Tag: memories

Notes to People of the Past



Respected ____________,
You were right, I did it for attention. But it offended me deeply when you said it, when in fact I should have realized you were giving me an easy way out. Almost six years later I realize this and find closure. I’m sorry for the way I reacted. I am indebted to you.

Dear ___________,
I think of that day every day. It has been almost nine years I think. I’m burdened with guilt. The fact that I can never apologize sickens me. You were my best friend at that time. I should have known better. I hope you’re happy wherever you are now.

I forgive you. I know why you did what you did. I understand, although I obviously don’t approve. I forgive you. I hope you’re doing as well as you seem to be doing. I hope you understand my reaction as well.

Dear ___________,
I don’t know you anymore. I just remember your name, your face, the time we spent together, and the monkey-bar incident. I hope you think of me too.

___________, ___________, and ____________,
I was a child. You shouldn’t have done what you did. Every day I think of it and try to justify your actions, and I often succeed although I know it was wrong. I can’t say I forgive you. I don’t know if there’s anything to forgive. I don’t know what that constitutes. Just know, it affected me deeply. I would’ve been an entirely different person had it not been for you.


Very dear _____________,
All of us miss you. I wish I could’ve thanked you when you were still here. I have fond memories with you. I still haven’t thrown away your gifts. I don’t know if I ever will. You’re missed, but you don’ need to worry. We’re all okay here. I hope you’re in peace.



Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who took everything seriously. She was the epitome of a good girl. She was very intelligent, and confident in her social skills. Everyone loved her. She sometimes did outrageous things, and was chided for them, but most of the time she was a well-behaved girl.

In school, she was known for her extraordinary intelligence. Her teachers loved her. She always topped in all of her classes. Her school was satisfied with her performance, her parents were happy, her friends respected her, almost revered her. Then came a time when everything changed. Her school changed, teachers changed, courses changed. Her home changed, her friends changed. Everything she knew was no more. So to cope with it, she changed as well. The epitome of a good girl changed, and the change didn’t work out for her so well. Her performance in school lowered, her parents worried about her, and she had no friends to call truly hers. She needed to feel something other than disappointment in herself. Her company lured her to new ways, ways which distracted her from life as it now was. She was no more a good girl, she did things she would have formerly been ashamed of. She had her first crush, and wrote her first love letter. Her love letter was found out by relevant authorities, instead of the intended recipient and she was in trouble. She was ridiculed by some of those who got to know of it, and some others sympathized with her.

She felt very lonely at that sensitive stage of life, and was even more disappointed in herself. She began to hate her new self and wished she could be her old self again, but she couldn’t remember who she used to be. So, knowing nothing better and being very confused, she fell into her first depression. She was still a school girl, she was too young to be depressed and to know of depression. Her performance at school and at home depleted, she constantly felt like she was falling, or being sucked into an abyss and she wished she would hit the bottom of the abyss quickly. At least then she would get some stability in her life. She used to do this all day. She became a robot. She went to school in mornings, attended lessons absent-mindedly, returned home and went to bed. She thought of herself, her shameful acts, her disappointing performance everywhere. She thought of people, their sharp tongues and judging eyes. She thought of life, and slept in disappointment.

Then one day her depression lifted just a bit, allowing her to think with slight clarity, without judging herself. She went to school that day with resolve to live again. She found a confidante, poured her heart out and asked for help. And the confidante helped her to her utmost powers. Slowly, the girl regained power over her life. She began to ease out of her robotic life. She lived again. Her performance improved, and she felt lighter, happier. Barely a year went by before tragedy struck again-this time in form of repressed memories. The girl had flashbacks of forgotten ugly events from her childhood. She had new flashbacks every few days and knew what she was now remembering was the truth. And so she fell into a new misery. She knew what caused the memories to be unleashed, she had enough knowledge of human psychology. What the flashbacks reminded her of, was too big, too ugly, for a girl so young and naive to deal with. She fell into her second depression. This time, she was reluctant to get help. The memories repulsed her. She felt disgusted by her own self. Yet she knew she was innocent. And still, she hated herself. She stopped taking care of herself, and her health along with her performance at home and school, deteriorated. One day, her old confidante summoned her and asked her what was wrong. The girl just shook her head and left. She couldn’t let anyone know. Everyone would hate her, as she hated herself. She couldn’t bear more. At least in this depression, she had friends. They didn’t know what was wrong with her but she did get short periods of relief and light laughter with them.

