an itinerant observer

Introduction In a world that seems on the brink of self-destruction, the profound question posed by John Kaag in his book 'Hiking with Nietzsche' resonates powerfully: "What are the possibilities for human existence in an age determined to annihilate itself?" This query propelled me on a profound journey of self-reflection, marking my ten years in Pakistan after fifteen years in the United States. As I immersed myself in the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche, I began to explore the realms of nihilism, existentialism, and absurdism, searching for solace and meaning amidst the chaos and ambiguity of the 21st century. Nietzsche and Rumi The convergence of Nietzschean philosophy and the teachings of Rumi, the great Sufi poet and mystic, is a serendipitous encounter that has reshaped my perception of existence. While delving into Nietzsche's works, particularly through 'When Nietzsche Wept' by Irvin Yalom, I embarked on a journey through Turkey, traversi...

T oday heralds the beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds  Regardless, the story must be told. Narcissus was fond of looking into mirrors, That perhaps comes as no surprise. But recently his attention had moved to photographs Unlike images in mirrors, photos didn’t talk back (as yet). What great photos! He marveled at what he saw: A plethora of well-dressed young pretty women and handsome men Smiles, frowns, joy, mirth, silliness. All captured for eternity “Ah! The unending possibilities of youth”, said his heart “But wait! Did you not notice that there was something missing?” said his head. For you see, there was a dearth of old people in the photographs Where did they go? Were they whisked off to someplace momentarily? Maybe a nursing home? One voice inquired, the loudest in the cacophony. His heart mused but for a few seconds and then kicked in, “More likely that the old folks have been relegated; To dark corners of the...

'awakening' from  numinous_flow  archive; artwork by Nadia Haroon T oday heralds the beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds  Regardless, the story must be told. Lately an inexplicable Iztirabi had taken hold Could it be because Shams had left the house? As unexpectedly as he had appeared, Shams was gone Like a will-o’-the-wisp. Narcissus felt like receding into his shrine; Unsure whether that space existed in mind or heart, he agonized. “Damn mind tends to over analyze and over think; it does not want to be simple!” Heart, disregarding mind, rejoiced; Like a child seeing a unique flower. Iztirabi, however, could not be ignored; it needed to be heard More often than not it was a voice at the back of the mind   Encouraging further exploration. He couldn’t let go of that thought. Had Shams not entered his shrine momentarily Narcissus would have stuck to his narrative about flying solo. Dark or light, uplif...

'awakening' from numinous_flow archive; artwork by Nadia Haroon T oday heralds the beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds  Regardless, the story must be told. The story teller’s subject: mere beads of sweat Forty years into existence, But only now the true story revealed. Sweat oozes out of pores onto parched skin more so at night, when the muggy, warm sea breeze Facilitates perspiration onto a living, breathing, seeing, smelling, feeling skin. Narcissus observes beads of sweat pile On the forehead , face, hirsute chest, nether regions Beads that communicate through a means as ancient as humanity itself. The spiritual aside, it's the physical connection of salty, hydrated particles That merge and pool in all and every crevice The trickling a potent reminder of Narcissus’ virility. Within that context of sweaty beads and beady sweats Conversations are had - fifty shades dark. Darkness that exists in skin, mind, and he...

Illustration / Photo-credit: Ansul Noor Scar Healer never far from the wound its throbbing pain dripping blood warming a being fast becoming pain Labourer embroiled in toil sending trickles of salted sweat titillating thirst tingling the pain of hunger satisfying the lust of oblivious exhaustion Seeker carrying a knowing of the destination its tangled co-ordinates locked tight in his throbbing bosom a chest of charms glistening treasure Lover hovering in flames of brimming fire, barely contained heat, pouring pain into a yielding receptacle awaiting to glow embers within Sinner locked in a Utopia of Paradise in veiled grasp, awaiting divinity, that instant of light which makes shadows real Healer never far from the wound its throbbing pain dripping blood warming a being fast becoming pain [from Narrative Medicine]     CREDITS : About the Author: Alya Mian is a psychologist a...

Illustration / Photo-credit: Ansul Noor Her Sister Your arm is draped Around her shoulder, Her weeping face rests On the small of your chest. She sobs and looks towards The cancer ridden remains Of what she thought Was still her sister. CLEAR. The body bounces, But remains lifeless. The doctor calls The time of death; Offers her condolences And ushers the staff Out of the room. She forces herself free Of your embrace And moves towards the bed; Her palpitating hands Caress the cold remains, Of what she thought Was still her sister. And you picture that moment Two hours back, When you stealthily Made your way Behind the bed, And managed to disconnect The oxygen tank From the corpse - That wasn’t her sister.  [from Narrative Medicine]     CREDITS : About the Poet: Dr. Taha Sabri , AKU MBBS Class of 2014, has  eclectic interests in poetry and the performing arts. He is ...

It’s only right that Manto would be the source of shattering my writer’s block - a heavy over 5-year-old block. Not being a full time writer nor poet, over the years I have dabbled in both writing and poetry. I practice psychiatry - a conventional career that pays my bills. "Ah!", you might say, "That is why Manto got her writing. That man had plenty going on in terms of mental illness". Perhaps he did. Perhaps, we all do. But I’ll come to that later. On a sunny Thursday meant to be an official holiday, I set out to do a morning clinic, before joining friends at a theater to watch Manto, the much awaited film. My familiarity with Manto had been of a passing nature. Growing up in the O’ and A’ levels realm, I felt a far greater kinship to the Bards, Brontes and Hemmingways of the world than to our Urdu maestros. A couple of his short stories read in my 20s, in English, hardly warrants even an acquaintance-ship to Manto. But the billboard that I passed ...