grateful

to be here, to be alive, to have this, to have you, for everything.
We forget in our hurry and in our race for more to be happy with what we have. And I've come to realize how big of a problem that really is.

Restless.
I know why people stick around with old ghosts now. Or at least I think I might.

So.

My carefully numbered days at home are nearly over. The city that's part of my soul is still bleeding away, with temporary breaks here and there, but mostly just open wounds that we've learnt to ignore. 40 dead. 28 dead. 70 dead. Dead dead dead dead. Sitting at Hotspot and someone's parents call, telling them to get home asap. Shehr ke haalaat kharaab hogaye hain..
We take our time, so what's new? Finish our frozen yogurt, light a few more cigarettes, watch the smoke spiraling from the end of the burning cherry. Someone's talking about getting high. Someone else wants to go to the beach. Let's get drunk, are you mad? It's Ramazan!
I'm listening and watching, and every now and then I will add my two cents to a conversation that doesn't mean much either way, to anyone. We're all guests here now, going soon to run after a better future. But who's to say what's better? It's all so relative to these ideas of what you think is right and wrong. Things move along, change so fast that if you were to chase the past running to the present and try and catch up with the future, all you'd end up with is a stitch in your sides and not much else. That's how I feel. A little bit tired, and a little puzzled about how I got here. I do try to take out the time to find out why, but time is exactly what none of us have here. Too fast, this world, these days.

We leave Hotspot. The beggars swarm around our car. Lock your doors, they might try to open them. This is so uncomfortable, he's asking me for ten rupees, Baji aik sou pachaas rupay kaa juice pi saktay ho, das rupay nai desaktay? (You can drink juice that costs Rs. 150, but you can't give me Rs.10?)
Somewhere in the back of my head my conscience pinches me. But I ignore it.

And then we drive away.

countdown.

There's one thing this city doesn't let you do. It never allows you to forget. It's difficult, in fact nearly impossible, to block Karachi out. You can try, and I know those who have, but even in people's best efforts to let it go, Karachi holds on with a persistent grip that shows no signs of weakening. Not always good things, these imprints  belonging to a sprawling city by the Arabian Sea. There's the simple fact of lost lives turned into stats that increase day by day, almost challenging you to dare and do something about it. But you can't, and for that you can hate the city. And then there is the balmy summer night breeze- barely there, except in one or two gentle waves that wash over you and then disappear like they never were. Can't forget that either, but that's one of the beautiful things about here. I'm trying to memorize this place so that when I close my eyes in the middle of a winter I find impossible to comprehend, I can recreate this. Soon I'm going to leave again and home is going to turn into an idea that exists, carefully preserved, in corners far away from the mundane and the everyday. A thought to be drawn upon every once in a while, and hidden quickly before it dries out and shrivels up.
But it never does. That's why it's home.

We're still at the part where I worry about how my hair looks. And then after that, the rest of me. The place where you secretly steal a look or two in the mirror and wonder how long this will go on.