When I last blogged I was the child who was anticipating the new adventures and promises A-levels brought with it. A-levels was supposed to be something about self exploration, personal development and advancing several stairs up on the maturity scale.
The reality is like pain searing through my body.
Honestly, that’s me trying to be funny. All i have been doing is procrastinating and wallowing in misery of how I hate to study, how I must become independent and how should really work on my writing. After all I have these dreams to accomplish.
A-levels, in reality, is the epitome of laziness, wallowing in misery and fantasizing about body massages night after night.
I dream about those massages to come soon, for A-levels to end soon but than what about the separation with friends, the tantamount of responsibilities to shoulder and the feeling of being an adult and making several life decisions.
Makes me think that I’m pretty okay with being 17 my entire life.
Can some vampire drop in my room and freeze my age?
Fear is like that bed partner which creeps up on you, remains up the sleeve of your neck, and as soon as you turn to face it becomes like that horrible monster which used to haunt your memories when you were still in the body of a young mind; carefree, careless and vivacious.
It is something which is pretty frequent and I loathe this feeling. This feeling of being in fear, fearful that if i change my positions I would be met with the hairy monster so huge, so buff and so large that I would die of shock.
I don’t know how I am going to rid of this feeling, when am I going to come at peace but one day it will come.
Humming to the tune of Justin Bieber ft D Snake ‘let me love you’, I am reminded of old memories. As old as 4 years ago. I had developed my love for writing but it was immature, needed editing, needed spanking and all the necessary nourishment that any writer would require.
In these 4 years, I have learned much to be reminded what decisions to make, what beliefs will keep me to the path and what is my true motto. I have transitioned much. 4 years ago I was an obsessive, fan girl who kept tab on her favorite celebrities and stalked them like a daily mantra. May thy thank the gods to give me some sense and conscience.
Today, I am psyched about my grades massively, assignments are a part of my daily routine without which I want get the hang of an entity called, ‘super normal profit.’
I am psyched about what college would i be going next fall and what will I be doing with my life after A-levels. I am psyched about internships, my writing career. In short, its not hard to predict that I am psyched about everything which seemed like a distant myth 4 years ago. From being an obsessive, fan girl to a thinker and writer, I have evolved as a person and I am thankful that I get to see the next morning and sleep the next night.
Happy 17th to me!
Typing down after a searing decade seems like trying to find the writer in me. Here I am embarking on a scorching trial, trying to retrieve the sanity of this empty shell.
Empty shell sounds to metaphoric but its meaning holds truth to the situation. Ever since my real life started, as in the real educational period, in a different school with people of all types and sizes makes me want to miss the conformity. Considering it from a sociological perspective, a human introduced to a world of conflicting norms and values is like giving a shot of panicking emotions. However, meeting people with new ideas is refreshing at the same time.
There aren’t the same restrictions. Not the same fascist discipline. Casualty is the motto of every human residing in the same institution I visit six times a day. In understanding the new world, integrating new knowledge I forgot my real self. The real me who was not bound by laziness but with determination to make myself known to the world. Through the only, very valuable art of the hand, heart and mind: writing.
Merry Christmas, people!
Every then and now whenever I sit and type down something I simply go blank. My aspiration to become a reputed writer is not becoming fulfilled.
This summer I intended to write and write and write, which sadly went down the drain as I have become so lazy that it pains me that what will become of Dania who wants to win writing contests and see her name on the page of a magazine.
Thus, I am confused, confused, confused.
No good story idea seems to come to my mind am somehow not able write something so brilliantly fantastic and I am dreading that I am losing my vocabulary. Each day I try to delay that Yeah! Maybe tomorrow I’ll have some fantastic ideas.
What I have written is a clear proof that I am close to hibernating from my writing shell and that is the worst thing I have ever dreamt of.
That clearly calls for……people help me!!
I contemplated the definition of fantasy. Fantasy. I touched the gold lettering word on the book cover and shut my eyes from the world.
We all relish dreams and enticing fantasies, having a glimmer of hope that one day the “damsel in distress” in me will one day get rescued by a dashing prince charming or I will walk the land, riding a peony and considering which decision will bring the best in my people.
Nothing is so real in this wolfish world. Every eye scars you, every word wounds you, every desire destroys you.
At such a ripe age, i hold belief that integrating fantasy with reality can seem dangerous and non-sensical at times. After all, we all want Hypnos, the God of dream, to hold hostage in dreams and never imbibe the scorching reality.
