I groaned softly as I stretched after climbing down from the weathered jeep. The long drive up into the mountains from the airport in Islamabad had worked its way deep into my bones. For a moment I simply stood there at the outskirts of my village, listening to the wind move gently through the trees overhead.
I hang here sentinel, stuck on the ceiling,
An unsung guardian with no taste or feeling.
Yet every day I’m blamed for the chaos below—
The clock strikes twelve, and time begins anew, an hour granted, fleeting, yet infinite, too.
A people who trade humility for pride will watch their unity rot from within, long before any enemy breaks their gates.
Have you ever looked up from your work on a random Tuesday afternoon and seen nothing but gray? Not just the absence of color, but a deep sense of monotony and routine…
Thoughtful reads. Writing prompts. New pieces.
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