When The Machine Of A Human Being

As A Writer, I Am Constantly Aware That I Take My Life In My Hands With Everything I Do And Say. It's Just A Fact Of Life. For Me It Always Has Been.

I Come From An Enormous And Very Close Family. I Have Over A Dozen Aunts And Uncles In Pakistan, Dozens Of Cousins. I Have Many Close Friends. I Have Received So Much Love In Lahore That The City Always Pulls Me.

I Commit Her To Memory. When I'm Alone, I Feel A Strange Yearning, The Hunger Of A Man Fasting Not Because He Believes But Because He's Ashamed. Not The Cleansing Hunger Of The Devout, But The Feverish Hunger Of The Hypocrite. I Let Her Go Every Evening Only Because There's Nothing I Can Do To Stop Her.

If You Have Ever, Sir, Been Through A Breakup Of A Romantic Relationship That Involved Great Love, You Will Perhaps Understand What I Experienced. There Is In Such Situations Usually A Moment Of Passion During Which The Unthinkable Is Said; This Is Followed By A Sense Of Euphoria At Finally Being Liberated; The World Seems Fresh As If Seen For The First Time Then Comes The Inevitable Period Of Doubt, The Desperate And Doomed Backpedaling Of Regret; And Only Later, Once Emotions Have Receded, Is One Able To View With Equanimity The Journey Through Which One Has Passed.

The Ruins Proclaim The Building Was Beautiful.