as if there is some prophecy that i am destined to be consumed by misery in every possible and impossible version of reality?

the weight of the sorrow from all these un-lived versions of my life feels physically present within the cells of my body, within each nerve and impulse.

perhaps, that is why my posture only worsens every year and I, at the ripe age of 17 years and 353 days, have terrible back pain and “circled shoulders”; as the internet would state, and then provide me with an absurd product disguised as a solution for it.

I’ll have to buy it to fix my back or, as the doctors of instagram state, I’ll have scoliosis within 5 years. The product in question costs a fortune by the way.

I’m not even 18 yet, i still have 11 days as the clock ticks to represent my descent into the madness that society has chosen to call adulthood. I do not have a fortune, yet (as i prefer to add). The generations before me apparently did not “lock in enough” to leave me the wealth i was owed at birth.

You know, intrusive readers, what i find most interesting about the landscape of the internet? it’s the ability it has to accelerate the worsening of existing social problems at a rate far higher than anyone could’ve ever fantasized. Maybe the influx of excessive information really is a problem.

I forgot where i was going with this.

Living in a brown household you really cannot expect to have the permission to sit at a desk without interruptions for over 10 minutes. It’s a foreign idea to a brain, the likes of mine. If it wasn’t so foreign, maybe I’d have cured cancer and built a 6 figure business like every other kid my age too.

But no, that’s just me victimizing myself. Pathetic behavior momina tsk tsk tsk.

Oh wait, i just remembered where i was actually going with my earlier train of thoughts.

Pardon me, for i am currently very busy listening to music with depressing lyrics and an annoyingly upbeat melody to keep the thought-generating demons busy in the prefrontal cortex of my brain.

Anyway, so as i was saying, the internet has aggravated capitalism SO badly. Advertisements are genuinely zi*nist in spirit.

Also, it’s funny, right? My racing brain with its raging comparisons and overwhelming fears for the future does show a lot of impact from the media i consume.

It really is the damn phone, kids.

Not that I wouldn’t buy another one with a better camera if only I had the money.

Why don’t I have money?

because the classism in the country that just celebrated its 79th year of “independence” prevails all financial need and ambition even in the big 2026.

I can’t work a job unless it’s something “respectful”. Who decides what is respectful and what is not? the capitalist gods and desi parents do, as they spend more time together in their toxic relationship with eachother.

See, I live inside my head too much.

I need to practice being present.

But presence would drive me towards insanity.

What would become of me without the constant stimulation of fear and a bunch of algorithms designed to keep me hooked on to the fear?

And here we go again.

To hell with presence.

i said ill post journal entries. here u have it. also i can never post at a normal time here. so lets pretend i dont care about substack algorithm and it can go to hell :)

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Exhibit A

Drawing room. Sometime between 8-11pm. The wife has, over the course of the marriage (15-25 years ideally), managed the household, raised the children, handled the in-laws, maintained the social calendar, and served to the emotional and physical “needs” of the husband throughout. Some incident has occurred. It’s not a requirement to specify what it is because that has never really mattered. The husband, half-lying on the sofa with his feet propped up on the table as he shuffles through different tv channels, talks to his wife who is standing at a side, careful to not block out his view of the TV and still trying to get him to understand that he’s made a mistake. He says:

“Mujhe afsos iss baat ka hai ke tumhein aisa lagta hai ke meine tumharay liye kabhi kuch nahi kiya”

Literal translation: ‘I have regret about the fact that it seems to you that I never did anything for you’

Formal Observations:

1. The use of the word “afsos”, which does not exactly imply “regret” in this scenario but would translate into “what a shame”. It is coming from a place of condolence with the entitled idea that the misfortune is the other person having the incorrect feelings about a certain situation.

2. “Tumhein aisa lagta hai” or “it seems to you” which entails how the subject of the apology is her perception of what he did, instead of his action itself.

