Sunday, April 29, 2007


I remember the day we had "Karaoke Night"
when I followed the trail of this magical voice
coming from a corner in activity center
I decided to befriend him, never thought twice
Then there was this marketing class
where he cracked corny jokes
and the teacher kicked MY ass
it was great fun anyway
A memory that's bound to stay
And then came psychology
and along with it tons of tafree
the so-called combined studies in strife
where we discussed the philosophy of life
We chatted for long and put studies aside
though not without reference to that sick old man called Freud*
My friend knows all the tricks and trades
and uses his celebrity status to get good grades
We get along so nicely and think so much alike
If we were lost brothers, it wouldn't really strike
The only difference is that people think he's gay
so to satisfy that part of him, I'd have to say
Here I am Tahir, let me speak
I love you bitch...every day of the week**

*Freud is pronounced "Fried".

**Well, I had to rhyme it!

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Forgotten Reflections

I forget faces and names now. Something has changed. Sometimes I see my old friends from school. They look happy with the same old red Ninja Turtles lunch boxes and neat uniforms. And there still are days when I take some time out to recollect all those memories. I try to recall all of them with their full names and re-create events that never happened. They must’ve changed as well now…they must’ve grown up too.

Other times I see reflections of objects and people that aren’t really there. It happens when you have to hear an old, fat, boring professor talk about International Relations for a while. And I turn around and see a fat girl; lost in her own little world, and then noticing me through her peripheral vision with those wide brown eyes. I smile and look towards the teacher again, knowing that I’ll forget that face in a while, very unlike me…reflections can be so deceptive.

Sometimes it’s best to let go. Reflections, no matter how attractive they are, are after all, reflections, all depending on interpretations and perceptions (and a few more “shuns”). And if they’re authentic, you can’t touch them anyway. Try connecting your fingers in the near and yet so far.

Sometimes it’s just best to forget and move on. Sometimes it’s best to forget faces and names, to forget what you put your lifeblood into, how and where you met someone and how it made you feel. You can’t stop in the middle of the road and block all traffic. The light is orange, its time to get a move on, or risk being forgotten.

You blink and the world makes you pay.

Saturday, April 07, 2007


The pink curtain haunted the room. There was just one, and it was pulled to the middle of the window. The night looked welcoming from only the two thin slits for moonlight that rotated in that silent breathing room, hypnotizing her, hypnotizing even itself.
She knew she was dreaming of the house again. May be she was awake like the last time it happened- In the middle of the park where her grandchildren liked to play. May be she was on the bus to her son's house. May be she had finally died and this was the last memory that chose to perform a final merciful act to keep the angel from her body. For a few minutes more of a long, long life.

The stillness inside the movement was infinitely deep and silent. She was sitting with her friend, on the edge of a river that did not flow, filling erosions that did not crumble when touched. There was no time in this place. Only peace and the soft scent of cologne wearing out from old clothes. There was permanence and a bland but complete happiness because it came from yesterdays she had forgotten. Without memory there are left only the stale emotions we might have felt. But they grow old- older than us, because there is no face, no reality, or dream to connect them to. They are feelings that circle in the voids of ancient minds, making wrinkled mouths smile some times when we think they are growing too old. When we think it is madness, it is only the trickle of memory into the famine of a tall, towering, intimidating present. It is the past that haunts us best. It is the past that knows us best. And when that old friend begins to betray us, then there is hopeless feeling trapped in a body whose soul left it. This is familiar, because this is how all love stories end.

She was there now, in the room with the pink curtain, but deeper than that. Deeper within herself and him, in the moonlight hypnotizing them both. The pebbles inside the river's water glistened and she could steadily feel her heart beat as the sun twisted its fingers to slip over the wet rocks. Deep inside the water and the sun, there must be a time like this, she thought. Where hearts beat louder than words. Where time is simply irrelevant. She did not want this to end. She would never be able to bear it, if it were to end now and bring with it another damn beginning.

She surfaced from the sun, the water and him. She was breathing as she was crying into the arms of a man whose face too, she had forgotten. Yet this was the only memory that stayed. This was the only noise that drowned out the silence of coffins and hospitals. Her hands clawing at his hands as he grabbed them. And a beautiful voice that said to her many times that night, "I have you. I have you. I have you."