Photos:
Ameena Mohyuddin
Rails in Lahore
Digital Output
Summer 2011.
Neatly situated and carefully planned. These activities are making me drift. Composed oration and a dictated stance. How can you enjoy this? The lady on the train said it was unfortunate. But I think it's a blessing. Not the elation-revealing, but the trapped-in-your-mind kind.
And in the city I try to get a cab, they only pass by. It's a gamble in the afternoon, you see. The reasons for this heavy heart are here. When did this diabolic paranoia surface? So I think about the simple; oh it was. Even the moon over the silver water smiled. Now only complications weave their intricate web.
It is a routine of conversations. Coffee. News. And side-walked windows of desperate convictions. Sometimes I think of the lady on the train. Her silver hair and that sober skin. She knew it all too well. Yes, I hear you ringing the door bell. Leave the promises at the door. But you, you can come on in.
Painted on a canvas of perplexity, these eyes are black and brown. We are our own best friend. The hands, but yes, they tell a different story. Miles apart. Worlds above. And oceans across. The lady on the train, oh it takes one to know one, you see.
The ease of comfort. An oracular conception of the idea. Yes, it is oh so wonderful and it is oh so tragic to its depth. We are an abandoned epilogue of some torn book. Today, the morning, it feels like evening. Lets pray to the moon.
