So Satan Said

No,

I will take revenge.
I will go to your humans.
I will make them mine.
I will control them.
I will enter their minds.
I will penetrate their desires and I will mould them against your wishes.
I will occupy their hearts, I will rule their minds, I will make their souls mine.
I will suck all goodness out of them.
I will hypnotise them with evil.
I will deceive them in the sweetest ways.
I will mislead them in the most trustful ways.
I will attack them, in the most pleasant ways.
I will come at them from every direction.
I will knot their necks. I will blind their hearts. I will poison their blood.
I will consume them. From above, below, behind. From the front, and both sides.
I will addict them to myself.
I will threaten them. I will frighten them. I will love them.
I will take a million forms, and each will be a facade.
I will seem to them what they need, while being the opposite.
I will become their god. I will take them from you.
I will invite them, they will respond.
I will make them mine.
I will take revenge.

For they are clay, and I am fire.
I will not prostrate to them.
For they are clay, and I am fire.

I am fire.
I am fire.
I am fire.
I am fire.
I am fire.
I am fire.

Yes. And in fire you shall burn.

generic-fire

~Moniba.

“I take with me your companions”

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“I see light. Soft, soothing light which caresses me like a moist feather. I let it pour over me, and enjoy basking in it. There is this irrational fear inside of me, warning me to not get used to the light. After all, there is light in prisons too, but they remain prisons. The light there is a reminder to the inmates of their crimes, to remind them of their punishment, and to remind them everyday how nature plays with light and dark. I push back the fear, smother it with the lulls of false reassurance. This light is here to stay, I tell it. Foolishly, of course. No light ever stays. That is how nature has created it. Light is fickle, obstinate, shy and sly. It never quite goes away, there is always a small glimmer of it. It hides. It shifts its focus. It fluctuates and blinks. It dims and glows. I expected that. But then, all of a sudden, just as I finished patting the fear down, just as it settled; an eerie darkness took over. The light vanished. This time, there didn’t seem to be even a small, sad glimmer left. For the hundredth time I realized, light doesn’t stay. And that when it goes, it does not go alone.”

~Moniba.

 ایک پہلو، دو دِل

 

It.

[Intimacy]

Where are you, he said
Her mind echoed the question
To her Self.

Where am I, she said
Her conscience echoed the question
To her heart.

Where am I, it said
Her heart echoed the question
To her Creator.

It’s funny, she thought
How an external question
Reaches such intimate depths.

Humans fly

Have you ever seen birds fly? How they flap their wings and then hold them still mid-air? After having done their part, they let the wind carry them. Still they do not relinquish control completely. They control their direction, steer themselves the way they want to. Even though they depend upon the wind to carry them, they do not let it control them. Such intelligent creatures they are…

Have you ever seen humans live? How they breathe in and out, and let nature do the rest? After having done their part, they hand themselves over to nature and to fate. They relinquish control. They take a silver platter, decorate themselves with achievements and degrees, and hand themselves over on it to fate, for it to do with them as it pleases. Very few of them control their direction and steer themselves the way they want to. Very few of them step off the silver platter and make fate follow them. Of course, they depend upon nature and fate truly does control them. But isn’t that why they’ve been equipped with such intelligence and the right of self-determination? Isn’t that why they’ve been given a will to do as they choose? Why then, do they cower in corners, clutching on to fate’s pinkie for dear life? Why do they not hold its hand firmly, and steer it into the direction they want to go? It would follow. Surely, it would follow, for it has no choice. It is chained to them. It is not the other way round as humans have mistaken it to be. But of course, if the jailer hands the keys over to the prisoner, that is how it shall be.

They believe, while relinquishing control, that they are free. Why do they not scoff at their own naivety? The word “free” they have made up to delude themselves. They have tried to define it in dictionaries. When will they figure out, freedom is not to be defined? Because to define it is to confine it. And confining it goes against every definition that they have tried to place upon it. When will they realize that freedom exists only within themselves, and can not possibly exist in any form anywhere else? Within themselves, they have a funny freedom. They have been given a “choice” to be free. They’ve been given the choice, and then a permanent, overbearing partner called fate. Fate has been given a plan which it follows to the dot, which is why it can be overbearing. But it is also permanently chained to humans. And humans have been given a choice to be free. That is the plot twist. Humans have the choice to pull the chains in their direction. And fate, being its overbearing self, will always follow. It is a prisoner to these cowering creatures of high intelligence. It can be manipulated. Of course, it will still follow its plan to the dot, but humans can interfere. Humans can exercise their freedom within themselves. Humans can fly too.

~Moniba Mehboob

White Majesty

 
 
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Like a Swan from a duckling
She grew up into a beauty
And in all her white majesty
She became a heart’s desire
 
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The Walls

 

The walls of her room were devastatingly beautiful.

The girl was a mystery. When she was furious, she wrote. When she was ecstatic, she wrote. When she was despondent, she wrote. When she was stressed, she wrote. When she was lost, she wrote. When she was content, she wrote. And yet, writing occupied very little time in her life. Reality was, she wrote on her neurons; there she wrote, erased, scratched, and rewrote, letting only her mind know. She wrote new endings, better beginnings, and middles of her liking. She made every story, her story. She spent so much time nestled in her mind that often, her neurons had to push her out.
And that was when she wrote on actual paper. Paper was therapy. Paper was her solution, her ointment, her bandage, her balm. It supported her exhaustive thoughts when her mind could no more handle her. But there were times it failed to understand her. That was when she turned to the pencil, and worked it on any surface available-the soft graphite bore her thoughts bravely.

And that is how those walls came to be.

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