Pencils. I miss pencils. I miss the silvery graphite resisting its inherent slipperiness on rough paper. The battle of forcing words right to the edge of that little piece of wood, and then watch them bleed on the same parchment that one day, was destined to become like their own withering flesh.
I hate Lahore. I hate it. I don’t want to go back. I want open land. And no man around for miles. I'd rather choose my own company. I'd rather be alone. Solitude is where there's peace.
I hate what I'm writing. This is stupid. This is boring. This reeks of... neediness. I'd hate to be needy. I don't need anyone. Or anything. I'm past caring. Caring is useless. They need to learn that. They need to know why. Why we're so flippant with our souls. Why we chop parts of it off so nonchalantly. Why we’re capable of crumbling to dust at the slightest touch of death.
I suppose I have this need to make statements. This qualifies as a statement, doesn’t it? “I, Sajeel Ahmad, hereby solemnly swear that I’m up to no good.” No friggin’ good at all. Why would I even be? Why should I be any different? Let me be. Let me blend in. Let me disappear.
Maybe it would be a relief to go mad. Maybe that’s the only sure way of not caring what others think. Maybe the only prisons we should be concerned about escaping are the confines of our own minds.