“If I don’t cry while writing a key emotional scene, my gut feeling is it’s failed. I want the reader to feel something while reading – and making myself cry has become my litmus test as to whether that’s working. It’s an odd way to earn a living.”- Jojo Moyes
These words have imprinted on my mind and have become engraved on my heart ever since I whispered them and felt the rightness of these words deep inside me. No writer, as far as I believe, has ever applied such experience to test their writing but Jojos writing has baffled me and the way she broke me up on every moment and every scene in this wonderful book. No book took a bee line right to the core of my heart as this one and being a crazed book worm I can state that even a hard shell can be broken by the slightest probing of Jojo’s warmth.
I do not intend open much about this book in case I end up convincing any of you to read it. I thank my best friend, Swaiba a lot to pushing me to read it because I basically judged the book by the cover of its movie and dismissed it as another boy meet girl stuff which I loathe ( the reason why I never developed a liking for Nicholas Sparks writing).
It is about a 35 year old quadriplegic, who after suffering 2 years of such state, intends to die a peaceful death and never wake up to face the persecution inflicted by infections and recurring pains. On the other side is the vibrant girl, Louisa Clark, who’s odd clothing would put decent and elegantly styled women at shame and would sneer at the fact that a handsome and rich man like Will Traynor could possibly choose an eccentric personality to provide her lavish bank account and to amuse.
It comes with a cache though, guys. You cry at every page, at every waking hour be it morning or evening ( well that’s what I have been practically doing).
You will end up learning just so much from this book. Book are the guide to learning and educating yourself about so many things be it fiction or non fiction.
So you all should saddle yourself, buy the book and devote yourself, body and mind, to this book. No doubt you will be moved for days until tears become dry and eyes become tired from crying.
Ohhh and Happy Easter, guys!
Lahore Literary Festival (LLF) 2016 is the the most happening yearly festival known to attract literary admirers and thinkers who have developed promising careers and have the ability to inspire the you blood of our generation. This was the first time I ventured in this festival and am proud to say that the enthusiasm and spark that i captured in peoples eyes was something that I greatly relished in.
There were stalls bearing books of recognized poets and writers and autobiographies. People were lined to donate for the education of poor children and enjoying coffees whilst immersing themselves in conversations of old thinkers and great poets who developed heart warming poetry to make a man drunk with its words.
The first session that I attended was about a man from that era when Pakistan and India had not yet divided and religion and castes were matters of great privacy. Syed Babar Ali, the pioneer of Pakistan’s first Harvard inspired business school LUMS and the owner of the Packages firms, spoke out his struggles and what he learned from his experiences. Soaking in his wisdom, I was awestruck by his development of deep relations in such a time when technology was not that much developed and computers were something so foreign as a cackling horse!
At the end of this session, I waged my way to the next one infamously called “Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?”
This session greatly interested me because it was where people discussed about a writer and her people whereas people around find their interest lacking in what they call it “mundane things”. Virginia interested me because he feminist thoughts, which have now become more highlighted because of increasing educational and social media awareness, had become quite obvious in her writings. Her female characters were never weak and did not need to weep or beg in front of the world and man which would thus degrade her persona.
I have never read Virginia Woolf’s writing but this session with Emma Woolf, Claire Armstead, Zareena Syed and Adrian A. Hussain proved to be quite a fruitful one.
Such literary festivals revel in the pleasure and enthusiasm of its people and audience all contributing to the fact that no matter how much modern our perceptions may turn, we will always love to breath the air of the mystical era and get awestruck by the works of our ancestors and great artisans!
On 14 January, 2016 the world lost an amazing actor, inspirational human being, role model for many children and an amazing hero! Words have become short to describe an aspirational person.
It was quite difficult for me to take in the truth that we have really lost snivellus and not only in Harry Potter. I was lost in the haze of my thoughts, confused whether to be shocked or to shed tears for Rickman? For long I intended to pay tribute Alan and here I am typing down my thoughts.
– Along with Harry, I hated you but we misunderstood you. Till the end was made clearer.
– You wanted to sit in a rocking chair and read the delightful series at the age of 80. I promise that if I ended up being 80, I will do that in remembrance of you.
Its important that the world remembers not only as greasy Professor Snape but more than this. As Robin, as a loving person and the savior of people.