Whenever I hear the name of Kashmir, a myriad of emotions fill me, seldom good. A little-known fact about myself — I am part Kashmiri from my fathers’ side. What little Kashmiri blood I possess that courses through my veins is blood that I am deeply proud of. Yet that same blood is more often than not, brought to a boil when Kashmir’s name rings through my ears...
The most peculiar thing just happened. Extremely sad but peculiar nonetheless. Earlier today as I was leaving my apartment in Amsterdam, I played ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” on Spotify — indeed, it is the last song I searched for. For those who don’t know, they’re that rock band with the two dudes with insanely long bushy beards.
On July 6th 2020, I graduated from university - not in a fancy hall accompanied by a lavish ceremony, but quietly in my dorm room in Amsterdam. No red carpets welcomed me to the end of this journey, they were replaced by the pixels of my computer screen - projecting some semblance of a hastily put-together graduation that was live on YouTube. Courtesy of the Coronavirus, I was unfortunate enough to graduate during the one year they didn’t have graduations in 100 years...
In the entirety of human history, how many individuals have prayed for the salvation of the being that arguably needed it the utmost? Satanists certainly will have (perhaps), to an extent — but it is unclear if, in their hearts, they are praying for him or to him. And yes, there is a distinction. That distinction is the fine line between Satanists and people genuinely sympathetic or empathetic towards the Devil’s plight.
Nostalgia is akin to peering at the past through rose-tinted glasses. At least, that is what I have told myself. I haven’t been one to indulge myself in it for many a year, yet my mind wanders towards remembrance of ages past. Memories that seem so distant, one wonders if they were yours in the first place — almost like of another life, accessible yet separate. Memory is a fickle thing.Some memories are hazy. You can recall the day, the event, the moment but can you ever truly remember everything? Lost conversations, missed connections, misplaced from your own mind.
“There’s a secret that real writers know that wannabe writers don’t, and the secret is this: It’s not the writing part that’s hard. What’s hard is sitting down to write.” — Steven Pressfield, The War of Art I am a firm believer of the above quote. As a master procrastinator, it resonates deeply within me. The fact that I am also a somewhat decent and aspiring writer makes it hit home that much harder. The more I don’t write, the harder it is to put that first ink to paper.