Month: July 2023

A story could be written on that particular lighter. A story could be written on each cigarette lit up by that lighter. Then on all the lighters. And all the cigarettes.

But that lighter was purple. Like the book: the color purple. Only one cigarette has been flames by that one. No. Two. Two cigarettes. At the same time with a small interval of time that was passing through the black hole.

And that’s that. No story could be written on that lighter. No more cigarettes to be ignited by this one. It’s going in the archives without any spark. Or flame. Or shadow. Or anyone to blame.

There’s no story.
No touch.
No tip.
No spark.
No tobacco.
Hence, no ash.
Nothing for this lighter.

Only history of an untold story.

Sadness is saddening. But lucky are those sad women on whom men write words and pages and books and poems of sadness.

For a sad man, there’s no one. Just like there are words and pages and books and poems on motherhood, but almost nothing on fatherhood.

He would be eating a sandwich on a lone bench in a lone park and someone would take his picture that would make some rounds on social media and that’s all.

Unlucky sad men. They have to write sad words and pages and books and poems for themselves; as well as for women.

No one’s going to write on him except himself. And that’s how, men become a tragedy. Either for themselves or the entire society surrounding them.

میں بھی بہت عجیب ہوں اتنا عجیب ہوں کہ بس
خود کو تباہ کر لیا اور ملال بھی نہیں

Then comes crime. And punishment. And abusiveness. And suicide. And harm. And chaos. And a death. Of a filthy man.

Ideally, everyone should have a manuscript written by someone else. A manuscript written individually for each person by the opposite gender. A manuscript of sadness.

For instance, His Highness writing Marla’s sadness in his words for her in her scenario. Giving his words a voice of hers. Marla would be happy with this sadness. Isn’t it? No. She may not. She may not like a certain chapter of the manuscript and that’s how it would go in vain.

But then, someone would find that manuscript after years or decades and that discarded piece would become a classic piece of literature. With that same chapter to be considered as a magnum opus.

However, the reality of the two remained sad regardless of the millions that publishing houses are going to make on their suffering. Because they… got nothing.

And perhaps you got nothing as well.

Being a man is a tragedy. Either for himself or for the society around him.

Being a woman is also a tragedy.

Being a non-binary is another kind of a tragedy.

In fact, being is a tragedy. To be is a tragedy. Only not-to-be is not a tragedy.

Singles are unhappy.

Doubles are also unhappy.

Triples are happy though, but that’s not a long-term setting. Why did I mention that?

Anyway, married ones are definitely unhappy. Everyone’s unhappy. So, everyone is relatable. Socially.

And with that, nothing. I forgot the eulogy. Sorry, epiphany. I forgot the epiphany I had at Jumma. What a miss!