3. “Kabhi kuch nahi kiya” or “never did anything”, which implies that the “apology” addresses how she thinks he’s never done anything, which implies that he has done some things, which implies that he thinks she’s being unfair. This shifts the focus on how, as it turns out, the real grievance is that he is misunderstood

A girl in her late teens is being pestered by her parents that she does not spend time with them at all. She counters them by addressing how her parents have always been emotionally absent in her life, how she cannot talk to them about anything that goes down in her day because it will just turn into another thing she’s scolded over, another thing that she won’t be allowed to do anymore because “we only want the best for you so you won’t be breathing outside anymore”. The parents start crying. Something like this then comes out of their mouths:

“Sorry beta we are not the perfect parents. Lekin humne apni poori zindagi tum logon par laga di hai, aur tum log ab bhi khush nahi hou”.

Literal translation: ‘Sorry child we are not the perfect parents. But we have spent our whole lives on you people, and you people are still not happy.’

Formal observations:

1. “We are not the perfect parents”; this is not an admission of specific failure. It is a general philosophical justification that no parent is perfect, which is inarguable, which is exactly why it’s been chosen.

2. “Lekin” or “but”; one word. The apology lasted exactly one sentence before the pivot. Note the speed.

3. “Humne apni poori zindagi tum logon par laga di” or “we have spent our whole lives on you.” The injured party is now the accused. She raised a complaint about emotional absence, after being provoked, and now is being held on account for her ingratitude.

4. “Tum log ab bhi khush nahi hou” or “you people are still not happy.” Still. The word implies a history of ingratitude predating this conversation. This isn’t the child’s first offense of asking for something more of her birth-givers, than just the basic rights of food, shelter and education being fulfilled.

Government minister, dressed in a perfectly tailored shalwar kameez and a waist coat, sitting in a press conference panel, with a bunch of politicians from his party by his side. The press conference is a result of multiple accusations and high court cases for money laundering, illegal assets, unfair use of power, sexual harassment/assault allegations by multiple women. The journalists ask lists of questions, but the minister of the state only answers a few which the politicians by his side decide are appropriate. The questions that attain the honor of being answered, are answered in a way that makes the journalist wish they had refrained from asking the question. At the end, the public apology arrives and it goes something like:

“Mein maazrat chahta hun agar kisi ko mere kaam se takleef pohanchi hou, lekin sabb jantay hain ke mere liye meri awaam ki khushi se zyada aur koi cheez matter nahi karti. Jo marzi aap social media par propaganda phela lein, jitney marzi aap court cases chala lein. Mera Allah mujhe jaanta hai, aur meri awaam mujhe jaanti hai.”

Literal translation: ‘I apologize if anyone was hurt by my actions, but everyone knows that nothing matters more to me than the happiness of my people. Spread whatever propaganda you want on social media, and file as many court cases as you like. My Allah and my people are my witnesses.’

Formal Observations:

1. The use of “if” when apologizing, implying an internal inclination towards the belief that the actions hurt no one. This nullifies the entirety of the accusations immediately.

2. Mentioning how everyone knows that the happiness of the public matters most to this person; that’s ironic, because of course we know. Of course the paradox in this statement will go unnoticed because you want everyone to assume that you only mean well. Of course your convincing act will blind the voters into thinking all the cases with concrete evidence are baseless accusations because we’re a nation of 62.3% literate illiterates, and the rest statistically illiterate.

3. Bringing up how God sees the true intention of a person is an excellent way to shift the final decision to the divine as you avoid accountability in front of the people. It seems almost like the narrative that “God knows I’m right, so you should also just believe that I am because I say so” is being pushed. But we can’t know for sure, right

   

   

   (reference images).

hey ladies and inconveniences, long time no see. summer break has officially killed whatever human spark cies may/june 2026 had spared. insane times, but we ball.

on a side note: i got published :) below is the link, go read if you can. thankyou.

