The wilting carnation hung its head down, bowing in humility…its petals thirsty for a single drop of moisture…its brittle stalk bending under an invisible weight and its leaves pretending to be alive…
I really think it’s time to step out of the time capsule I have trapped myself in. Each time I browse through my saved chat logs, my sent folder on hotmail or my pictures, I step back into time. My mind races to the times when that specific event took place, what I was wearing, what I was thinking, how I was feeling, the date, the time, the place…everything runs in front of my eyes like a vivid chain of memories…each firmly linked to another. As I sit and watch each and every contact in my msn messenger sign in and out, I’m reminded of the most random memories related to that person, positive or negative, or sometimes even both. During my conversations with people, I always end up saying “time flies” or “I miss the good old days”, both these expressions paired up with a long sigh of acknowledgement and longing. Eighteen years of my life-- each of them laden with rich clusters of memories, like a vine of fat, pulpy grapes, bending under the weight of fruit. I always had this thing for details. Everything in life was a souvenir to me, a tissue paper, and an empty ink pen, a broken pair of glasses, wilting carnations and outdated stationery. I heard people call me “crazy”, even sometimes a “brooder”. But I just smiled because to me my memories were my everything…
Often I sat down by myself and wondered about things. What things? The answer is “every single thing”. I found myself trying to answer questions that I never found the true answers to. I can still remember the way I used to sit down in my room, lights dimmed, door closed, letting random thoughts travel through my mind like a lazy whirl of smoke through a smoke stack…
Haphazard; a word that aptly describes what my eyes see. A mahogany desk bearing the weight of various knick knacks – colored ink pens, a pencil holder, a copy of “The Kite Runner” and “A Thousand Splendid Suns” stacked neatly over each other, an empty carton of a cough syrup holding a wilting carnation, a box of binder clips, a pad of paper-- all were visible evidence of the fact that I had been working and not sitting idly in the recent past. I can still picture myself sitting on this very desk and working out derivatives, balancing chemical equations and studying the parts of the endocrine system… it all seems like yesterday… Forgetting to give my chair its due credit for tolerating a load of 55 kilograms ever so often, would be highly unfair of me. I can still vividly remember each and every time I graced the chair with my presence and rested my elbows on this desk to ponder about things, in a way this desk has been through everything with me—guilt, sadness, joy, shock, or mere loneliness. Ironic as it sounds, the desk became my imaginary friend, my pillar of strength…
As I run my hand over the smooth top, I observe the intricate chocolaty swirls that cover the surface; each swirl telling a different story as if competing for the best story-telling award. My eyeballs have to struggle to follow the mischievous crests and troughs of paint strokes to observe the pattern. Each of those strokes of paint bears witness to the changing emotions in my life--the tumultuous waves, the rocky truths, the bizarre revelations, the dips in pools of memories and nostalgia, simply everything I went through physically or mentally.
Darkness. That’s what people see when they close their eyes. But I beg to differ. Whenever I close my eyes, I am greeted by a very warm flood of memories. Each memory struggling to catch my attention first, like a basket of tangled wool, each spool attracting you and so interconnected to the next that you couldn’t do without tampering with everything in the basket. I randomly choose a memory and breathe deeply. I’m taken to unknown realms of places that were familiar to me a very long time ago…June 5, 2006, Haji ads, ‘lights, camera, laughter’…Luqman, Nida, Fariha, Hibah, and me, the time when my sophomore year was just ending. June 8, 2006, Luqman’s graduation ceremony, nostalgia, longing, sadness, drama and such emotions taking toll of me. I remember everything. June 11, 2006; when I waved good bye to people, who meant a lot to me, with a very heavy heart. June 8, 2008, my high school graduation, how nervousness was in the air, how everyone was shivering in the long line of graduates as we made our way to the stage, how our blood-maroon gowns and blood-drained faces made the perfect combo. Everything, everything comes flowing back to my mind.
Old ticket stubs, photographs, chewed pencils, broken glasses, tissue papers with writings, torn diaries, decorated shoe boxes, used prepaid mobile cards, wilting flowers, a decaying leaf, notes passed in class, T-shirts, and old shopping receipts. I kept everything dear to me. Sometimes I feel like preserving the air around in a jar, trapping the ambience of a certain moment for myself to savor or look back to in future. Yes, label me as a fanatic. But that’s me and my memories. I often feel that my memories and my fondness for me stunt my emotional maturity, but how can I leave my treasures of good and bad behind so easily? How can I bury everything as if my life consisted of “lack of eventfulness”? I’m often left alone to ponder upon this. When I look at certain people, who I remember so much about, and see there lack of interest in the past we shared, it hurts me deep down inside. I am sometimes made to feel as if I’ve spun a cocoon of comfort out of my memories and that I have refused to come out and face the changes around me. But that’s absolute nonsense. I hold my memories dear, not because I refuse to accept change, but because I feel a sense of achievement when I look back and see what I was and what I have become. I hold my memories close, not because I’m a brooder, but because I feel that my roots and origins deserve due importance and grace. Alhamdullilah, I have had an excellent life, full of its ups and downs, but I had friends and family to pick me up after every fall. I had my God by my side to guide me to the paths that I never thought I could cross alone. I’ve come a long, long way and I am fond of looking back at the long road I have walked on, to think of the hurdles that came my way and how by the grace of God I surpassed them all.
I thank you God, for the immense treasures of blessings You have showered upon me. You carried me through the roughest times only to help me grow wings to fly free of fear and limitations in this world of Yours. Thank You, I could never thank You enough.
