Rain. Whatever it is. It’s just a myth. For we. The Karachiates. Have never seen it. Rained. The way. They say it does. In the west. Yes, sometimes. Some rare times. We do see. Little drops. Washing over the dust. The dust. That layered our trees. Our homes. And. Our hearts.
Author: Tanzeela k Hassan.
One could never know. Where it begins. Or. Where it ends. The blue. That goes beyond. Taking in many stories. Taking in many cries. It never complains. Never dies. It’s there. Always. And. Always will be. The Vast.
It’s Okay. That’s what they say. Every time I cry. They let them dry. My tears. My life. A cry. That’s what it is. A never ending cry. My life. My love. Nothing. But. A cry.
Fresh air. Dampness. Searching for light. I stood there. On my terrace. Waiting for the sun. Looking at the sky. Dancing my eyes through the trees. Searching. Listening. The birds chatter. The whistles of the wind. And then. It finally came. The light. The sun. That changed everything. Daring. Daring me to start my day.
It’s bright. Nothing new. It always was. And always will be. The day. With kids. With life. With love. This is what I am. This is what I will always be. Bright. The light.
It’s dark. Pitch black. Nothing. But Emptiness. Not even. The Cricket. That filled the air. Last night. Nothing. Just me. And my. Emptiness.