Our happiness should hinge on our efforts, not on the results. On what one gives, not on what one gets in return. Not on achievements per se, but on intentions and the nature of one’s desired ends. They seem to be the only true measures one can hold oneself accountable for. Every other criterion is beset with the inequity of odds. One does not have a say in choosing one’s physical and mental constitution. One does not get to choose the backdrop for this “Theatre of the Absurd”. It randomly differs from situation to situation – from life to life. … Continue reading Entropy of Words – on Happiness

اشک رواں ہیں،  رواں کارواں نہیں طلوع کیوں ہوا نہیں؟ اس رات کی صبح نہیں   تمنا ہے دھوکا، ہے قسمت حقیقت رہی اب طمع نہیں،  اس رات کی صبح نہیں   جو وادی کی آہوں کو پرواز دیدے چلی وہ ہوا نہیں،  اس رات کی صبح نہیں   ہے بےچینی ایسی کہ محفل نہ بھاے اور خلوت میں مزا نہیں،  اس رات کی صبح نہیں   کی تتلی نے ہلچل، یقینی ہے طوفاں کدھر؟ یہ پتہ نہیں،  اس رات کی صبح نہیں   محبت جنوں ہے، محب نے کہا یہ کہ عشق اور درد جدا نہیں، اس رات کی صبح … Continue reading اس رات کی صبح نہیں

Problem statement: We need to, every once in a while, maybe while sipping our coffee in solitude, ask what do we actually know when we claim to know something. These epistemological conundrums give rise to that Nietzschean abyss which stares right back at us. These questions can spiral down indefinitely – creating a feeling akin to an endless fall in a pitch black, silent void. This is the curse we humans have to live with. We have been damned like Sisyphus to a perpetual state of inequilibrium – the limbo between knowing and not knowing. It is the state between … Continue reading Prose

Let my words fly to their freedom. Allow this poem to defy conformity – Of rhyme, of rhythm, Of expectations, of meaning. Let it mock mathematical truths – Disobeying laws of thought By being neither exceptional, Nor abysmal, nor mediocre Nor grammarly. Let it make no sense at all. Let it just, like all of us, be. I am eager to sample words From a finite set, and arrange them Like the digits of pi, in an infinite array To exhaust all that can be Ever said. And then add a few more words About life, melancholy, nightmares And absence … Continue reading A Bad Poem