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in each thread of time and fate, i find myself spotting contradictions.

the universe is vast, and we will always know too little

the world's coming to an end anyway, so let us not be bitter.

but as long as there's breath, vacuuming the space in my lungs

as long as there's ambition, waking me up at the rising of the sun

i shall persist in my quest;

i do not know what, except deep in my gut.

there is a calling.

a voice, void, or demand?

i do not know that.

perhaps a deadly sin?

the greed for more and more.

or just the hand i'll never hold.

fly too high and the sun will burn your wings

(don't you know of icarus?)

stay on the ground and you'll be buried with your dreams

(history's repetitive nature is rigorous)

the choice may even be yours, but watch how destiny procures

the strings of your soul, your eyes your lips your nose

God sculpted your frame, then gave it over to fate

you're a master of the art, a story writer about to be in demand.

make the leap and take the fall.

you'll feel the peace yourself.

when you make it out and far.

when there's no one left to call.

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its 10 pm on a random wednesday in november. im 17 years old and ive been 17 for a couple of months now. each of my breaths is at the brink of adulthood as i live the life of someone way older, but my body is still 17 years old and this is the only time in my life i am going to be 17 years old.

khair, it just hit me how my life has taken the shape of a circle. no corners and i prefer it that way because that’s unfair to the oneness of the centre.

now what is at the centre, you may ask. is it the act of pleasing God? is it God himself?

as much as my akhirah would love to hear that answer, no. its neither.

so what is it then? a boy? someone i love whom i keep going around in circles?

as much as a boy would love to hear me say that about him, its not. thank god a boy is not placed on a pedestal at the centre of my life.

well, is it ambition? is it my hunger to make my life big? is it the nights i stay awake trying to figure out what i want to make of myself? as much as i would love that answer, again no. i starve my ambition and my body. i act with inaction. i don’t know. i don’t know.

phir kaun hai? kya hai?

what if i told you that in all my melancholy and my sitting with my pain and my trying to process it but also in all my numbing away each emotion and my running away from self confrontation, ive lost the centre?

but how am i still standing up then?

“a circle is defined as the set of all points in a plane that are at a fixed, equal distance from a single, fixed point.”

there is no fixed point.

does that mean it’s a square? a triangle? that maybe life does have corners as much as i pretend it doesn’t?

perhaps these are questions i’ll need to figure out later on.

but for now please, let’s just pretend my life is a circle and there are no corners and no one’s standing in them.

let’s just pretend that my life, in particular, is a circle without a centre and that i’m a contradiction in the laws of the universe, a contradiction that will soon fall apart. only because that’s how it is with contradictions, as per the rule of nature.

i hope the irony is taken note of.

i like to think i’m important enough to be exempted from the laws of the universe though. i like to think i am a contradiction that exists just once.

an exemption that’s destined to fall. dramatic, cinematic.

forgotten, without the grace of a second thought.

disappearing in clear sight, either because im tongue-tied or simply because of the fucking smog.

it keeps getting harder to breathe.

december is just by the corner and a lifetime is coming to an end this year.

i cut my hair again but the girl in the mirror remains a stranger.

the grades on the paper are dropping faster than the temperature.

the brown in his eyes drops my blood pressure.

i dont fucking know the formula of this specific circle’s curvature.

it is so disappointing of me to post this mid ass piece, after such a long time of not posting, but im trying to prove a point to myself here so lets see.

A new city.

ہیں ہر جانب ان دیکھے چہرے۔

(faces I’ve never seen stare back at me.)

my chest tightens,

i struggle to catch my breath.

the pace of my feet quickens—

an effort to exhaust myself.

apologies, my disciplinary baba—

نیند کا نظام پھر سے بگڑ گیا ہے۔

(Sleep schedule is ruined again.)

کہنے کو تو یہ شہر ہے میرا؟

پھر آج بھی کیوں سانس لینا لگے سزا؟

(i say this is my home, and it is.

then why does breathing still feel like a crime),

and quite literally—

Most polluted city on the globe.

درخت اُگاؤ، لاہور بچاؤ۔

(plant and grow trees, save Lahore)

says a dusty billboard,

half swallowed by smog.

باقی اور کسی شہر میں نہ ہسپتال بناؤ

نہ یونیورسٹی، نہ کالج۔

جو بناؤ، وہ خراب بناؤ

اور بہترین تم لاہور میں ہی رکھواؤ۔

(Don’t build hospitals anywhere else, no colleges, no universities.

And if you must build, make it broken,

but keep the best of everything here.)

