Saturday, December 6, 2008

"I am not young enough to know everything"

Sean: A Psychiatrist
Will: A kid who thinks he knows everything and doesnt need therapy.

Sean: Thought about what you said to me the other day, about my painting. Stayed up half the night thinking about it. Something occurred to me... fell into a deep peaceful sleep, and haven't thought about you since. Do you know what occurred to me?

Will: No.

Sean: You're just a kid, you don't have the faintest idea what you're talkin' about.

Will: Why thank you.

Sean: It's all right. You've never been out of Boston.

Will: Nope.

Sean: So if I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus about your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You're a tough kid. And I'd ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, "once more unto the breach dear friends." But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you... I don't see an intelligent, confident man... I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you're a genius Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart. You're an orphan right?

Will: [nods].

Sean: You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally... I don't give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can't learn anything from you, I can't read in some fuckin' book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I'm fascinated. I'm in. But you don't want to do that do you sport? You're terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief.

~Another scene from Good Will Hunting.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Monday, November 3, 2008

Intelligence Directly Proportional to Pain

"Nature shows that with the growth of intelligence comes increased capacity for pain, and it is only with the highest degree of intelligence that suffering reaches its supreme point."

~Arthur Schopenhauer
About Arthur Schopenhauer

Friday, October 24, 2008

You Made Me ...

You made me fall. Fall on my knees that I now kneel closer to the ground.

You made me gasp. Gasp so that I now know how to live with my breath on hold.

You made me desiccate. Desiccate so bad that my eyes are free of tears now.

You made me steady. Steady that I keep moving now even when i get nowhere.

You made me submit. Submit and let go of myself.

You made me get chocolate. Get chocolate for every person I know, almost everyday of my life.

You made me love. Love every other creature so that my love for you seems justified.

You made me dream. Dream every night to live it enough with you to learn to unlive it all.

You broke me. Broke me so many times that i gather myself everyday now.

You made it easy. Easy to say "I love you".

Sunday, September 28, 2008

How much i miss you....

For every caress of wind, that reminds me of your breath
For every join of my lips, that reminds me of your kiss
For every waft I breathe in, that reminds me of your scent
For every striking gust, that reminds me of your touch
For every strand of hair, that reminds me of your mane
For every spoken word, that reminds me of your lies,
For every silent spasm, that reminds me of your apathy
For every oblivion of sleep, that makes me feel your presence
For every spot of melanin, that reminds me of the ravishment
For every moment of pride, that reminds me of the indignity
For every ounce of happiness, that reminds of the delusion
For every lost success, that reminds me how you gave up on me
For every vanished ambition, that reminds me how I learned to not want you
For every truthful lover, that reminds me of your untruth
For every passing moment, that adds to my memory
For as long as im cursed with life,
I hereby tell you .... That this is how much I miss you!

P.S. This poem came out of me after watching the movie "Casanova" .... screwed haan ! :)

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

The Kiss

"The Kiss", one of my favorite paintings by one of my favorite artists, Gustav Klimt .... :).

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Yoon he chul diye

kyoon a gaye,
zor-e-jamal tha? mehz khayal tha ?
malamat kiye, phir grehn diye,
yoon he chul diye !

kyoon keh diye,
kay mazah tha? buss kalam tha?
na gumaan kya, mera maan tha!
yoon he keh diye !

kyoon suna chalay,
kay dil kiya? irada diya ?
na khayal kiya, main bhi saath tha !
yoon-he suna chalay!

kyoon chul diye,
na kahay? na sunnay?
sub liye, dard diye,
yoon he chul diye!

Sunday, July 6, 2008

What the Eyes don't see, the Heart doesn't Grieve over ? !

In all the languages in the world, there is the same proverb: "what the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't grieve over." Well, i say that there isn't an ounce of truth in it. The further off they are, the closer to the heart are all those feelings that we try to repress and forget. If we are in exile, we want to store away every tiny memory of our roots. If we're far from the person we love, everyone we pass in the street reminds us of them.

The gospels and all the sacred texts of all religions were written in exile, in search of God's understanding, of the faith that moves whole peoples, of the pirlgrimage of souls wandering the face of earth. Our ancestors did not know, as we do not know, what the Divinity expects from our lives -- and it is our of that doubt that books are written, pictures painted, because we don't want to foget who we are -- nor can we!

An excerpt from "Eleven minutes" by Paulo Coelho.

Maria's Understanding of Love

From Maria's diary, when she was seventeen:

My aim is to understand love. I know how alive i felt when i was in love,and i know that everything i have right now, however interesting it might seem, doesnt really excite me.

But love is a terrible thing: i've seen my girlfriends suffer and i dont want the same thing to happen to me. they used to laugh at me and my innocence, but now they ask me how it is I manage men so well. I smile and say nothing, because i know the remedy is worse than the pain: i simply dont fall in love. With each day that passes, i see more clearly how fragile men are, how inconstant, how insecure and surprising they are ... a few of my girlfriends fathers have propositioned me, but i've always refused. At first, i was shocked, but now i think its just the way men are.

