One of my ultimate dream is to be a writer. A writer is probably the most free human. He can write anywhere, wherever, whenever. And create whatever he desires.
I love technology and programming. I love progress and what computers have done for humanity. And I loved almost every single job I had. Some of the smartest people I have met are programmers.
But sometimes, I just want to get disconnected. Sometimes I just want to sleep late and work when it is dark outside. And sometimes I just want to take a vacation for a few weeks. I haven’t had a vacation longer than a week in more than 10 years.
With this in mind, I am going to focus on writing. I am a horrible writer at this point. It might take many many years before I can publish anything. But I have to start somewhere.
I know it’s cliche,
but that’s the world’s way.
Sitting here in this dark cafe,
you are my dreams’ brilliant ray.
Because of you I wanna say,
Happy Valentine’s Day!
My name is Blue. You can meet me in the sky. Or you can find me in the oceans. Or if you are lucky, I might be in your eyes.
I am beautiful. Oceans are painted with me. I am what makes the sky perfect. You dare not come out of your homes when sky is devoid of me.
Because of me, you seek the vastness of oceans. You spend your life in small boxes, only because you want to escape into me. Every once in a while when you get lucky, you fly to a sandy beach. You look for a perfect spot. You set up your chair. Then you sit down and stare into me for as long as you can. When you get enough courage to touch me, you get up and you run into me. I surround you. You and I become one and everything gets perfect.
I give hopes from distance to lost souls in deserts; and then sometimes I disappear leaving the thirsty travelers feeling betrayed by their own sights; and other times I stay and save lives of countless hunters of fortune.
When they look at me, they feel calm. At least, that’s what I have heard. Perhaps I remind them that they can escape into me whenever they want to. Freedom is painted with me.
I don’t want to cover skins of brides on their wedding days. Nor do I want to be trapped in a darkness with a decaying body. While you show your sons with me; but I am bigger than that. I don’t want to be your uniform.
I shine in the biggest stars. I paint the biggest ceiling that surrounds you. I symbolize life.
I am Blue.
(Inspired by My Name is Red by Orhan Pamuk.)
Who is that is I
Still lost in my mind
Trying to find my purpose
When there might not be one
The first thing was writing
Can words truly change anything?
Why should I write
When there is so much noise
Are you in that house
or are you out here
I will give up now
This desert is just too vast
My voice will not reach you
Is this even a language
What is music when there is no rhythm
Why should I write
When I have nothing to say.
Feeling so empty, and hollow inside
Cannot believe I am writing a poem to a cigarette
but I feel so unsatisfied, unfulfilled
like this poem, half-finished.
In this hot desert heat
you were a cool breeze
gone in a moment just as you came
left me behind to wonder if you will ever return
to mess up my hair
to touch my thirsty lips softly
you were a sweet dream
vanished with the stars in the morning
leaving me to wake up in the blinding sunlight
to look for a shade where there are no trees
you were a beautiful song
which I cannot hear anymore in this noise
I tried dancing to you
but there was no floor
a wish which cannot be fulfilled, a desire which will never die
my hope was in vain but I held on to it.
you were a magic happened in a blink of an eye
just as a shooting star disappears in the night sky
you were a poem written with an ink
on paper left in the rain, washed away before I could read.
I translated this poem in my freshman year for my English class:
This is a world of miracles for you.
But for me, this is the world of chances.
The world of fantasies is poor,
But poorer is the world of births and deaths.
It is no wonder that your gaze will change it all,
The world of possibilities is calling you.
Mirza Ghalib was the one of greatest poet in the Indian history. I translated this back in my college days.
I look at the joys of the world, as I look at the dust. Crying used to give me peace but now even my eyes have run dried.
When I am dead, wind might take my dust to my destination. Because now I have no more willpower to keep going.
For whom are these preparations of welcome, who is this lover from the heaven? All I see is flowers, and nothing else.
My love has left me capable of nothing. Now I just wish to live quietly somewhere.
Asad, my poetry is for times past. It is useless to write, when no one understands.
This poem was written by my favorite poet Alama Iqbal. I translated it for a class during my freshman year.
“The view up here is the same as ever.
We are tired of shining and shining.
Our work is to walk, day and night.
Walk and walk and walk forever.
Everything in this universe is anxious.
Peace, whatever it is, does not exist.
Everything is being tortured by time.
Stars, man, trees, rocks, Everything.
Will this journey ever end?
Will we ever see our destination?”
“My friends,” replied the moon,
“O travelers in the field of the night.
Life happens because of the movement.
This is the old culture of this universe.
Time’s horse flies.
Because it is hit by the lash of desires.
On this path, it is not possible to stop.
Because death is hidden within rest.
Those who strived have left us behind.
And those who slept are crushed.
The end of this journey is true beauty.
It begins with true love and ends with true beauty.”
You are neither for this earth nor for that sky.
The world is for you; you are not for the world.
This garden is the place for pain and prayer.
Not for picking flowers or for building a nest.
How long will you stay in the Ravi, Nile, and Farat?
Your ship was built for endless oceans.
It was nothing, what we have made it.
We made it more, just for our fantasies.