught me to be gentle with myself
And for that, I am indebted to you, all these lives
Unaware
Of their own power
This is what I’m putting forth; sue me.
All these secrets, we’re butchered with
Time and again.
<<>>
I don’t know what’s worse, an explosion first thing
or little ‘coming togethers’ of complexities
that in retrospect, make less sense in isolation
It’s funny
Almost as if you could explain it
But I mean hey
Kudos to comedians and illusionists
Who make it seem effortless
while we all waste away in the trance of these happenings.
November, bleak midwinter
Raw
In the name of You for whom my blood bleeds
Its existence
This slight blizzard, teasing my weather to loosen up a bit
But what I found has been blurred and brought back to me
In this confusion
My limits outstretched, false hope dangles. Maybe these walls represent the bland, in us, in it all. Can I use this for my advantage? What is self-interest, but a dying man profiting from all the visits, all the crumbs left after tea for the floor to sweep. For the mop to clean frank dismay. It’s been a year. It’s been a fucking year.
Never contemplated it. Figured there’s way more to ruin in ourselves before ruin is brought to us. Pain exclusive. The boy kicked out of class for fidgeting too much with his pen, can now turn your world upside down, with just a blink.
But you’re still shameless. You rub the chalk before they sense the screech. You drag on the wood but it’s your burden that stays. A marble you toss on a moving staircase…path of pride, circular shapes sure are funny, ain’t they? No side to corner, every reflection: yours.
And then I think about what I just wrote and who’d read it. About how I can’t be bothered to edit.
Order such chaos. Would you fucking get it?
It’s alright, I mean. I’m supposed to get it, write it, talk it, walk it. Screwed up by this order. Let’s just say I’ve walked it, gotten it till I lost it, could barely get my message across had I talked it, but whenever I write it
It’s as
I’m
I don’t know
This
One minute
I’m still. The world happens. But the world inside my head happens for me as I question my entire being and look like a lost, bent over, fleer of war for a word that’ll not make these bombs detonate as I stand on a landmine. Enduring every.single.fucking.day.pre.and.post.this.bloody.minute. Where I wait as it all comes back to me and I wonder why I ever signed up for this shit.
And no alpha infront or omega behind will get flustered for anything past his poor life to watch out for. Yesterday was for me and tomorrow will probably be for you but who’s got to explain as of today to someone who needs to wake up and see it for what it is?
And as a thousand images flash like a cassette stuck for being played in the wrong time. I pick the images that stuck and let my giddy gaze form a sentence or two, in this dim frame of mind. What I could’ve said, what it all meant.
And then a stranger takes on, and writes another sentence off of that, elsewhere. All individualistic, of course. Your pain does not precede mine. Your imagination is second hand.
Why so sour, honey? I have mended to your stretch marks, your shade, your scars. I have counted the spaces in your hair as the sun pierced through it and set my eyes ablaze, for wanting to, shelter you in me.
Two utility bottles tripped over some trivialities and bowed in the same 45 degree angle. Does that mean we look the same if struggling with, the exact same, catastrophe? Or should we finally give due credit to gravity, for letting us feel more than we should because the lighter the heart, the easier it is to flee to its whereabouts.
I can’t write more.
Maybe that’s why books have numberings and pages have word limits. Because. If you take all the trips it needs, to come to a conclusion of a final thought, you wouldn’t ever write it down.
You’d throw that draft out the window.
As of all the others that didn’t make the cut.
Because, who’d be insane enough to write this?
I can’t.
I fucking won’t.
Or I’ll break again.
“But it is in the breaking that you’ll find your strength, my friend”
Bury it all with me.
Make me the enemy, take your revenge.
I’ll be here.
All the way…
Places in faces
“Do they not think that their words have weight?”
There has got to be a face that is read for what it is
Should time really account for innocence lost?
I mean, to lose that which you left behind in childhood and go back to it again, aware
God knows how much I’ve stored, meaningful in its meaningless description
And how much I’ve discarded, only to be met with it again, in another form
A feather in the stream
Trying to regain in flight what shed it
“The mysterious weakness of men’s faces”
“Smooth and smiling faces everywhere, but ruin in their eyes.”
Had I expression enough, to walk you through it
It’d feel like I’ve robbed you of His revelation
My bones shiver, my voice trembles, as this thought becomes concrete
Pale as dusk, disillusionment; two-fold
Subjective and objective truths
are not enough
My sanctuary
I’ve built around this pain a halo so forfeit
we are facing the sun and looking at the pond we once drew puddles in
with our steps
the mud and the simple and the rain
never in vain but lately I don’t know where to keep
the steps I take back and forth
everywhere I look I see a memory attached to another memory
all of it attached to the last fibre of my being
words such a curse when after everything still cant serve to find a way
a way through whatever took you away
all these books and words and findings dont help
nobody knows what they’re doing, never did
it is all a box within a box cuz’ if you get out nobody will be able to tell what you’re up to next
loneliness has always been the price i had to pay
to not conforming to what you say
i should and shouldn’t do
with what I’ve felt
I’ve been thinking about writing a book for so long
I have all the pieces, I’ve written everything I’ve ever wanted to say
and yet
putting it all together
for you to understand
makes me not know which version of me
represents
the trajectory
of me befriending someone’s pain again
Remember
All the remember whens, made a pact
Unspoken of. Somewhere, beside the ghost in you
the ghost of you
Filling the roundabouts in your way
As if, folding a page in half, cutting holes
Where the ink permeated most
To create a perfect mirror
Of our burdens, the hollow
Just being
Reaching common ground
As if to say; “hey, I do my thing, you do yours”
The rest, we can discard
It doesn’t matter.
Scatteredmockingbirds 