Creative Writing





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.

I remember climbing up steep steps, over stone walls into the seat of a hair stylist. I looked through her glass cabinet, the necklace from the Titanic sat inside a silver box. I remembered Leonardo, whether Rose could have saved him.

I remember the beaches, submersion into water until I forgot about existence. Thinking of Cat Stevens and his story of reasoning with God whilst being dragged by the current. It always made me go back, just in case.
I remember being sat under a tree eating pizza from cardboard boxes and making plans for the glorious summer. Smiles of strangers in the library, the familiarity of humour, Fantasmas.

I remember the green apple tree, being told not to eat the berries (suspected poison). The ginger cat in glasses, librarian losing her spectacles. The fox with no teeth, the large wooden gate shielding me from it all.

I remember the attic, the scent of books, holding the green bear (the safety, the home). I remember the bushes, the nettles. I can still feel my skin stinging, flesh against nature, burned, grazed. The lines against my tissue; patterns, drawing out veins.

I remember the rules, god so many rules.

I remember the barber shop, watching my grandfather cut the hair of gentlemen with smiles and ardour. His friend, the man that gave me a pound each time he visited. His piercing green eyes. Is he in heaven? (I hope so).

I remember the Wendy house, drawing floral curtains, the sound of the door bell, and the crack in the window looking out into the washing line.

I remember taking bites out of the sponge headboard, tongue against my grandmother’s velvet curtains. A half-eaten headboard later. Hospital. Doctors.

I remember the pond, the dead goldfish. Throwing it back into the canal as a means of resuscitation.

I remember driving cars with our fingers, lines in carpets as roads. Bunk beds, hanging blankets from the top, our own little world.

The marble slope in the hospital; I slipped. Awaking, hearing the stories of unnamed babies belonging to organs inside glass jars. The whispers of Pakistani doctors in corridors.

Hearing pour que tu m'aimes encore each time we travelled, Celine Dion singing me back into my childhood.

Sometimes I stop and the memories amalgamate into one. The unity of dreams and reality. (
I don’t know what’s real). 

1 comment

  1. nice post..made me nostalgic in many ways. Celine Dion was a part of my childhood too! same pinch on that :)


Thank you for taking the time to read my post. I would love to hear your thoughts!

Powered by Blogger.