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 |
The Color of Jaded
Overture: Sensation. The consciousness of Mortal feet treading hallowed ground, each step choreographed to the backdrop of silent symphony; perhaps borne from composition brought to life; perhaps a serenade of my soul an orchestra inherent, as I Witness midwives of fiction Birthing revolution, resplendent in robes of red and auroral light, My flesh intertwined with their world of paper. The First Act. A fabric veils my world and yours. A raised pulse speaks volumes of what lies ahead as I begin to lose grasp on my scripted reality A melodrama within another; Will these frail legs stand their own – but why venture in the world of rhetoric when the curtains have parted and I begin a waltz that lies, somewhere between captivation and lost interest. Act Two: Disillusionment. Spun tales of once upon a times, Recited in octaves both shrill and grave Resonant. Sound. But then your world is paper after all Blurred now, symbols foreign, in part liquid sorrow that requiems a lost friend in part hatred; at having to follow reality in her yellow brick road of mundane. And so it is this ode to the real you. Dissonance, Unscripted. This wood, cracked – Her stories will not mask the decay in her every pore – speaks more of you than A Thousand Acts. The curtain lies, forlorn fraying – Coward, you lay hidden in this mask of rouge for fear that behind the masquerade you are nothingness, after all, where – Even wind pauses before Permitting echo, no These words of defeat (Even they sound hollow.) Enter stage right, the world of the has-been The color of jaded A frozen mannequin. Fin. |
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