I don’t think vo log jin k bare me dunya itna likh chorti he, be it the merchant of venice or Qayum’s Semi or Heer Ranjha, they themselves are not that good. Its the writer’s own internalized grief, or goof, that turns an object disorganized and misshelled into pottery, poetry, prose and praise. God alone knows how they do it but … being the character of a story, the person in chaos, the piece of wood in the eye of the storm, being that idiot who loved or gal who lost or anything in between, being it, living it, is not romantic, is not heroic, is not philosophical or amazing or painful or any other adjective you might see fit. Its the goddamn writer, implying his own set of experiences on his characters, otherwise living their lives like any fucker would!
I should really get back to work.
Its 208am. Suba Lahore jana he. Sunday ko Pindi. Life in small cities is hr choti moti bat p bre shehr ka chkr. Ye b theek he. It will be my visit Lahore after 8ish years. 8 sal to yad he, college se pehle ka time ab yad ni he, pta ni kb gye the. Itna yad he k Badshahi masjid me grmiyon me bhagne ki koshish ki thi, boht gnda jhulsa tha per tb. Ig us k bad ab ja rha hun. Fotgi ho gyi he.
That’s that. Work was good. Suba msla hoga q k 36hrs k jagne k bad suba ka kam shuru hoga. Lesse.
Bye.
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