I Run in the Dark.

I jog, my path dimly lit by the luminous glow of the lamps on my right. I feel a cold breeze coming in from the ocean on my left. A haunting silence persists, disrupted only by the sound of my footsteps. I feel a euphoric sense of freedom seeing the track unusually empty and allow my mind to wander. I think about myself, analyzing my life, trying to figure out just where I'd end up. I wonder whether I would ever find lasting satisfaction or whether my life would continue to be marked by this complete lack of purpose. The thoughts in my head frustrate me because my worries aren't real. I know the source and solution of all of my problems lies within my own skull but I don't know how to be happy. My sense of euphoria quickly turns into a river of confusion. The thoughts in my head spin around in my brain and in my state of bewilderment; the only thing that makes sense is to jog faster. I run as fast as I can. I imagine myself running away from everything and everyone. I think 'If I jog fast enough, the thoughts in my head won't reach me,' but that's not how it works. My mind goes to this cold dark place whenever I give it the slightest opportunity to think.

I run till my lungs are on the verge of bursting and I can no longer feel my legs. I take a seat on a nearby bench, gasping for breath. I observe a child, crying at the top of his lungs, clinging onto his mother chest. The mother holds the child tightly and the child's loud cry fades into a light murmur. The mother makes everything better and I wanted nothing more than for someone to hold me and make everything better.

I rush home, craving the warmth of my mother's embrace and the touch of her soft fingers on my back. I am convinced that she can fix everything. I arrive home and run into her room only to be met by an accusatory 'Agae?' (You're back?) My heart drops in disappointment. I don't bother responding to her pointless queries and go straight to my room, slam the door shut and lay on my bed, haggard, frustrated and angry. I haven't slept in days due to my perpetual insomnia but my blood shot eyes instantly close when my head hits the bed and I fall asleep tangled in my emotions.

I've always had trouble sleeping for long periods of time and am surprised to wake up late the next morning. Although only a few drops of rain fell from the sky, the morning was as peaceful as the morning after a storm. I recall what had happened and can't help but chuckle at my own craziness. I dub the events of the night before as symbolic of my life. I'm quite literally running away from everything and everyone. In a month’s time, I'll be living in another city, beginning my first year of college and searching for the answers to the questions screwing with my head. I dream of red brick walls covered in a sheet of ivy. I'm finally excited.

If they saw who I really was, would they burn me alive?

They came towards him, carrying hearts heavy with hate. An army of two thousand men. Two thousand men who had long lost the innocent sparkle in their eye, given up their tears for weaponry and forgotten what it felt like to be held in the arms of their mothers. He was helpless as their blood thirsty hands pulled him out of his cell and set him ablaze. His screams of anguish were met by even louder screams of anger. They watched his body quiver in pain, fall to the ground and turn to dust. He had ripped the pages out of a book and they had ripped the life out of his chest. The madman, brought down by an army of madmen.

My maid wears a burqa every time she goes back home to visit her children in Orangi town. She says she wears it for safety concerns rather then religious beliefs. I understand that. I wear a burqa every time I step outside this blog. As long as I wear my burqa, I'm alright. As long as people are unable to connect a face or a name to this blog, no angry mob will chase after me. I still can't help but wonder: what if they knew? What if they knew about my views, my sexuality and my lack of religious belief? Would I be dubbed a madman and be roasted alive? Or is my burqa actually an oven of silence, where I slowly roast away till all that's left of me is a lifeless pile of flesh and bone?

I see the man in the picture and wonder if this is my ultimate fate.

Mob kills mentally ill man for blasphemy

Lover

We sat side by side on my single bed, with our legs stretched out and our backs leaning against the wall. We had been talking for quite some time. The coffee mugs that we held in our hands had long been emptied but neither of us dared to move for a refill. I felt this indescribable feeling of comfort accompanied with a tinge of excitement sitting next to him. We were out of things to talk about but that didn't bother us. Words were pointless. In a one hour meeting, we had reached a point where we knew exactly what the other would say so we decided to say nothing at all. We sat in complete silence just looking at one another.

I stared into his weary eyes wondering how lucky I was to stumble upon this marvelous man's profile on Manjam (The gay social network). He leaned in close and pushed his forehead against mine with eyes gazing down, examining my face. He then put his hand on my chin and pulled my lips towards his. I've been told that I'm a good kisser but he took total control of my lips and tongue and I was unable to practice any of my techniques. To my delight he knew what he was doing. He gently brushed his tongue against mine. I didn't realize how turned on I actually was until he put his hand down my pants and began stroking my already erect penis.

