sat down to finally write the short story i have been wanting to tell for years, but somehow all i can think about is how my neighbor just got published and i still have this pile of drafts that just collect dust, its like why even try when the world feels like a closed door and my motivation slipped out when i wasn't looking.
کیا کروں یار، بچپن میں گھر والے بولے کہ سب ٹھیک ہے، لیکن پھر عمر بڑھتی گئی اور ہر چھوٹی بات بڑی لگنے لگی۔ کسی کو پتا نہیں تھا کہ کچھ چیزیں ہمیں ہمیشہ بوجھل کرتی ہیں، بھلے ہی خاندان کی عزت قائم رہے۔
sometimes i catch myself standing in the kitchen, looking at the cupboard and feeling this weird emptiness, like i know i should be cooking something but all i can think about is that weird cactus plant i accidentally named and then never watered so it kind of died and i let it go but it was so dumb but somehow it stuck with me, weird how that works
sometimes i catch myself standing in the kitchen, looking at the cupboard and feeling this weird emptiness, like i know i should be cooking something but all i can think about is that weird cactus plant i accidentally named and then never watered so it kind of died and i let it go but it was so dumb but somehow it stuck with me, weird how that works
so there i was, freshly released from a facility thinking i was gonna start fresh but the only thing i got was a pink slip from my job for “abandonment” while they had me in a place figuring out how to exist again, guess their idea of self-care is taking a long lunch break on my whole life.