Although my aim is to understand love, and although i suffer to think of the people to whom i gave my heart, i see that those who touched my heart failed to arouse my body, and that who aroused my body failed to touched my heart.

An excerpt from "Eleven minutes" by Paulo Coelho.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Of Suffering

Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one centre of pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes each dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose existence is ceaseless change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through thevines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms or strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know nothing.

Excerpt from "De Profundis" by Oscar Wilde

Wednesday, June 4, 2008


The smiling colour of a flower,
The clearness like flour,
Show me All !
BUT wait for my scar !

The path across the shore,
The leaf falling on the floor,
Show me All !
BUT wait till i fall !

The reflector of my soul,
The shadow of my whole,
Show me All !
BUT wait for my goal !

The screaming of a cry,
the hideout of a shy,
Show me All !
BUT wait till i fly !

The Silent touch of dark,
The horrid shrill of a shark,
Show me All !
But wait for my smirk !

The Ballad of my solitude,
The Happiness which has flown,
Show me All !
But wait for my honk !

The dribble of my tear,
The steps of death very near,
Show me All !
But wait till i live once more !

The blasting heart inside,
The restlessness of outside,
Show me All !
But wait for my ride !

The one for me,
The one i need,
Show me All !
But wait till i yearn once more !

~ Faiza Andleeb

This is one of my most favourite poems. Faiza was 13 or 14 years old when she wrote it. She would always bring her poems to me for corrections. When i read this poem i was completely dumbfounded. I stopped writing poems for many years after that. Because at that time it felt that all my writing endeavours would have been directed towards writing something as fulfilling as this. And my four years younger baby sister said some magical words and ended my sway with just this much of simplicity !

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Faith, an illogical Belief ?!

"Faith may be defined briefly as an illogical belief in the occurrence of the improbable. … A man full of faith is simply one who has lost (or never had) the capacity for clear and realistic thought. He is not a mere ass; he is actually ill. Worse, he is incurable, for disappointment, being essentially an objective phenomenon, cannot permanently affect his subjective infirmity. His faith takes on the virulence of a chronic infection. What he usually says, in substance, is this: "Let us trust in God, who has always fooled us in the past." "

~H. L. Mencken (1880–1956), U.S. journalist. Prejudices, ch. 14, "The Believer" (Third Series, 1922).

Saturday, April 26, 2008

The Art of Losing

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! My last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (*Write* it!) like disaster.

~Elizabeth Bishop

Monday, April 14, 2008

Ho Sukta Tau

Ho sukta, tau honay na daita
Jo hoya, ussay khonay na daita

Teray meh khanay main, dil kau doobnay na daita
Gur teray honton kay jaam say pya na hota

Na chaha tha, aur tujh jaisa khud ko mangnay na daita
Uss sukoon main, kaash khuda kau pukara na hota !

Ho sakta, tau hurgez honay na daita !
Aur jo hua, ussay khabi khonay na daita !

~Saira Andleeb

Self Ache

Yes my tenderness inflates, to see your eyes shine for me
Yes my integrity deflates, to look closer when I try to lean
Yes I sob, letting go of the fervor
But it makes me even by emanating firmness

Yes my piety arouses me, to feel your arms around
Yes my trust fails me, to feel a shrink when I try to give out
Yes it pinches trying to forget your warmth
But it makes me win one more breath, without a gasp

Yes my insanity soothes me, to see you boast for my wins
Yes my rationality questions me, to look around and find someone else therein
Yes it seethes me, to give up on the pride
But it makes me wiser than the one you tried to ride

Yes the air melts me, to hear you call out for me
Yes the reality freezes me, to sense infidelity as I try to decrypt
Yes it breaks me, getting out of your oily spells
But it makes me soar and feel my own self

Yes my passion unbinds me, to know that I mean the most to thee
Yes my knowledge binds me, to realize that it has all been a fantasy
Yes its hard, to open my eyes and forgive
But it makes me nurture my soul and know that I exist!

~Saira Andleeb

Sunday, April 13, 2008

All shadows disappear in the dark

"... Without stopping, she looked back but couldn’t see any feet making that sound. She made her feet race each other a little faster. After a few yards she turned right into another street. The moment she turned, a shadow wavered in front of her eyes and a rough-edged hand was posted firmly on her nose and lips. A very thin space between those rugged fingers showed the way out to her torn breath. A loud scream started off from her lungs, into her throat and then went straight into her head instead of coming out of her mouth. Her brain reverberated with that scream and she felt as it would burst into pieces ...

... Some moments never leave you alone ...

... Love did breeze through her heart once when she was in college. But it didn’t sail smooth since her boyfriend was more interested in short and sharp fists of passion than in long lived emotions. She would only give herself to a person who would sail through the troubled waters of life with her. That breeze of loving whispers turned into a sandstorm of arguments and she had to leave it behind her... " Read full story

~ Amir Saleem
(The worlds bestestestest story writer)

Saturday, January 12, 2008


"A man’s memory is bound to be a distortion of his past in accordance with his present interests, and the most faithful autobiography is likely to mirror less what a man was than what he has become."

~Fawn M. Brodie (1915–81), U.S. biographer. No Man Knows My History, ch. 19 (1945).