Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…

Ash. It fascinates me. I believe in the principle many religions have in common…

From this Earth we were risen, to this earth we shall return. Form this dust we were sculpted, to this dust we shall return. Everything will, at its end, turn into dust and ash.

Everything will eventually burn itself out.

Even the Sun may, in a cataclysmic event that changes the course of the universe, burn itself and turn into nothing but a suspended cloud of glittering ash, hovering in the vast nothingness we call space.

Everything is volatile. Fate is volatile. One broken thread, one action, one word can change the past present and future of one or many people. Everything is flammable. And its burning is inevitable.

Everything burns.

With the course of time it fizzles out, leaving behind nothing but an acrid smell and a pile of ashes.

Everything turns into ashes.

Ashes. Are they not fascinating? A thing that was once alive, reduced to nothing but tiny particles. All the essence of its life, its virility, destined to be nothing but a grey mound. Is this why it is said that the phoenix rises from its ashes?

I believe it does. To me a phoenix is not a mythical creature, instead it is a metaphor that goes well with my life and I believe, every person’s, life.

Segments of our life start as sparks and gradually turn into small flames. We nurture and feed those flames until a bright, brilliant fire is lit. We bask in its heat. But, as is the course of nature, the brilliance of the flame slowly begins to dwindle. A wind blows. The flames flicker. Raindrops fall. The flames are about to die out. What can you do to stop it? Can you stop the wind that blows? Can you shelter the flames from the torrential rain? Do you add fuel to the fire? One day you will run out of fuel as well. One day the fire will burn out. And you will be left cold and bereft, staring into a pile of ashes and watching the glowing embers as they slowly fade into darkness.

For me, many fires have been extinguished over time. Some had water thrown on them, some became covered with sand over time. Some were stomped out in a fit of rage. And some just burned and burned without being watched over, and died with time.

I have never been able to add much fuel to my fires. After nurturing the flames for a while, I grow tired and bored.

I have lost many opportunities in the past year. Some I gave up myself and now regret, some were taken away from me

I have started many fires in the past year. Some remain lit, some have fizzled. All have been forgotten.

I have started many friendships in the past year. All have deteriorated.

I am, in this vast world full of dust and ashes, a lost soul. An alien that is seldom understood. Whose expectations can never be met.

A lonely existence is deadly. When you keep secrets to yourself because you have no one to share them with, when you yearn to laugh and wander about with friends, but can’t, when you have dreams that cannot be achieved due to circumstance or lack of motivation, when you have goals you cannot accomplish without support, you burn on the inside.

It becomes too much and you turn into fire.

And we all know what happens to fire; it turns into ash.

But from the ash, rises a phoenix. Beautiful, majestic. With wings that span the length of a room, with talons that can cut through the hardest of steels, rises a phoenix. Calm and wise, it spreads it’s wings and soars into the air. Alone, watching, listening, thinking, it observes the people it once called friends from its otherworldly view. It pays them no heed but turns it’s head to the Sun and determines to rise as high as that flaming ball on its own.

A new era has began. I am a phoenix, rising from the ashes of the last three month’s betrayals, broken trusts, lies and hopelessness. From the utter lack of motivation and passion. From the letdown of having no recognition of my talents whatsoever. From the insecurities that have been ingrained into me since childhood.

I have not lived on this Earth for almost two decades only to hide in the shadows and flutter about like blown ashes.

I must rise like a phoenix to blind those who doubt me with my brilliance and my light. A phoenix, a solitary creature, that does not require the fake support of masked hypocrites who only want me to turn into ashes.

For me, That day has not come yet. When it does, all will be earth to earth, dust to dust and ashes to ashes…

Thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. – The Bible, Genesis 3:19

From the earth We created you, and into it We will return you, and from it We will extract you another time. – The Quran, Taha 20:55

The Whimsical World of Naiha

I  came upon the Facebook page Weirdness by Naiha, by accident. And as all good things that occur accidently, my find took me on an amazing journey as Naiha’s drawings were not just good, but exquisite.

Inspiration struck. I wanted to write stories on her drawings. Her characters have so much depth that my mind could not stop conjuring up interesting scenarios and past stories.

In short, Naiha’s drawings are like my muse, if that makes any sense!

We tried to communicate but could not do it effectively. So I decided to just go on and write this post, because I will surely explode if I don’t!

Pakistan has so much talent and looking at these digital paintings, you will surely be awed.

I am going to start writing on a select few of the drawings, and will be posting them here and also on Naiha’s page.

And I hope all my readers will show their support and like her page, especially if you want more amazing art to come your way!


A drawing I really love. It reminds me of a more sensual, mature and modernized Little Red Riding Hood!

Oh the stories I can write on this!

What imagination…

Naiha says: ‘The Sentient. Exact origins are unknown. Once thought to be dumb because of the lack of speech organs the impression, however, changed quickly earning him his new name. Medium: The pencil’

The last one I’ll be sharing…

A taste of Naiha’s imagination. And combined with mine, let’s see what stories will be born soon!

The Reality Of A Dark Imagination

Fire breathing dragons. Tears of blood. Dark hair. Golden talons. Cold gazes. Eerie graveyards. A broody man with hooded eyelids and sinister blue eyes. He is exquisite. Dangerously beautiful.

A story is forming in my head. An epic tale. Of adventure. Of romance.

Monsters lurking in shadows. Screams echoing through dismal forests, resonating far and wide in the silent night. In this world, it is always night. Black. Even the moon fears showing its face to the evil lurking beneath.

Snow spattered with dark-red blood. A raven-haired beauty lying nearby. She wears a white vintage gown. Her wrists seep blood that flows through the lace cuffs of her dress and eventually covers the pristine marble gravestone beside her.

Yes, a new chapter. A new sketch.

Why is it that at times my mind conjures up the most negative scenarios?

There are days when all the light and all the goodness is sucked out to leave behind the dark and dreary shadows that threaten to engulf me in their arms like a vacuum.

A black hole.

There is a black hole in my head.

Most days it lies dormant. Peaceful. I think up stories, plots and drawings that are pure and happy and light-hearted.

And then there are those times when every thing is on fire. Every creature bleeds. Every human cries. Hearts break. Old wounds re-open. Time stops.

I am immortal. Living in a sinister world where every person rips apart my heart and soul over and over again. And yet, I do not die. I can not die.

They laugh.

Their eyes sparkle portentously. Their auras reek of perverseness.

They stand around me in a circle. Taunting. Teasing. Mocking.

Behind them a snow-covered forest is in flames. Trees tumble to the ground, turning into ash. A gazelle with water in her eyes runs from the wreckage of her home. Birds fly up in a dark cloud and screech, lamenting the loss of the sacred trees that once used to shelter them.

They sharpen their knives.

“Enough” I say.

I whimper, fallen, on the cold, hard ground. I cover my eyes with my arm. No longer wanting to look at the twisted faces of those I once trusted. Those I once revered. Those I once loved.

“Stop” I yell.

Their jeers keep ringing in my ears.

I black out.

And then, I emerge from my black hole unscathed. A new creature. A phoenix rising from the ashes. Wiser than before. Stronger. More wary of the darkness that lurks inside every person.

I hold my head high. My back straight.

I look into my tormentor’s eyes and say defiantly:

“I am happy”.

Maybe that is part of my imagination.

What is real? What is fake?

Am I darkness? Am I light?

Or am I the ring of light that shrouds a shadow?

And when did this apparent story of fiction, turn into my own soliloquy?