f Notes from the Underground: 2008
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Monday, December 29, 2008


I, Faizan Yousaf hereby declare that I do not consider my self answerable, in person, or in any form of direct communication, to anyone about the content of this site. Your comments will only be entertained via the comments section with each post. I do not hold any responsibility for the harm that may come to anyone. It is not meant to hurt anyone emotionally, physically or mentally and if that does happen I’m not responsible.
The content of this site and the views expressed are those of the writer, and are either fictitious scribble courtesy his own mind or excerpts from works of his guides in learning the art of novelist's craft. All characters and places are incidental and do not correspond to anyone living or dead – well sometimes. . .

when we are in love

How his memory was haunted by loss of trust and faith, it was not love he desired anymore. When we are in love, we are more in love with the desire than the desired but how slowly and peacefully desire had run out of him. The lust of human longing, the fear of dying alone all had evaporated without much pain and effort. He would seek fear and love, both of them, not for their known emotional and physical effects but as a fine frame in a movie, a good episode for a soap opera even an interesting photograph seemed more profound and worthwhile. For a week he had done nothing but lived as he had always wished, but it was not satisfying because it was accidental and this week of accidental pleasure did not corrupt rather infuriated him. He longed to loose the knowledge of his office, his family, his school et all his responsibilities. He knew what it felt like to be free from responsibilities but he couldn't achieve it no more. Living his life every moment, each step, all frames knowing and keeping in mind that if one day a demon cursed him with repetition of this life not just once but over and over again innumerable times – he were to still love it. I hurried through my last few thoughts because the lights were about to go off, and they did for an hour – One of the curses of developing countries. He wandered, as a beginner, into the tumultuous and intricate labyrinth of love looking for danger and play. It paid off. His first love did live up to his expectation of her being a dangerous plaything. Afterwards, the wandering was lost – he knew the valley too well for his roaming to be called wandering, and he missed wandering, he longed for his innocence. He felt as if he was broke, now he had loved and lost. He had no grievances over the loss of love it was even when he had still had it; it had become void of any discovery. There is one condemnable characteristic of us, which is of wanting approval and even applause of our fellowmen. What follows is unsatisfactory. He would often engage himself in criticism of all the people, young and old, relatives or unknown, lovers or deceivers, fools or engineers and most often of all he would criticise himself to the level of debasement. His fingers followed the guitar like they were made for each other; they wanted each other close and playing all they time. He was not even a two bit musician but he couldn't stop for the sake of going on; hoping for one sensible note. It came before it was too long, Nasir held his guitar high and head lowered over it like he was kissing every sound it made. He was ecstatic over his achievement that one note which made sense to him was till date his most valued production. This year the demon of night had befriended ghosts of winter, the season of falling leaves wouldn't end. He was scared and fell ill because of their constant influence over him. The doctor told him that he would die young so it was time to get to doing whatever he wanted to accomplish in his life. He was not at all troubled by the thought of dying young and early, in fact it was the opposite. What bothered him was the fear that he would fail, he knew it was not something odd to be afraid of failing in life so he went on fearing fearlessly.

fall from innocence

There is always madness in love, where there is always reason in madness. In this hour of calm indifference I confer upon my reader all that irritates me, as well as is known to inspire me. The intricacies of love and friendship are well known to me by the time I write this and, as it seems, my experience of both will grow exponentially in future. The thought which bothers me most of all is that at my tender age I have unearthed the mysteries that cloud many young minds. All beauty and treasure of love and friendship lie in its premature occurrence – that occurred a long time ago. I do not write this contended with my knowledge as an experienced lover of my time, rather this knowledge of Cupid's flowery and thorny labyrinth makes me feel loss of something profoundly beautiful.

A man is a hideous, yet artful, amalgamation of ape and angel. When I review my years I notice nothing but extremes of both – my early years were exemplary angelic contrary to my later beastly years of youth. I wish not to hide any crimes or to add virtues, if there are some few superfluous moments; they are owing to defect of memory. One of my first memories of awakening transpires from the time unmemorable. As far as I look into the abyss of my childhood I have known myself to. . .

Saturday, December 27, 2008

where's the bride?

