In sickness, I wrote of health; in strength, I whined about ailment. Never once has one thing held true for itself, never once have I tried to embrace
What I had been offered for there was no satisfaction in earthly events. It was fabrication that revealed traces of concealed intentions and sweet deceit.
I await rains while the sky showered fire. I tried embracing the present but found myself lost in the realms of past and the maze with no end. The scars of subterfuge run deep. I now look at people with distrust, my mind and heart at war;
I wish I knew what I seek.
When Nawazish stops arguing and talks about writing….