And so the journey begins.

Every winter seems Like the first:

I don’t remember the snow storms and

The early hours

Always seem new,

Never lived.

Eighteen years is almost the same as the intensity of gathering yourself after the severe unforgivable sufferings,

But yesterday I didn’t know what to do

With you;

I mean what does it even mean when people

Say it’s nice to just remember the summer days?

Love has no limits, life

Captured in minutes but I told her I

Was still proud of her

For being brave enough

To face the reflection of her shadow (so her intermediate self)

Which is essentially just

The tip of the ice berg.

Real time just resists us,

Sometimes confusing Because when

Love was resisting her, she

Couldn’t really tell that that was the face of


Trying to save her except

It doesn’t really try per se,

It’s still there

Waiting again for the right moment

Waiting as she cleanses from the attachments of sin/

is being confused a sin?

Realms and states and

Chapters and the falling of leaves

Left room for none except

Now was the time to

Renew the vows and

Dance in red and now was the time

To paint the strokes of



War and rage

So that when spring finally was given to her,

She made most of her last days of the physical life- in fact what does it even mean to preserve and persevere ?

The last thing she ever wanted:

And so the journey begins.

~By Maryum Khalid~

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