Tales of a Sunset

As we were leaving Islamabad, it was almost maghrib. I had been dreading the long journey ahead. Tedious hours of just sitting in a car! Drivers everywhere, travelling, travelers, stressed about their destinations. The road between Islamabad and the M-2 was still under construction. For a split second, my gaze wandered to the sky. The split second turned into aeons. It was a watercolour painting. A perfectly blended painting; yellow gradually fading to pale yellow, pale yellow turning to a forget-me-not blue. Red streaks across where the clouds were closest to the sun, reflecting fury and rage. Grey streaks above the red, where the clouds were impermeable to the ferocity of the sun. A tiny silver crescent just beginning to peek out shyly.

Amongst angry drivers and big machines drilling away noisily, there was a calm. Amongst the chaos that is found on these roads on a Sunday night (as people return after the weekend), there was a sort of serenity spread out on the world. For a moment, I forgot my stress. Everything that had made me so tense this weekend, and that everyone had told me to let go of, I now realised was worthless. I “lived in the moment”, as my sister had been telling me to. Traveling never brought out the best in me, but today nature itself brought me relief. My face relaxed. Although there was no one I had to convey my joy to, although all this was just a feeling in the very depths of my heart, a tiny smile took over. Since winter departed two days ago, and spring had not yet entirely come, the trees were still dried up, leafless, lifeless. Perfect against the backdrop of the sky, a postcard.

We were now on the motorway. The red streaks were fading away as the blue slowly took over. Here, trees lined both sides of the road. The trees had leaves. Green fields spread out for miles on every side. It like was one of those expensive paintings one would expect to see in a huge victorian mansion. It was getting dark. The sky was always the hero. Trees silhouetted against a sky so intricate. Sometimes a hill came, sometimes a huge rock outlined against the sky, all seeking attention, all failing against a sky so beautiful.

Every second looking out of a moving car changed the scenery. Every second the sky and the fields and the silhouetted trees made a new masterpiece. Every second it showed the craftsmanship of the One behind it.

It was Him. Allah. He was the Artist. He was the Art.

The shy crescent now shone quite boldly. The red disappeared entirely, the wrath of the sun wrapped up by the gentle blue of the night. In the distance I could now see lights; villages and small towns located at intervals. Eventually the light blue turned to a rich, royal blue which had no place for yellows and oranges. Only the silver of the moon or the distant stars could conquer a sky so overpowering.

It was strange to think of this sky. The same sky shone over refugees, over starving, diseased children, over mourning mothers, over depressed and oppressed people. The same sky shone over crime, hate, injustice and intolerance. And yet, it was this same sky that painted a picture for me, for my peace, stretching for miles and miles across. It was this same sky that inspired poetry.

And I rested my head against the window; once again worries returning to my tired head, dreading all that was to come, the night clouding my thinking and wrapping around my head.

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Slumber

It was the only day of the week where she knew she could sleep with the gas heater on. Not because this was a weekly suicidal ritual that she religiously performed, but because she knew there would be someone to turn it off.

Tonight, she was tired. With lights turned off and the blaring noise of the television in the next room, she was aware that she only had a few hours to sleep. Come, sleep, come. Come before the night has faded and trials afresh await my doom. Come.

It came, but in slow, unsure steps. Like the carbon monoxide that slowly filled up the room as she awaited her half death. Perhaps it was not sleep, but this gas, which slowly suffocated her to slumber as she thought of the exact time required by the gas to fill up this room and deprive her of air. How odd.

The slumber now surrounded her like the stars that never shone in her sky anymore. She was losing herself, and she was aware. A conscious unconsciousness. Collateral beauty. Her eyes gently closed as the warm orange rays lit up the room to a comfortable resting place. A comfortable last resting place, as they would’ve said later.

Who was to know if this was a half death, or slumber in eternity?

Brotherhood of the World

So this beautiful person nominated me for this award. I cannot thank her enough for all the support she endlessly gives me, such a gem💛 Go follow her!

https://accidentallyinked.wordpress.com


Anyways,

The Rules:

1. Thank the person who nominated you and link back to their blog.<
. Answer the questions sent to you.<
. Nominate around ten bloggers.<
. Create your set of questions for your nominees.<
. List the rules and display the Brotherhood Of The World logo in your post and/or blog.


Questions from inky:

1. Which emoji describes your life situation right now?

The emoji is yet to be created.

2. When was the last time you read a book? What was it?

It was so long ago that I don’t even remember 😭 I THINK it may have been “The Forty Rules of Love”. However, this book has brought to my mind a very tragic incident that occurred today.

So basically a girl in my class borrowed it from me. Now, I am VERY particular about my books. For some reason, I decided to trust her. And then, after a long wait, it was returned today. With a very sheepish smile. She handed me the book and I thanked her (why tho?) and then she said she took REAL good care and I smiled nervously and then she said something like oh “except for this tiny stain”. And in my head the word “tiny” was the size of a full stop. And then I looked down, fearing the worst. But could there be worse than worst?! Yes. An ink spot. The size of a seal. In the centre of the beautiful cover. I could’ve screamed. However, you will be proud to know, I kept my cool. And, right then I said “Oh don’t worry about it.”

I was burning inside.

3. What advice would you give to someone who wishes to start a blog?

Make sure whatever you write, or, you know, whatever pictures you post, are original. If you write, it must come from deeeep inside you. I can see through shallow words (and believe me, aLOT of other people can, too)

Don’t write something because it’s trending. Like these days depression is a trend. It angers me to a point that I can’t explain! It’s like mocking actual people who suffer. Have some respect.

What you write must be YOURS. And, your words should sound like YOU. You must resonate with the frequency of the universe in a uniquely YOU way. That is how the universe will recognise you. If you disguise yourself with another, comparatively better known frequency, your talent will be masked. Your own frequency won’t be picked up by anyone and that other frequency never accepted you in the first place.

4. Would you rather live  without your phone for a month or live without WiFi for a week?

Idk…. without WiFi for a week?😂

5. If there is a new book and a movie of it, which one will you chose? The book or movie and why?

The book EVERY TIME. Because I am eventually going to try to read the book, and if I know the storyline already, you won’t catch me investing so much time into the book! Plus, don’t movies usually ruin books? I’d rather read the original words of the writer. It was the writer’s piece.


I am a rebel! Not nominating anyone specifically, but everyone generally! Let the love spread!!*

*Me being me, hiding laziness behind the name of the rebellious.

Pleeeease, if you’re reading this (which you are, yes! Yes!) attempt this. I know you are an amazing blogger. Because not a lot of people read here, and I know the ones that do, and if you do not, well, there’s really not much I can do. Except send you a prayer? But anyways. Appreciate yourself. There’s no shame in that! Just answer accidentallyinked’s questions. There’s two people who know that you (yes you!) are an amazing soul inside.

One of them is you.

The other one is me.