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life past self self-love thoughts

Why I Would Not Write A Letter To My Younger Self

I often read articles where the author imagines what advice he would give his younger self if he could send a letter to the past.

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inspiration life-lessons lifestyle-blog past writing

How To Get Inspired By Risking Glimpsing The past.Writers Can .Can You?

Positives and negatives both stand equally to benefit us in the present.

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life love lyrics past poetry

Song/Poem of the Day — Ancient

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fiction past personal-development reality time

When It Stopped Moving

It takes time to realize it’s time to get moving.

Photo by Peter Geo on Unsplash

The three of them hang silently still, and all I can do is silently stare.

I never paid much attention to it. I always assumed that it would never stop moving — or, at least, not for a very long while. It was only a few hours ago that I looked over and realized that it is not moving as it was before. (Although it feels like it’s been a couple hours, I really don’t know how much time has passed — or if any has passed at all, for that matter.)

I have done nothing but watch and wait for the three of them to move, yet not a single one of them do. Since when did it stop? 6 hours 18 minutes 14 seconds, it shows — but is it at 6 hours 18 minutes 14 seconds today? Yesterday? Last week? 6 hours 18 minutes 14 seconds in the morning? At night?

These questions are disrupted by my decision to grab and move it myself. I pick it up and change the time — I place my hand over the knob at the back and begin to twist it. One of the hands starts to move anti-clockwise as the shorter one slowly follows, without hurry.

This goes on for some time, until it suddenly sets off into blistering rattle. The chiming of the tiny bells reverberates within the space and surrounds me as I fumble to bring it to an end. The vibrations are causing it to move uncontrollably, and I cannot make it stop.

This goes on for some more time, until it suddenly stops moving. I hold the clock — a white, antiquated alarm clock — in the palms of my hands as I stare again at the three hands. All is silently still.

Uncertain as to whether I should be relieved or disappointed, I place the clock back to where it sat before — back to where it sat when it stopped moving.

It’s time for me to get a new one, I guess.

More by marz20k in ILLUMINATION


When It Stopped Moving was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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deception future lessons-learned past reflections

Whilst Growing Up, Be Wary of Pleasure Island

If there are moments in my life where I think of my naivety, reels of the past will pop up in my mind and it makes for interesting viewing

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dreams life-lessons past poetry spirituality

Scars

Our scars are proof that we didn’t dream our lives

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beach memories past places poetry

Beachy Memories

A poem for the places in your life that bring up long-buried memories when revisited

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creative-writing heritage memoir nostalgia past

From Dibai to Karachi

A brief memoir of my heritage

Photo courtesy: Tourism India

I was born in Karachi, Pakistan, but my roots belong to a small town, Dibai in Bulandshahr, Uttar Pradesh, India. I never got a chance to visit the place, but I have heard many interesting stories from my elders. Gandhi and I were born on the same day, October 2nd. The only characteristics we share are sexual frustration, anorexia and a deep need to realise Truth. I’m not sure if those 3 are related in any way.

My birth, just like the partition of India, was no coincidence, in fact, I believe it was a great conspiracy of angels and Jinn (demons). It’s not necessary that Jews are behind every strange event that occurs in the world, as many people in the Muslim society like to believe. If the Jinn were Jewish, then that’s another story. How my ancestors left everything behind and migrated to Karachi, was indeed a painful journey. All that struggle lead to my creation. It was agonising yet liberating, for us Mohajir (migrants)

I was an extremely lethargic child. While eating, I would place the bite on the corner of mouth like naswar (tobacco snuff) and lose myself in my dream world. It seemed as if I was stuck in limbo. Sometimes, flies would start roaming around my mouth, celebrating my death, and suddenly, I would wake up, distracted by their buzzing, leaving them disappointed, otherwise, my parents would snap me out of my trance, just before the food would begin to decay. This is how I grew up, mostly day dreaming. You can imagine how my childhood must have been. If you can’t get a clear picture, then please allow me to explain further.

In the early 90s, I came to my senses, and found myself in Nanoo’s (grandmother) house in Sea View Apartments. We used to live in a joint family, and it was quite a violent household, with everyone arguing and fighting. Some one would either pull the other person’s hair or you would hear them cursing. Things would hardly be fine. If it was quiet, it was most likely because they were ignoring each other.

Besides neurosis, we all had a disease called TV. No, that’s not an abbreviation for “too-much violence”, it’s the original term, television. This common but non-threatening condition had no cure, back then. It made us all sit together in front of a huge box with an antenna. We would all be mesmerised by the transmission on the screen. Every weekend, my aunt and cousins would join us, and we would watch our favourite show, Alpha, Bravo, Charlie.

Grief runs in our blood, since we belong to a Shia Muslim family. That explains the lack of peace. The noise of my dysfunctional childhood still echoes in my mind. But sometimes, a curse can also be a blessing in disguise.

In the last 31 years, there hasn’t been any struggle or tragedy in my life. Like any other person, I carry the burden of my past. I too have suffered from loss and heart break, but life has its mysterious ways of healing you.

They say, if you want to make God laugh, then tell him about your plans.”


From Dibai to Karachi was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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books past peace present writing

The Day I Started Making Peace with My Tragic Past

Not hiding nor denying it anymore: it was traumatic!

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blueprint future illumination lessons-learned past

A Map of the Past

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