For every last bruise you gave me,
For every time I sat in tears,
For the million ways you hurt me,
I just wanna tell you this.
You broke my world,
Made me strong.
Messed up my dreams,
Made me strong,
It seemed that everything was searching its destination, as the rejuvenating beams sank in the saffron-shaded sea. The bright yellow colour of the large blazing ball slowly faded into a russet orange. After shining for a day, the gilded sun was finally, and lazily bidding adieu. With it, birds were also making their way home to enjoy a peaceful, sound sleep. They were flying across the sky; their streaming flight added beauty to the silhoutted fireball. It seemed the sky was now arrayed in a beautiful gown of orange-red with a faint glimmering of the stars studded on its hem. With the decreasing brightness, my soaring melancholy reached its acme. The same tradition continues__ the day was ending. The golden beams invited the silver ones to wear the tiara of sovereignty and spread its inspirational light.
During the late fifties there were two senior officers in the Navy who had identical initials to their names. Both were RU's. The first was Captian RU Bajwa, commanding Himalaya at Manora, the other was Commander RU Khan, commanding a destroyer.
In those days telephones were rare commodities in the Dockyard and at Manora. One day one RU telephoned the other and it turned out to be one of the most memorable telephone conversations of the Navy.
When the telephone rang, CO Himalaya picked up the reciever and, in the correct service manner, identified himself to the caller by stating his name instead of using the internationally unhelpful word Hello.
"RU Bajwa," he said.
There was a moment's hesitation at the other end of the line, then the caller said, "No. I'm not Bajwa. I want to speak to him."
"RU Bajwa here."
"Here or there, I tell you I am not Bajwa. I am RU Khan."
"Are you RU Khan?"
"Of course, I am RU Khan. Who the hell are you?"
"Are you deaf? How many times do I have to tell you__ I AM NOT BAJWA !"
This went on till the inevitable __ "SIR??!!"
The thirst for her blood drove me near her house. The clock ticked eleven loudly behind me, informing me that she was about to leave her house for a party. I had made a perfect plan to murder the person who had devastated my hopes; my dreams. Memories of what she had done swept me over like a strong ocean wave. With clenched teeth, I paced back and forth, desperately waiting for her. A quarter moon hung lazily on the swaying treetops. A single street light casted a harsh yellow glow between the black shadows. I glanced at the clock tower behind me and realized that ten minutes had already been passed. I looked at the shining blade of my dagger, which I hoped to be smeared in red, gleaming blood after some time. An evil grin spread over my face. I scanned the place closely to spot her, and finally I did. There she came walking slowly towards the thick, old tree, behind which, I was hiding. Strands of shimmering dark hair covered one side of her face. As she moved past the tree, I leapt out and held her tightly with a rope. I stared in her frightening eyes, took the sharpened knife, and with a feeling of immence hatred, I stabbed her with my full strength. She tried to yell, but I had covered her face. She let a groan from deep within her soul. She gritted her teeth against the pain. I stabbed her again with more ferocity, as her face reminded me of of my bitter, unforgettable past. I saw the colour drain from her cheeks. She closed her eyes and squeezed back the tears that threatened to fall. The blood streamed down her body onto the newly-painted pavement. Her breaths came in convulsive gasps. A gust of wind made the trees whisper the story of my success. The last silver streak of the moon disappeared behind the black cloud. The fog blanketed the town, turning the streets lamp into misty blurs of yellow light. It was all over. Happiness spread into my being as a smile came across my face. A deadly silence spread its cloak over the darkened night.
When lonely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentence to her lover,
And wring his bosom__ is to die.
This is my personal blog - extra emphasis on the word "personal". And I assure you I will write offensive things here, and I sure hope they offend you, but the fact remains, they are only my personal thoughts and my opinions. But in case you still have a problem with that, then you have me confused with some one who cares what you think.