An event at home, and several chidings in class one day, decided her future for her. She went to her confidante and told her everything. Well, she told her almost everything. Her confidante almost cried with sympathy for the girl. She promised the girl she would always be there for her, that she need have no qualms about coming to her about anything. She assured the girl that whatever happened was in no way the girl’s fault, that she needn’t feel such repulsion to herself. She told the girl her secret was safe with her. When the girl left her confidante’s room that day, she felt like a new person. She felt as light as a feather. Once again, she began living. Her performance improved, she became a happier person. The flashbacks did not stop, and the girl did occasionally get depressed over them, retreating into herself, but she always dealt with them in a braver manner and was soon herself again.

Time flew swiftly, and school ended on a happy, memorable note. The girl had deep memories associated with her school, she was sad at leaving, but she had learned everything came to an end. That was probably the happiest and the saddest fact of life. The girl went on to college, and made new friends. New friends had new ideas of friendship and one idea went wrong. It went so horribly wrong that the girl fell into her third depression. This one was more discreet, more concealed than the others. And it went on throughout her college years. This time, she couldn’t go to her confidante. But this time she had bigger help. She had faith. A wavering faith, but one that the girl held onto for dear life. She also had her confidante’s advice, and faithful friends. She had experience, and she knew what to do. So she slowly pulled herself out, and life went on. Her depression ended, leaving her stronger than she was before.

All this while, the girl grew as a human being. She had her dreams and aims. She had ideas on how to make the world a better place. She had a passion for fixing people. She had talents which she wanted to put to good use. Her dreams were a bit far-fetched, but the girl saw possibilities that others didn’t. Her life had taught her valuable lessons. The girl knew never to give up. So she carried on, and hoped for a good ending. Her story didn’t end there, but then, not every story has to be complete to be completed.

The thing about Diaries

Call them what you may; Diaries, notebooks, journals… The point remains the same. They are lovely things. I for one, am crazy about them. I’d post pictures here of my own diaries and notebooks if I had a camera, but I don’t, so you’ll have to just use your imagination. I love collecting them, I love writing in them, and I love the adventure each one brings to me. They’re sacred things, I tell you.  If you give me a choice between some awesome gadget and a wonderful, unique diary, I’ll most probably go for the diary unless need says otherwise. Why the sudden need to write about such a random topic, you say? Well I was going through my notifications today and I saw a blogger who had followed my blog, so I went to her page, and the first thing I noticed was her header image. So many notebooks. Go check it out.

The Notebook Collage
The Notebook Collage

See how crazy I am about them? I actually made a digital collage. I’ve honestly made only two in my entire life. And no these aren’t mine. Duh.

I have many diaries, some full, some in use and some saved for a special reason. The thing I love most about diaries is that they’re blank when you open them, and then you give them life with your words and drawings. All the possibilities of what I can do with each one… The suspense of what i’m finally going to write in them, how i’m going to start them…  And the excitement of going through them when they’re full and old… *sigh*

Here in Karachi, we have a book fair at the end of every year; KIBF. Karachi International Book Fair. I always go there with family. And since it’s always in December, which happens to be the month in which I was born, my mom usually buys me diaries or journals from this awesome stall there. They have wonderful stuff. And there’s a page on facebook by the name of life.twinkles, they have wonderful diaries too, customizable of course.

Anyway… the point of this post: I’m crazy about diaries(journals, notepads, notebooks, whatever)

Lost times, lost people

I have a friend. She holds on to stuff. To the past. She saves them and looks after them as if her life depended upon them. She doesn’t let anyone throw them away. Not even when her drawers have no more space in them. No, the past stays with her. I ask her, why? And she says, well she doesn’t say but I assume, that it’s because she feels if she throws the stuff away, they’ll take the memories with them. As if throwing them away will somehow lessen their importance. And even if there is no significance to the memory, if the object tends to make her even a little bit nostalgic, she’s keeping it. So you can imagine, all sorts of scraps of paper, and beads, and diaries, and threads, and buttons, and letters, and small things are stuffed in that drawer. Paper chats from school days, and college days, letters from friends, acquaintances and relatives, useless drawings and doodles by self or friends… Diaries full of offending comments by people, lovely text messages, amazing narrations of amazing events, memorable conversations with random or dear people… You name it, it’s there.

I find her habit rather silly. Because I believe we should let go. We can only start living today if we let go of yesterday. It is true that our yesterdays make our todays, but that does not mean that we start giving them so much significance that they slowly and eventually seep into our todays in ways that may affect our tomorrows.

