Of whistful smiles... heh.
Remember i said all we'll be one day besides sordid recollection is a hollow sigh, a whistful smile.
Well, i got that whistful smile. Two and a half years into residual life, I can now safely say i knew what i was talking about.
It was the end of an intellectually stimulating evening, I as the host was honorbound to see the guests off when one of the fellow participants, and an old acquaintance i had fallen out of touch with, came up to me and told me how much he loved what i had shared of my 'work'. He said he had no idea i could write like that. I preened like a peacock and thanked him profusely, i shook his hand and told him he was damn good too. Gushing, we both parted ways and it was facing his back that i allowed myself to think of anything but playing the gracious host. It was then that I let myself mull over the strangely comforting irony of a dear freind of yours praising me for an acerbic poem I wrote because of you, for you, despite you... whatever. It was then that the dryness coated my throat and i felt that strange prick in the chest, like a thorn you only feel after its out but never as long as its still sinking into your skin, muscle, vien. It was then that the whistful smile came.
Its a product of a lot more than what i had anticipated. I had thought it would be borne of just memories, but no, memories mostly cause regret and merely relief once in a while, they bring about the hollow sighs.
The smile comes from something else. Something that paralyzes you for a few seconds, that makes you question every moment lived since the one that changed it all. I don't know what that something is, but maybe its expereince. Maybe its knowing more now than ever before, its putting two and two together to find that no matter how badly you wanted it to be 5 once, its really only can be just 4. Maybe its surrender, maybe its victory... but whatever it is it hurts like a mothefucker.
But with that pain it heals.
I wonder if he'd love it still if he knew it is for you, i wonder if he'll hold you in higher esteem, as someone more than just the freindly chick with a nasty boyfreind far away. I wonder if he'll now feel that maybe the nasty boyfreind wasn't all that nasty after all.
I wonder if he knew, would he tell you what you meant to me, or if he'd let me know what i never meant to you despite what I so desperately wanted to believe.
I wondered behind his back as he drove off waving like a good guest should and stayed outside with the silence and the cold night air and the mosquitos to smoke.
He said he loved it.
I said i loved you...shrouded beneath the whistful smile.
I wonder if you'd have loved it too.
I think you would. I think you do.
Well, i got that whistful smile. Two and a half years into residual life, I can now safely say i knew what i was talking about.
It was the end of an intellectually stimulating evening, I as the host was honorbound to see the guests off when one of the fellow participants, and an old acquaintance i had fallen out of touch with, came up to me and told me how much he loved what i had shared of my 'work'. He said he had no idea i could write like that. I preened like a peacock and thanked him profusely, i shook his hand and told him he was damn good too. Gushing, we both parted ways and it was facing his back that i allowed myself to think of anything but playing the gracious host. It was then that I let myself mull over the strangely comforting irony of a dear freind of yours praising me for an acerbic poem I wrote because of you, for you, despite you... whatever. It was then that the dryness coated my throat and i felt that strange prick in the chest, like a thorn you only feel after its out but never as long as its still sinking into your skin, muscle, vien. It was then that the whistful smile came.
Its a product of a lot more than what i had anticipated. I had thought it would be borne of just memories, but no, memories mostly cause regret and merely relief once in a while, they bring about the hollow sighs.
The smile comes from something else. Something that paralyzes you for a few seconds, that makes you question every moment lived since the one that changed it all. I don't know what that something is, but maybe its expereince. Maybe its knowing more now than ever before, its putting two and two together to find that no matter how badly you wanted it to be 5 once, its really only can be just 4. Maybe its surrender, maybe its victory... but whatever it is it hurts like a mothefucker.
But with that pain it heals.
I wonder if he'd love it still if he knew it is for you, i wonder if he'll hold you in higher esteem, as someone more than just the freindly chick with a nasty boyfreind far away. I wonder if he'll now feel that maybe the nasty boyfreind wasn't all that nasty after all.
I wonder if he knew, would he tell you what you meant to me, or if he'd let me know what i never meant to you despite what I so desperately wanted to believe.
I wondered behind his back as he drove off waving like a good guest should and stayed outside with the silence and the cold night air and the mosquitos to smoke.
He said he loved it.
I said i loved you...shrouded beneath the whistful smile.
I wonder if you'd have loved it too.
I think you would. I think you do.
Comments
but here's the first thought that came to my head: isn't it funny how lost/unrequited love inspires much better writing than one that is fullfilled?
gabriel garcia marquez said it much better in 'memories of my melancholy whores': "the invincible power that has moved the world is unrequited, not happy, love".
No disrespect s
Is it much 'better' writing or do you like it better ?
I mean I donot know what is a better writing, but more popular is surely sadness. And you like them better because 'you' think those are better, you and the world at large. That is why Indian movies have a huge audience and urdu poetry has always been defeatist.
There is no better writing. People love those better to which they can relate to, and ofcourse you are relating to him better.
And it's wistful. No?
And I still love how you still mix up e and i's order in a word.
Good fucking post. What ruled, specifically, was the ending.
Reminded me of the iraqi comic, Walid Hassan [yes, they can still laugh] who was killed a couple of days back. He ran the only comedy show in iraq. At some point in the news article, the shows director said-- ""Since the program is a comedy, the laughter that will come out will be soaked with blood"
What was that parallel again?
Dunno.
Maybe you do, though.
:)
amidst the disorientation and jet lag...all i can say is..we love those who do not love us back in return...
c'est la vie....
:))
What always gets ME the most about Pakistani culture is how sophists end up believing that they're the answer to people's prayers even when they are merely sitting ducks that do nothing but bitch (that'd be an odd cross of animals) about the system. The next item on my hit-list is how while doing that, it's so easy to be embedded in the comatose superiority complex because there's enough food on our tables. Result? We spend too much time worrying about our own petty issues.
Like every destitute revolutionist, I began my queries in the dirt of the streets of my country - and that is where I place my query to you, Phitaymaun (is it okay that I call you that?) ...
To make an excessively long comment short - I'll let you know what I'm going on and on about .. simply asking you why you won't put this passion, this burning acerbic light that hits people through your writing ... and since you cater to a wide audience (never fear you don't have enough comments, I can see that enough people love you enough to faithfully comment on every post of yours) ... maybe what you'll say will make a difference in their lives each day?
Uff. You must truly hate me now. I have bent your comment box into a sermon and placed myself in the pulpit. Due apologies won't be granted of course - but I do hope you'll think about it.
P.S: thsi is hardly a commenton ure post, but im hoping u wont mind. Thanks. I gotto thank u some more, later.