f Notes from the Underground: 12/28/08 - 1/4/09
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Monday, December 29, 2008

Disclaimer

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. . .