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Creative Writing

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Literature

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Travel

I Think Of.


Most of my memories are repressed inside my veins; sometimes they come to the surface affecting the functionality of my organs, coercing the mind to remember.

I think of cats strolling along hospital corridors in Pakistan, being terrified each time the doctor opened the door. I remember injections, the permanent headache, riding on the back of a motorbike at midnight through dim-lit streets and the calls of elderly gentlemen alone in the dark.
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Memoria.

We stood 
                 shoulder to shoulder 
regurgitating oxygen
                               and then the whistles blew. 
 
Replicas from the First World War
the final sound they heard.
 
And when the whistles blew 
the wind swept over us 
in fear, in recognition. 
 
And we stood in silence 
on the 
           P
           E
           A
           K
           of our soles 
                            remembering 
                                                those 
                                                        beneath                           
                                                                      us. 
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