سرکار، آپ کا حساب ہے میری سمجھ سے باہر۔

(Dear government, your math makes no sense to me.)

It's not surprising—

but it’s still unnerving

how the rest of Punjab stays rural

as Lahore becomes unlivable.

گلی گلی میں شور ہے

(the streets scream endlessly)

but no one hears the girl trying to sleep

in a city that never learned how to breathe.

and despite it all—

it rains, and it pours,

we smile and eat our chutney pakoray—

our laughter echoes loud as we sip our chai's.

we learn to find the beauty in mundane—

or well, self inflicted doom would fit too, as a name.

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so let me narrate a tale, my dear audience.

you might need to hold on, a little tight.

here’s exactly how this story flows.

and well, goes on—but now, without a fight.

hopefully.

tonight, there’s a girl on the pedestal again.

She’s been spinning without pause—its been a couple of hours now.

this current performance is the last one for the night, and then she’ll go home and try to get some aaraam.

(rest)*

Where will you go? think, O Mohsin!

People, when exhausted, go back to their “home”.

But then comes this moment,

when she sinks to the floor, mid-performance.

And the breath of the audience suddenly comes to a halt.

You read and read and became a scholar,

But never once did you read yourself.

You ran to every temple and mosque,

But never once did you enter your own soul.

---

the spotlight flickers.

the claps fade.

she takes a bow—not asking for applause,

But only because, the show’s over now.

All my journeys ended today,

So what purpose is left for a traveler in this world anymore?

---

don’t ask why the show is over. It just is. Its gone now, done and dusted.

and this time around, shes making sure of that.

oh, how she wishes to just stick around.

this time around when separation comes,

a field of dreams is the only place where we’ll ever meet.

like dried flowers in a forgotten notebook,

that is my beloved, how we will meet.

eyes lined with kajal, eyes that enrapture every passerby’s heart tonight.

Spinning in such heels,that leave her taller than every other person she shrinks herself for at times.

Lips smeared red,

some say it is her own blood.

And some just regard her as besharam aurat and move forward.

(shameless woman)*

Whoever drowns in your love, oh beloved,

what good are this worlds hardships? they cant maim that soul again.

---

okay sorry, i keep getting carried away.

so yes— performance done. time to walk out.

no one stands at the door this time.

and maybe she’s okay with that tonight,

for the very first time in her entire life.

The lower I go within the depths,

The closer I find you, o lover of mine!

Maybe tomorrow she’ll wake up and write something tragic. Turn this into art as well.

maybe she’ll paint a picture on the walls— a rather disturbing one perhaps— but a picture nonetheless.

And then, more spectators will arrive.

Some will have a residence there; short-term,

And soon it’ll be itself again— the abandoned home.

They’ll leave her with another reason to make art.

But this time maybe, the art will be the wings she aims to grow.

maybe it’ll be the ground that swallows her— body and soul.

One who is sustained by the grand river’s water,

Why would they fear the waves of this world?

and maybe the cycle will stop here.

no more vulnerability.

that’ll be the lesson the younger generation learns.

but who are we kidding?

did we learn?

did our parents?

did their parents?

no.

Should the heavens relent,

should some wine be on call.

I wouldn't care, if every calamity

rained down upon me now!

---

So you see, point is—

they say its healthy to turn your pain into art.

But what they really want is for you—

to bleed for their own gallery’s wall.

The mess of you becomes nothing, but a facade.

Some semblance of a showcased art.

And for a while, you go along.

But then you remember,

this duniya is nothing short of a circus that we’re all a part of.

Leaving me hurt, my beloved does not return my affections

His love spins me around, like i’m a madman myself.

the dunya? its filled with spectators, and in urdu we call them: “تماشائی”,those who watch your misery and applaud.

and all they do, is just that.

because that’s all that they can do for you.

And that’s all we do too, when the tables turn.

alright enough, let me get this over with now.

tell me, oh beloved muse—are you watching me right now, this one time?

Tell me, does my pain look like an alluring piece of art—to you, tonight?

If we part this time, maybe we’ll meet in words—

claimed by someone else as their poem—and we won’t even correct them again.

