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it felt so nice to be in karachi yesterday, honestly, there was this feeling that settled itself amongst the glowing colorful lights and excited hooting and high pitched screams. unspoken words about the beautiful win and night were reverberating throughout the city and i felt proud, proud of being a part of this revival of hope and this is turning into a really cheesy post but that feeling of pride and utter joy was only extinguished today by firing yet again. contrary to popular belief, we haven’t grown ‘used’ to it, it still hurts, still hits. it leaves us feeling insecure and helpless. i love karachi but sometimes, it haunts me.
“I’d like to collaborate on them, but they probably wouldn’t let me near them. Fab’s would be kinda gothic, a lot of classical-type instrumentation – like low-pitched choirs in the background, keyboards, and his voice would have a lot of reverb on it. Albert would have the most Strokes-style solo record, with lots of funny disjointed riffs, and the theme would be love and relationships. Nick would have a Motley Crew-meets-Blur record with high-pitched [imitates Bruce Dickenson yowl] ‘Waaaaaah’ vocals. Nikolai would have an indie, chilled out, [laughs] bass-driven album.” Julian Casablancas-2002
Albert would have the most Strokes-style solo record, with lots of funny disjointed riffs, and the theme would be love and relationships
This band makes me so happy.
(via latch-keykid)
You never thought places held significance. “But the geographical location or architectural design has nothing to do with love” you said. You were good with those big words, those technical terms. But you never realized that a place wasn’t all about geography or architecture.
You never saw the old man visit the same old cafe every evening. The one with the dim candles and the low ceiling and rickety stairs. He would always choose the small table beside the window and would order two cappucinos. He would stare into eyes that weren’t there and hold warm hands that had once existed. Those hands, if they hadn’t been gnawed at, were probably cold now, buried under rubble and mud and dead flowers.
You were too engrossed in your own life to have time to watch the little girl with the brown eyes and red hair hold on to the burned charred staircase that had been a part of what had once been her house, her home, her haven. She was calling out for her mother, sobbing, screaming, her hair a mess and even the people from the foster home who were there to take her with them cried a little. Later the story and a photograph of the little girl was printed in the local newspaper.
Your eyes also never got to see the young man stand in front of a small cottage that he would now call his home. After days of sitting on grey hot pavement selling flowers and running barefoot and after days of waiting tables, wishing more than anything that he could swap places with those rich men who left him only pennies as a tip and after days and days and oh, so many days of doing everything he had never wanted to, he had earned this house, this home and when later he rang his mother who had called him all those things all those years ago, she too, broke into tears.
You see, you never realized that when a place is inhabited by people, it is also inhabited by emotions. Emotions like love, like anger, like pride, like sorrow. Emotions we can’t put into words. And even when a place has been deserted, is empty- those emotions remain. And souls remain. And people remain. And they let go and they hold on. So you can’t stand there and tell me that a place has no significance, nothing to do with love when love is the very core of all these emotions and all these people.
And you feel like it’s over, everything’s over, your soul’s in pieces, you’ve got them scattered, you don’t know who you are and you can’t pull yourself together because you have nothing to pull with. No freaking hope.
Then sometimes you think you’re making a big fuss out of it because the world seems to go on and they’re happy and you see them laugh and you feel ugly because they look so beautiful. All of them.
Look at them, they’re so happy.
Look at those grins etched upon their faces.
Why do you have to love and hate yourself at the same time, then. What is wrong with you? What in the bloody hell is wrong with me?
No, I’m okay. I’m fine. You’re okay, you’re fine.
They tell you this will end. When will this freaking end?
And you keep on getting pulled to that one spot in your life where you are sitting in the corner of a library and looking at everybody and nobody’s looking at you.
