#028
TW: death
Below is an extract from a story I started writing.
I have a folder that holds old stories, unfinished projects and trailing scenes that meander into a mid-sentence. This piece is one that I stumble across when I brave that wilderness of erstwhile words that I have decided to give up on, and every time I read it, I am intrigued. And annoyed.
The thing is, I have no idea where it’s going. Aside from this scene, there are no notes in any notebook that matches with this piece. Could it have been set during the Arab Spring? Or perhaps during an earlier decade, such as the 1980s, when Pakistanis were emigrating to various North African or Arab states? Even tracing back the date it was written doesn’t help. As you can see, I have my theories, but I’m stumped. I’m just not sure.
When I read it this time, though, I felt a new pinprick of an idea. Let’s say it was a sort of hope. If I can’t remember the original idea, I’ll just make a new one up, the bones of one is already forming. After all, a lot of the themes that I wanted to explore then are themes that I am interested in now.
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