I used to be like that too. Saving pieces of paper, tissue, and filling up diaries of events that may or may not matter and then save them, keep them dear to life. But I realized then,  that those things are only cluttering my mind and cupboards. That I need to clear space to let new experiences take their place. That I need to let go of people and make space for those who might actually matter. So I cleared up the boxes, emptied the cupboards, and threw away the useless scraps of paper. I am currently in the process of clearing my mind too. Erasing negative emotions is proving to be very hard. And letting go of people? Lets just say… It’s too easy to let go of some, and way too hard to let go of some others. And it isn’t possible to just tell yourself to hate one and love another. Not if the heart isn’t willing to. But that wasn’t really the point of this post.

The point is, it’s good to de-clutter.

December, I feel obliged to welcome you.


After reading so many posts about December by so many bloggers, I now feel obliged to write one too, even though ten days have passed.. So I decided to write about what December means to me. But… Now that  feels plain boring. And to tell you the truth, it doesn’t mean anything particular to me. Though it is the month in which I was born..

Anyhow, I wonder why December is given so much importance! Isn’t it just like November  and October? And January and February and March and August and June, July , May, April? (Have I got them all?)  Oh and September! They’re all the same aren’t they? They’re the months of a year. What is it then, that makes December stand out? Why does it mean so much to the poets? And to everyone else with emotions?

It’s probably because it’s the last month of the year.. And also because because it’s cold.. Weather has a direct influence on us, our moods and our emotions. So, I welcome you, December. You bring back with you some strong memories…

Vanished Memories!!!

Vanished Memories!!!.

This is a poem written by Tiny Toes, whose poetry blog I really liked… There’s a link to it on her blog, do visit. But this one particular poem….I can relate to it. I love it. Tribute to tinytoes.

The question that appears here is…… how to forget memories like these? How to forget painful experiences, depressing thoughts and memories? Well, one way would be to use the wonderful forgetting pills which erase painful memories forever and probably cost a ton. Or we could just not think about it or…get a therapist to do something. Then another question which pops into my mind is… Is it easy to just not think about it? No, definitely not. But maybe with practice. And enough determination. Then again, it’s probably easier for the people with magical memories which tend to remember only the good stuff, and forget the pain.

The questions don’t end here. Here’s one more. Do we want  to forget them? Or should we want to? In my opinion, no. As Moment Matters said in his post, every single  moment of my past life constitutes to who I am today. And if I’m okay with who I am today, I wouldn’t want to forget any moment.[ Moments matter 😉 ]. Instead, I’d try learning from each one of those memories. And maybe stop it from happening again with me, or with anyone else, if it’s too late for myself.

And even if I’m not content with or happy with who I am today, even if I don’t like myself, which I don’t… I’d still not want to erase them. Of course I’d wanna erase the really bad stuff which is seriously unhealthy and I think I’d have been a much better and much less disturbed person without it… But then there are some memories…which have some really good moments linked to them…which I do not want to let go of. Ever. Even though they didn’t end good. But still, no, I wouldn’t want to erase even the bad parts of those memories……. I’m very sure of that.

Writing soothes me…

I realize now why I write, or feel the urge to write, whenever i’m blue, nostalgic, or depressed… It soothes me. It helps me think clearly. It helps me organize my scattered and jumbled thoughts all knotted into a huge ball of  bits from everywhere into somewhat neat and relatively understandable piles.. And sometimes, it even helps me cry. Crying is good, you know. Not all the time though. Just sometimes… When we feel burdened with emotions and thoughts…. Tears help.

 “Writing is the best way to talk without being interrupted”. Jules Renard

When I write, I feel calm… I let my emotions go with what I write. There is no one to interrupt me, no one to tell me if i’m wrong, no one to tell me what they think! It’s just me, my pencil, and some blank pages…..

Through joy and through sorrow, I wrote. Through hunger and through thirst, I wrote. Through good report and through ill report, I wrote. Through sunshine and through moonshine, I wrote. What I wrote it is unnecessary to say.
Edgar A. Poe

I write down whatever comes to mind at the time, and i’m not talking about blogs. Blog-writing is different for me. It’s a serious matter. But when I write for myself, just my own self, if i’m too happy and can’t contain my feelings, or too sad or depressed.. I write down whatever it is that’s bothering me, I write down the memories where the problem stems from. I write down what I feel…what I think…It helps me sort out my thoughts… And after I’ve written m heart and brain, but mainly my brain, out on the paper…I feel light!  I feel like this huge burden has been lifted off of me in form of lead and tears…