What's odd is not there thirst to exercise their power rather their immaturity while trying to do so. They seem nothing more then amateurs: exhibitionists trying to cover for their lack of skill, professional knowledge and expertise by laying the blame on their subordinates. I pity them and I pity those who are their subordinates. Ah! of course the distributio of power and resources has always been beyond logic but this is ludicurous. Well, to keep the record right, you know, I insist that we stay clear on this one: the only thing fair about life is that it's unfair. Deal with lyfe as it is not as you thought it should be. 
What defines you is not what you are but what you have been till now, your future is nothing but one small, in infinitude, black dot. Whereas, your past is, and I repeat so that you can allow yourself time to let it sink in, your past is. It still is, and it will forever remain, a glorious and serence blur light connecting you to yourself, defining your being; your wishes that you have conquered, your hopes that were never fulfilled, your infinitesimally small knowledge about loved ones who have passed away tormenting each day of your life ever since for not giving yourself time to know them better, the accidents that have left scars on your body. There is a torrent of events, names, structures, noises, caresses and all that is felt connecting you to yourself in time and space through your past.
Silently, without making much noise, his voice trailed off to somewhere in my past and I could no longer hear him. All I can hear now is laughter, unbriddled and nonsensical laughter!

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

An ugly day

The ugly soul of this day wraps around my mind and shatters the insides like a deadly snake coiled around a helpless mouse. I'm having a hard time trying to write something that will just flow through but it seems rather impossible since times immemorial.
"Stop it! this is idiotic to the extent of infancy." He yelled within himself, "the infant, however, makes the idiocy seem surprisingly lovable. In you, my dear fellows, it is wholly loathsome." They have not grown out of the misfortune of childhood; unfortunately, for the one who have grown up there are consequnces after an action, and in this deliberately unjust world, it seems, I will suffer havoc because of their puerile behaviour.
There is not a single bone in my body which doesn't ache because of the constant acidic air I'm being made to breathe. Like, I've been hung to dry over a toxic river or as if it was acid raining through my flesh and blood permeating into the folds of my bones - hallowing my skeleton, churning the juices of life out of it.
After he had had thoughts of such irrepressible girth pouring out of him in a fever of resentment and insult, he could no longer feel his face masked with skin and his scalp felt the acids evaporate out of his head leaving on his skin hideous growths of intolerable proportions. He continued with his - infested? - train of thought with disgusting scratching of his scalp which left traces of decayed and burned out skin in his nails. Oh! how his mind must have simmered after being incinerated in the acids of jealousy, deceit and hypocrisy?


Monday, December 15, 2008

Old tymes

Although the font style for both previous posts is Trebuchet but still somehow they seem different. Well, I've it figured out - the post created in the blog has the font Trebuchet whereas the one written in Gmail is with the font Trebuchet MS, apparently that makes a lot of difference.
Anyway, while I was horrified by the reprecussions of my inaction I continued to do nothing about it. I was horrified. Who could imagine sweating in this season of harsh winters when vast fields of green, gardens of blossoming flowers were reduced to yellow ash after suffering cold burns? I forget when was the last tyme I felt my body perform its functions normally, but I'm sure that in past there has been a moment of such nuance - for nuance is what normality is.
The average man, I correct myself, the average cultivated man hardly lives a moment of normality. We suffer, as a collective conscience, from the disease of conciousness. I forgot which one, but out of many wackos before me, there was once a wacko who suggested that we could do without this overt conciousness. I believe in my times, we can do without most of conciousness if we presist in carrying this burden on ourselves then confused smiles, searching eyes, debauched humour and ill taste in our conversation will prevail.
There was a crackdown on drug peddlars, my guy also got caught in that fishnet two days back but was let out in a hurry. The crackdown is cracked. The fishnet is old and has holes in it. And I'm the mirror which makes you feel like a prom queen.


I write. I write that I am writing. Mentally I see myself writing that I am writing and I can also see myself seeing that I am writing. I remember writing and also seeing myself writing. And I see myself remembering that I see myself writing and I remember seeing myself remembering that I was writing and I write seeing myself write that I remember having seen myself write that I saw myself writing that I was writing and that I was writing that I was writing that I was writing. I can also imagine myself writing that I had already written that I was imagining myself writing that I see myself writing that I am writing.

Salvador Elizondo - The Graphographer

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Here's a start

Contrary to the popular advice by career counsellors I've not personalised my cubicle. Apparently, this will give my employers the impression that I'm not planning to stay or rather already have one foot out of their door. That's not the impression I want my employers to have.

Aite, now I've filled in the necesary forms and forwarded my requests for stationary to the Admin - apparently this will make my employers think that I'm a dedicated employee wasting the free stationary writing post-it notes to annoy my collegues, that is a vice versa strategy. What bull?
If you are going to live alone, ever in your life, with the idea of living alone for ever then what you'll need the most is a window. Not just any window, it must be a window that opens in the street. People must be able to see you not noticing them. That's only the beggining.