---

the thing is—

tonight, i step off of the stage.

If we part this time, maybe our eyes will meet in a mirror next

with a fogged-up reflection, far beyond the reach of everyone else.

“To be a woman is to perform” But i think its about time we stop.

if we part this time, maybe even dreams won’t remain—

may exhaustion prevail and all your memories derail.

thankyou for your time.

show’s over now.

please get out.

Let it end, my friend.

all you ever needed was just one of the two Alif’s

and that is the truth of divine.

---

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the woman on the cover is Kubra Khan in “alif” as husn e jahan. i absolutely adore her character.

(gunahgaar = sinful)

when the blood is from Palestine,
when the choice is hers—not mine—
the world looks on, detached, unkind,
as her future’s tossed, her qadr maligned.

(qadr = fate)

And freedom wears a muzzle tight,
while justice dims, avoiding light.
her cries dissolve in the bomb-lit air,
as your flags unfold, privileged and unaware.

tell me—what good is your feminism,
if it folds at the sight of a hijab?
what strength does it truly bear,
when she bleeds beneath rubble instead of glass?

the dystopian world screams "rights" and "might,"
faking freedom with filtered light.
it chants of time and liberty,
but chokes when blood flows endlessly—
from Palestine, not some TV fantasy.

in the age of scrolling and design,
the world scrolls past our Palestine.
and “feminists”—selective by creed
whispering, “these aesthetics? they’re not my need.”

the IDF—a pack of wolves,
predators cloaked in polished hulls.
bloodthirsty hounds that roam in ranks,
saviors by name, but armed with tanks.
taught not to serve, but to oppress,
to violate, and to dispossess.

maybe we’re too Muslim, too brown, too scarred—
but maybe you're too cruel, too blind, too marred.

yet—
there’s tawakkul they can’t destroy,
imaan that won’t let their threats employ.
sabr witnessed by angels of the 7 skies,
oh daughters of Falasteen—you will always rise.
in your Lord’s gaze, you remain dignified,
while they wear shame, which they cannot hide.

(Tawakkul = trust in God)

(Imaan = faith)

(Sabr = patience)

a girl in Gaza, barely ten,
blood down her legs, walking again.
tell me—if that’s not truth and strength,
then what has your world lost at length?

this dunya’s no paradise, not for us,
it’s prison bars, a battleground of dust.
let the wolves roam now, unchecked and free,
but Hellfire waits for eternity.

(dunya = the material world)

Palestinian blood—it’s not just red,
it’s hope betrayed, and justice dead.
and feminism? a hollowed term,
its absence in Falasteen makes my anger burn.

(falasteen = arabic for Palestine)

let the world pen down all of its goals,
SDG-5, and your empty souls.
I’ll write of women who made wudhu in grief,
who turned their mourning into solely belief.

(wudhu = abulition)

let them chant their creeds in peace,
as your daughters pray, in the debris beneath.
they write their doctrines, sleek and proud—
but the sky’s well-aware, of whose prayers are truly loud.

they chant in chambers, and clap for change,
but your grief echoes in Heaven’s range.
and I? I write of women who—
turned heartbreak into their sajdah too.

(sajdah = prostration)

دیپ جس کا محلات ہی میں جلے
چند لوگوں کی خوشیوں کو لے کر چلے
وہ دستور، ہم نہیں مانتے
ہم نہیں مانتے

The law that lights only palaces,
That carries only a few to joy,
That system—we reject it.
We reject it.

- HABIB JALIB IN “DASTOOR”

this piece is not a poem. It’s not a manifesto either.
it’s a fracture—of what I once believed, of the four movements I once followed, and their failure, which i find myself now grieve.

because when a girl bleeds beneath rubble, not glass,
and the world calls it "complex" and “political”, instead of "cruel" and “crass”
i dont think i could call that true feminism, even if i was a western diplomat.

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(please do not mind my em—dash abuse by the way. its my absolute favorite way of humiliating chatgpt and asserting creative dominance.)

ALSO, 100+ SUBS ALREADY? you people are absolutely phenomenal. thankyou.