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“I was observing my own trial through a closed window, oddly indebted and drowning in despair as I watched her write about me. To be penned about is to be taken down memory lane, and that lane is a form of life. It did not matter whether her pen censured me or erased me. Even her hatred would prove that I had once been real to her. What scared me was not rejection, but love, for love would demand that I gather my broken self and stand beside her without dying.” — Mohmod Irfan Shah
I was observing my own trial through a closed window, oddly indebted and drowning in despair as I watched her write about me. To be penned about is to be taken down memory lane, and that lane is a form of life. It did not matter whether her pen censured me or erased me. Even her hatred would prove that I had once been real to her. What scared me was not rejection, but love, for love would demand that I gather my broken self and stand beside her without dying.