Written by Osman Khalid Butt is a twenty-seven year old actor, director, choreographer, writer and video-blogger based in Islamabad, and is also a self-professed struggling-artist stereotype. A journalism graduate, he is the co-founder of Desi Writers’ Lounge, as well as poetry editor and creative consultant for Papercuts. He has also remained a freelance writer for Instep, The News, as well as the Editor of the web-zine Text Teen, and wrote his first screenplay for the indie-horror movie ‘Siyaah’, which released nationwide in 2013. Though he has dabbled in television, TVCs and film, theatre remains his first love; he has directed four productions under the banner of his company, ‘The Living Picture Productions’, one of which he wrote himself. He has also collaborated with the Lahore Grammar School, Islamabad, directing three plays with its student body, and regularly gives theatre workshops across the country. He says he juggles all of this by drinking too much Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster for his own good. Read more by this writer |
once.we were there once. boymen playing games we’d outgrown a stitch in our sides as we shouted curses we saw condensed into angry fogs on a january afternoon just because. before we stopped counting losses on the tips of our fingers before we downed our espressos alone on a two-seater and made notes for conversation we’d use later to stay relevant on the pages we’d do our crosswords on before we lost our friends to convenience or white-bread apathy and our pen-drawn Neverland regressed into fourth-grade politics before we made ourselves up each morning carefully covering ourselves in white masks we thought would stand out in four-walled alabaster before our poetry and prose and words became the herbal tea of flavors and we turned a certain but indistinguishable shade of plastic before when I could speak in nominative singular pronoun and sip chai as I wrote of love and loss with unabashed strokes of pen as I restrained liquid poetry and it trickled down my throat instead before when I saw and felt and thought and wrote and wrote and wrote once more I was there once. hidden behind the bushes, pulse racing as I waited wondering whether I’d be caught and it’d be my turn on a familiar but forgotten ground of green and hope.
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