Poor Little Smart Boy

Photo: Sohail Anwar

His smile itself is an enchantress, his eyes two deep pools of the darkest coffee you make in December, amidst deadlines and impending vacations. "Two more days," you tell yourself in your head, "This all will be over and I'll get to relax."

His presence does not require one's planner to be empty and unmarked to cause any relaxation at all. He has a voice, mature enough to reaffirm his position but also boyish (like his smile), to make you keen in a very innocent manner. There was so much about him that my friends refused to understand, and I also think words fell short when I tried to speak of him grandly. It's not his fault that he is indiscernible and hard to be understood. Misunderstanding him is easy and comfortable, almost. His charm, easiness of nature, flow of thoughts, rhythm of speech; everything necessitated his being harshly judged. I don't blame others, but like I said, I don't blame him either.

His astute intellect and keen sense of observation are discrepant to his unmindful, somewhat ignorant unawareness. This is caused by his having gotten betrayed immensely, the sense that his sufferings are his alone because if he were loved the way he does, the perpetrators could not stand the pain they caused. Such impervious, impregnable attitude he saw in those he loved, now he only cares about building walls with the same features. The altruism his personality once entailed was cut off, like a limb degenerating so that it causes other limbs to die off as well, unless mutilated before it can cause the causation. Of course, his actions are never selfish. He is still as kind and giving as he was. He does not understand the lack of effort people exhibit to not scare away the one they're interested in, never gives any less than all of himself in everything.

He once said to me, "I want to see the best in people. If we all keep looking for flaws, will we ever grow to love anyone ever?" I have no answer that could contend his, in all honesty. He and I are somewhat the same. We both are tart-tongued, unreserved individuals who wear our hearts on our sleeves and are so eloquent that people think we never have any difficulties expressing our thoughts. Eloquence is a two-edged sword, whilst it helps you express whatever, you don't know how to not express something that may or may not have a fruitful consequence. You're sometimes alluded that your oratory skills will pull you through, but you know that is not how things always go. Really, there is no way to have a proper end that one could possibly be able to tell.

He keeps telling me he trusts me. He says he's never thought of anyone so close to his heart other than this one person whose existence he seeks in mine relentlessly. We were supposed to find ways other than the ones he is insisting us to take now.

He told me things he hadn't told a soul before, "Please, never tell anyone, not even her. I will tell her myself sometime."

"I swear on my life."

No matter how intimate our relationship had become then, it still did not pacify me so, for I wanted something different from us. The only reason his latter proposition hadn't left my ego bruised is because it put me on a higher pedestal than the former did. However, I still needed appeasement. 

"Be a good friend to me, that's all I ask of you."

"Swear on my life."

Then, we stared into the dark abyss, with which his eyes mingled before they closed for a deep slumber. I know, he wished that after he was awoken, he'd realise it was all a dream. He wished his, "I am an idiot?" statement would only be a small and rather ludicrous detail of his far-fetched nightmare. However, he must've been dejected when he finally woke up, unable to find any peace of mind.

He is to be saved; the way has to be merely figured out. Till then.

Aysha loves the bustling absurdity in her vicinity. Tell her what you love at zaheenaysha@gmail.com