I had fallen back onto the bed and he now lay on top of me. He removed both our shirts and continued to kiss me. His lips then proceeded down onto my chin followed by my neck, followed by my chest, followed by my stomach and when he finally pulled my penis out of my pants, he looked at me, smiled and began jerking it. He then extended the tip of his tongue and began lightly licking the sides of my dick. With a sudden jerk, he took my entire penis in his mouth and I could feel the inside of his throat with the head of my dick. His head bobbed up and down and all I could do was moan away. I had to finally make him stop, worried that I might eject sperm into his mouth.

He then laid down next to me. He stared deep into my eyes as we both stroked our dicks. I was on the verge of cumming and the sight of his rugged face only accentuated my passion. It was too much. I closed my eyes and moaned in passion, fully aware of the incredibly sexy man laying next to me. I suddenly felt liquid being ejected from the tip my penis and landing on my stomach. I continued to stroke my dick with my eyes closed until every drop of sperm had oozed out.

I finally opened my eyes and saw the roof of my bathroom. I looked left and right in search of my lover but could only see shiny plastic walls on either sides of me and I realized that I lay in my tub alone, naked, covered in my own sperm. Why can't my fantasies ever turn out to be true?

The Sea

My parents laughed at me when I told them that I was going to sea-view McDonalds to celebrate a friend's birthday. They associate a McDonalds birthday party with Happy Meals and a manikin of Mr. McDonald and they claim that no one decent goes to Sea-View anymore (I wonder if by decent they meant rich). To be perfectly honest I wasn't too excited about Sea-View McDonalds myself, Sea View is infamous for smelling like the inside of a garbage can and if it were up to me, we wouldn't go anywhere near it, but I'm glad it wasn't up to me.

After having cut the cake, made a myriad of prank calls on behalf of College Board apologizing for incorrect SAT score distribution, bid most of the guests farewell and been sufficiently gawked at by the aunty sitting on  the table next to us, two friends of mine and I sat on a bench outside talking. We talked about all our frustrations as the wind caressed our backs and the waves kissed the shore behind us. I looked to my left and my right and I realized that I sat with two people whom I didn't have to hide anything from. They went through just as many emotional hurdles as I did, they could empathize with what I felt.

I turned around to see the glorious image of the infamous beach that I have tried to avoid as much as possible. The sand was dark and covered with patches of camel shit and the water a murky gray but that didn't bother me. It didn't bother anyone. Not the naked kid who ran through the water, not the pretentious aunty sitting on the table next to us, not the young couple sitting in the sand in front of us nor the group of burqa clad women who were riding a camel. Everyday in Pakistan, we hear about our intolerant attitude. Of how difficult it is for the different sets of religious beliefs, cultural norms, income brackets and racial backgrounds to co-exist in this country but by the sea, all those differences fade away. The murkiness of the water or the smell of the feces, the color of everyone's skin, the price tag of the clothes everyone wore was all irrelevant.

We were all there. Astonished. Everything is better by the sea. At that moment I understood what Stephen Chbosky meant in his book when he wrote: 'And in that moment, I swear we were infinite,' because in that moment, I swear, we were infinite.

I wonder.

I've realized that I'm obsessed with suicide. I'm not suicidal or depressed (currently) but I spend hours on end just thinking about what will happen if I were to commit suicide. I imagine that I'd write a note to the world pointing out the many reasons that lead to my suicide. I'd reveal my sexuality, my religious views (or lack of rather) and maybe even attach a link to this blog. I wonder which of my friends would show up for my funeral. I wonder who would cry and who would just show up for the free biryani. I wonder what would become of my family. I wounder if my suicide would make national headlines. I wonder if my suicide would be discussed on Capital Talk. I wonder if my suicide would mark the birth of the gay rights movement in Pakistan. Then I remember that even if I were to commit suicide, I wouldn't know or care about what happens on Earth. I'd be dead. Then I wonder if it's normal to be thinking about this stuff and I realize that it isn't and once again I realize that I should really see a therapist. I don't think I have a mental illness, just a load of unresolved emotional issues. I'm frustrated. I'm a free thinker but I'm sick and tired of thinking. I just want to be happy. I'm not happy or unhappy or maybe I'm happy and unhappy. I really don't know. I don't know much at all.

I met this old friend a few days ago. He said I'd become mature, I think he's wrong. I used to think that being mature meant having your 'shit' figured out. I definitely don't have my 'shit' figured out, I don't think anyone does. Maybe the step from immaturity to maturity is to just give up trying to figure everything out. I'm not mature or immature or maybe I'm mature and immature. I really don't know. I don't know much at all.

I should really stop this pointless wondering and just be happy.