I really think it’s time to step out of the time capsule I have trapped myself in. Each time I browse through my saved chat logs, my sent folder on hotmail or my pictures, I step back into time. My mind races to the times when that specific event took place, what I was wearing, what I was thinking, how I was feeling, the date, the time, the place…everything runs in front of my eyes like a vivid chain of memories…each firmly linked to another. As I sit and watch each and every contact in my msn messenger sign in and out, I’m reminded of the most random memories related to that person, positive or negative, or sometimes even both. During my conversations with people, I always end up saying “time flies” or “I miss the good old days”, both these expressions paired up with a long sigh of acknowledgement and longing. Eighteen years of my life-- each of them laden with rich clusters of memories, like a vine of fat, pulpy grapes, bending under the weight of fruit. I always had this thing for details. Everything in life was a souvenir to me, a tissue paper, and an empty ink pen, a broken pair of glasses, wilting carnations and outdated stationery. I heard people call me “crazy”, even sometimes a “brooder”. But I just smiled because to me my memories were my everything…
Often I sat down by myself and wondered about things. What things? The answer is “every single thing”. I found myself trying to answer questions that I never found the true answers to. I can still remember the way I used to sit down in my room, lights dimmed, door closed, letting random thoughts travel through my mind like a lazy whirl of smoke through a smoke stack…
Haphazard; a word that aptly describes what my eyes see. A mahogany desk bearing the weight of various knick knacks – colored ink pens, a pencil holder, a copy of “The Kite Runner” and “A Thousand Splendid Suns” stacked neatly over each other, an empty carton of a cough syrup holding a wilting carnation, a box of binder clips, a pad of paper-- all were visible evidence of the fact that I had been working and not sitting idly in the recent past. I can still picture myself sitting on this very desk and working out derivatives, balancing chemical equations and studying the parts of the endocrine system… it all seems like yesterday… Forgetting to give my chair its due credit for tolerating a load of 55 kilograms ever so often, would be highly unfair of me. I can still vividly remember each and every time I graced the chair with my presence and rested my elbows on this desk to ponder about things, in a way this desk has been through everything with me—guilt, sadness, joy, shock, or mere loneliness. Ironic as it sounds, the desk became my imaginary friend, my pillar of strength…
As I run my hand over the smooth top, I observe the intricate chocolaty swirls that cover the surface; each swirl telling a different story as if competing for the best story-telling award. My eyeballs have to struggle to follow the mischievous crests and troughs of paint strokes to observe the pattern. Each of those strokes of paint bears witness to the changing emotions in my life--the tumultuous waves, the rocky truths, the bizarre revelations, the dips in pools of memories and nostalgia, simply everything I went through physically or mentally.
Darkness. That’s what people see when they close their eyes. But I beg to differ. Whenever I close my eyes, I am greeted by a very warm flood of memories. Each memory struggling to catch my attention first, like a basket of tangled wool, each spool attracting you and so interconnected to the next that you couldn’t do without tampering with everything in the basket. I randomly choose a memory and breathe deeply. I’m taken to unknown realms of places that were familiar to me a very long time ago…June 5, 2006, Haji ads, ‘lights, camera, laughter’…Luqman, Nida, Fariha, Hibah, and me, the time when my sophomore year was just ending. June 8, 2006, Luqman’s graduation ceremony, nostalgia, longing, sadness, drama and such emotions taking toll of me. I remember everything. June 11, 2006; when I waved good bye to people, who meant a lot to me, with a very heavy heart. June 8, 2008, my high school graduation, how nervousness was in the air, how everyone was shivering in the long line of graduates as we made our way to the stage, how our blood-maroon gowns and blood-drained faces made the perfect combo. Everything, everything comes flowing back to my mind.
Old ticket stubs, photographs, chewed pencils, broken glasses, tissue papers with writings, torn diaries, decorated shoe boxes, used prepaid mobile cards, wilting flowers, a decaying leaf, notes passed in class, T-shirts, and old shopping receipts. I kept everything dear to me. Sometimes I feel like preserving the air around in a jar, trapping the ambience of a certain moment for myself to savor or look back to in future. Yes, label me as a fanatic. But that’s me and my memories. I often feel that my memories and my fondness for me stunt my emotional maturity, but how can I leave my treasures of good and bad behind so easily? How can I bury everything as if my life consisted of “lack of eventfulness”? I’m often left alone to ponder upon this. When I look at certain people, who I remember so much about, and see there lack of interest in the past we shared, it hurts me deep down inside. I am sometimes made to feel as if I’ve spun a cocoon of comfort out of my memories and that I have refused to come out and face the changes around me. But that’s absolute nonsense. I hold my memories dear, not because I refuse to accept change, but because I feel a sense of achievement when I look back and see what I was and what I have become. I hold my memories close, not because I’m a brooder, but because I feel that my roots and origins deserve due importance and grace. Alhamdullilah, I have had an excellent life, full of its ups and downs, but I had friends and family to pick me up after every fall. I had my God by my side to guide me to the paths that I never thought I could cross alone. I’ve come a long, long way and I am fond of looking back at the long road I have walked on, to think of the hurdles that came my way and how by the grace of God I surpassed them all.
I thank you God, for the immense treasures of blessings You have showered upon me. You carried me through the roughest times only to help me grow wings to fly free of fear and limitations in this world of Yours. Thank You, I could never thank You enough.
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