an act of walking away.

What happens beyond the point when you both realize that you are losing each other? there is silence, you suddenly have nothing to say that’ll make conversation go on so instead you both try to find ways to walk out (out of conversation for now). it is also very oddly and sadly funny that you’re not sad about it anymore. or at least it doesn’t hurt you the way you always thought it would. instead you are thinking about all other things that are happening around you; you listen to a child screaming in the distant neighborhood ‘Papa,Papa’.

next you catch yourself lost in a disconnected memory, how your brother snatched a photograph of your father and you cried in silence for losing your father to him. you complained about it to the universe and the universe took care of it, you still remember that grey sky of your childhood evening. those first few raindrops that made you forget about complaining, and you kept looking at evening grayness as tears kept running your cheeks.


there is no rainfall this time, maybe universe too thinks its too soon to indulge in the incident of you two walking away, slowly. you know the process, soon you’ll start falling out of each other’s lives and then eventually the place will be empty of each other. you’ll sometimes walk past that place like tenants of a house who once lived their and can only see their past there and never imagine  a future in there.

“its all planned, maybe this is also a proof of something, something that we don’t know of yet.”

maybe your words will keep echoing the emptiness of place.


Remembering my Grandfather

I reach his belongings with trembling hands, constantly under the burden of realization that I might not like it if someone tries intruding into my world of belongings only a few months after my disappearance from the physical world.

There is a relatable fear, a shared feeling of discontent; but there is this contentment surviving its paradox existence, deep in the hollows of my heart I find peace. I reason my heart that it is only to preserve that I am reaching his belongings, that some years down the lane someone out there might also want to preserve what I’ll be leaving behind.16295768_1859663257645612_375165787_n

I have multiple emotions at work in my body, I feel dejected as I reach his storage box for how his belongings lay there so naked and at loss of any meanings; and I open it. I detect all the objects one by one, in my futile try to attach any meaning that he left behind in the world for us to grab.

Few of his army souvenirs tucked in one corner of the box, all the invitation letters from his regiment and letters from his colleague and I transcend into afternoons of childhood summer when he would gather us all around and narrate stories of his adventures in the army, his eyes speaking for the pride he felt in his service, his language containing barely any hint of pride.

The memory now takes me back to summer evenings in my village house as a long row of chorpoyes was set in the center of a courtyard lined by verandas all around. Soon after Maghrib prayers he would enter the house, always at a fixed time and his radio in hand. He would set it up on the side table, tune into a news channel and rest his head on his hands.16395797_1859663244312280_1697586279_n

The echoes of news on the radio still play in my head, my first ever memory of listening to anyone reading out for us in a very serious and somber way and in those fifteen minutes, everything else in the surroundings stopped as if respecting the sobriety of the situation.

Those fifteen minutes later became a part of me and took a broader span in my life years. I stood there to look at the Rome of his belongings that he built over years and from the corner of my watery eyes I can see that the ink is spelled.