AROOB SAJJAD
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Billie Holiday

"I've been down so long

That down don't worry me no more" 

 

Finding solace in Holiday, once again. 

13th June 2018

 
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A pinch of charades

White meat melts in the palms. Everlasting balm. Caress the pieces. Now a liquid state it runs down the creases. Smoothness in a jar. Drips itself into every fibre of the carpeted boudoir. Slinks itself in defeat. Feet firmly plant themselves in the Turkish rug beneath.

Lungs cloud up with dust and smoke. The unmistakable stench of a warm apple pie. I’m lovin’ it. Like the one grandma would’ve made in another life. Brown shade with a kick. It ain’t Jesminder, though this one’s a spice too. On the net they challenge each other. Click.

Could write a paragraph about its aroma. The way it makes you a woman. Transform her. Instead I’ll share an anecdote. Princess Nokia ringing on about its healing properties. Classed as flora. Classy yet classless in the land of law and order. If I had a Mrs, I’d order them off Interflora.

This one’s easy to buss. Sprinkle it on that sludge you call porridge with no fuss. That’s right, it’s a nut. Now which one will make the cut? Eyes narrow. Indian mums feeding them to their kids in Harrow.

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twenty second march 2017

Black cargo pants with those black bomber jackets to match.

The not quite man, not quite boy. Sits on the park bench in utter joy. Can of Stella in hand, he takes a swig.

Simultaneously

the smoke from his tobacco stick. Pours over him, as he rests.

Back against the trunk of the tree, the beat pouring into his ears.

Engulfs him. And he bobs his head up and down,

Allowing his hands to join in the celebration and then in a swift motion

He clamours back to earth

More swigs of the potion

 
 
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About Time

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"There's a song by Baz Luhrmann called Sunscreen. He says worrying about the future is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life will always be things that never crossed your worried mind"

14th June 2018

 

 
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Stella At Soho Square

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At Soho Square there's a man that sits on the benches alone. I saw him on my break earlier, sitting and drinking and grumbling. He's still there this summer evening. In that same spot, sitting and drinking and grumbling.

I wonder how long he's been there. In that one spot. How long he's been hearing the pop of every can. How long he's been glugging it down. How long ago he first became alone, left to wither on his own. I wonder if he ever gets a chance to remember his life, in between the hangovers. In the briéf flashes of reality does he think back to better times? Or does he press it all so deep down, that it only comes out to strangers on park benches?

They make it look so cool in the adverts. All shiny and special. But here it really is. In this man's hand. And I swear I'll never touch another can.

 
 
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A leaflet with ‘Look after your Mental Health’ slashed across the page, is sitting on the GP’s desk as I nervously twiddle my thumbs. You see, mental health isn’t something that was ever talked about. All you had to do was exercise, eat your 5-a-day and you'd live a happy life. 

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Problem Child

Rex Orange County, seeping through the stereo.

I've been trying to explain why Apricot Princess is the greatest thing I've heard this year. It's been on an infinite loop since Thursday, when I texted you in excitement:

“OI APRICOT PRINCESS IS CHANGING MY LIFE RN!!!”

I've realised why I'm utterly infatuated. Instruments combine, to create a sublime, melodious flow. The kind that never leaves my hips. 

Honestly I don't feel ordinary cause I haven't been at home in a while;

These words gripped my neck. You know what it's like right? The ones you love, not loving what you do. And I get it. Sort of. Security and money and whatever else that should be the priority. Not expressing myself, no. That should be left to life after my breakdown; when I find myself hunched in the therapist's office, while they look through me condescendingly. 

At least my reputation as the problem child would fade, condensed to a phase. Holy, once again.

I could. Keep going. Stand proud as the problem child. Let them say I'm lost and naive and confused, and whatever else. Live for myself, and only myself.

Would that be ok with you? 


 

ldn babes, I love you

 
 
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  <h1>ldn babes, i love you. I really do. sometimes you test my patience, like rush hour when all I want to do is recoil back into my mothers warm womb.</h1>
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