A Conversation

It has taken me so long to write this because I have had more time than you had. I have had more chances to use, cherish and waste time; and more of it than I know how to manage well, anyway.
This is not a tribute. This isn’t even a piece to indulge in my very few, very vivid memories of you. It’s simply an echo of a conversation that I would have had with you if you were alive today.
Let’s imagine we’re sitting in class again; the cramped classroom, the one to the left of the stairs. We have seats right up in front and it is one of those lazy Urdu classes when Miss Rahat is in no mood to teach and everyone stays quiet so she wouldn’t have to take charge.
I think I need to tell you a few things.
You are not a hero, nor are you a victim.
You are just a girl who made bad choices.
And I’m not afraid to tell you this because you had the capacity to listen. I won’t lie to you or sugarcoat my words for you ever, not even in death.
I will tell you you were wrong, again and again because you see, you aren’t here anymore because of it.
I don’t say all of this because it will make a difference, but just because I felt it needed to be said. I say it because I don’t want you to become a symbol of young love, or a real-life incarnation of Juliet or a martyr. I don’t want your end to be an excuse for bad choices to ever be looked at as desirable or ‘romantic.’ I bring this up because there was a shocking amount of rhetoric that circulated, with the recurring theme of romanticizing your passing and your choice. Along with this came the bittersweet realization that it is only after one is gone that the world is alerted to the fact that we ever existed. I saw the most unlikely people, banking in on the opportunity to add to this rose-tinted affair of ‘star-crossed lovers’ or some similar bullshit. Your bad choice does not go away just because you did.
Do you see my problem?
Your choice became your end and the violence of your end, ended up defining you. I want to tell you it doesn’t define you, not for me, not for anyone who matters. I want to tell you that I remember your overflowing makeup table and your yellow wrist-watch, your dedication to sass and dance and your free-spiritedness. I remember the turquoise arm-chair in your room and your collection of necklaces. I’m smiling right now because I would have loved to see your reaction to the ear piercings I have now. I remember you helping me straighten my hair and the Jay Sean lyrics on your bathroom mirror. I remember how you stood up for people and how on fleek you always looked.
Was ‘on fleek’ a thing while you were around? I can’t remember. I guess it doesn’t really matter.
I want to tell you I am as brutally honest of a friend as I ever was and remember you in the most honest, most affectionate way. And maybe I’m being unrealistic by even hoping to put a dent on how you will be remembered but at least I have sorted all these thoughts in my head, thoughts that I was afraid of having because I thought they made me a bad friend or made me feel like I was disrespecting your memory. But now I know I would be doing no justice to the honesty in our friendship if I was not open about how sorry I am that you made that choice. You are entitled to your choice, we all are. I just wish it hadn’t cost us all so dearly.
I miss you.

Feeling Lost

As I’ve grown up, I’ve got more and more ashamed of any writing that is more than a month old. I didn’t realise how serious it was until I started this blog, and used to read back on my posts after every few months.

I genuinely feel like my writing improves after every few months, but it’s not because I keep writing and testing new limits. It’s because I come back with a slightly better understanding of myself every time and a clearer view what I want on paper. So it’s realisations that spur my writing on, as opposed to polishing up and improvements.

But something very interesting just happened.

Before I started this blog, I used to write a blog on Blogger. What I remembered of this blog was mostly tainted by generalisations; I was pretty sure the writing on it was immature and unreadable, which was why I had switched over to a new blog.

But I just opened it up after years, and I am left feeling so lost.

Amused and pleasantly surprised, but lost.

The writing is undoubtedly from an era long gone, and yet I connected with it so much. Because she.. me, is talking about things that she loves. And she is so unashamed about them. She continues to write, post after post, not discouraged by the lack of hits on her blog.  Most of all, what touched me, was that I was not cringing when I read it.

I just felt a sense of loss, a bittersweet string difficult to focus on because it vibrates so ferociously.

There is so much heart in that writing, and I felt upset because my attitude and my circumstances in life cut that passion off at the bud, before it could even grow into maturity. The tone of all my work now is so different, and although I love the ease with which I can fall into this tone, I do feel betrayed that it is not as easy to shift gears as it once was/

Give it a once-over, if you please.

http://www.thelog-book.blogspot.com