Written by Areej is a Saudi-born Pakistani citizen, now doing her B.A. in Ontario, Canada. Areej officially studies English and Philosophy but can be found at all hours gobbling up a book on something or other. While being a devoted DWL-ite, she is also (very much by luck, chance) a Poetry Editor at The Missing Slate. She happens to write poetry that some deem publishable, also by luck, chance, and in her spare time (if an undergraduate student can claim to have such a thing) she indulges in copious amounts of bad television and cheesy movies about kittens. Her favourite word at the time of writing this bio is "silly." Read more by this writer |
That Which Must Not BeThe likes of you are not meant for day. It is you – your kind that hinders the growth of all that is in existence, leaches from the earth all it has to offer, before dying a wasteful death. It is you – unable to live from one day to the next, to hope and love, to cherish and rejoice in the gift of what we all have received. It is you that bring us all down to where you are, in your little hellhole, unable to move, lay down, rest, blink, breathe. It is you, clinging to miniscule projecting roots in the soil, pulling them down as you attempt to climb higher, climb to where the air is easier to breath, the sun is easier to see and the rain is unable to drown you out. You exist, motionless, breathless, frozen in a moment that never shatters. A moment. That is all you are, that is your life encapsulated. You subsist in it, suffocating slowly, silently as time creeps – a metronome in slow motion. Your soul sings off-key to a chorus quivering down your bones, the only way to stop icicles forming within you. Soon, this too shall stop. You feel yourself begin to disintegrate into particles of nothingness – that which you were before you found yourself lost. And when the rain stops, and saprophytic beings begin to nestle in your flesh, you realize it was not the moment that was shattered, but you. |
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