How difficult it has become for individuals in Pakistan to adjust to the sensitivities of the numerous? Life has become a balancing act on a thin rope in a dark room which is not there. It is a torturous walk to a certain death. Nay! It eats into my vitals, but does not let me to die—once and for all. They want me to die in pieces. Like Prometheus, they eat my liver every day; but it grows back to be eaten again the next day.
How can I balance myself? My body and steps can respond to only one beat at a time. But there are many that shake my soul. Shatters my whole body. Confounds my mind. Sap my courage. And take away my will to step ahead. I want to freeze, turn into a stone just like ‘they’ have frozen time and space. For me, time moves but in a circle like arm of the clock. For them, time is standstill. Nothing has moved, nothing will move. The sun rises and sets out of its wont.
But I see their faces are frozen too. Like a mask that has no emotions, and it sends shivers down my spine. How can I trust people who garland the killer and shower profanities on the victim? Who reach out to the wolf for devouring one of their own primate. Don't they know that they are kissing the cold hand of the death? Look! blood is still dripping from his hands and he is frothing at his mouth.
He has tasted human blood. Now, nothing else can quench his thirst.
And look at the media! They are spewing more hatred. Instead of telling the story of the death of humanity, the anchorpersons and their 'experts' blame the victim and valorize the killing machine. Is it because the killing machine has got a beard? No problem, if he has got a warped and twisted soul like his mind--if he has any.
After all, the killing machine was manufactured by these anchorpersons. They wrote the script. They chose the characters. They directed the whole gory drama.
I am losing my balance. I cannot step forward--not even backward. And it is so painful to stand still. I can stop my hands and feet from moving. My eyes from blinking. But, I can't stop my blood from running in my veins. Therefore, I take one long plunge. To hell with death-mongers. I dare to say that the one whose blood turned the streets of the capital into red is a shaheed. The one who had a wry smile on his ghostly face is a murderer.