And I may say that my philosophy has been deeply affected by the fact that windshield wipers ticked off seconds too loudly and hopelessly, that my clocks drips loud sharp clicks too monotonously on my hearing. I can hear it even through the pillow I muffle it with – the tyrannical drip drip drip drip of seconds along the night. And in the day, even when I’m not there, the seconds come out in little measured strips of time. And I wind the clock. And I look at the windshield wipers cutting an arch out of the sprinkled raindrops on the glass. Click –click. Clip-clip. Tick-tick. Snip-snip. And it goes on and on. I could smash the measured clicking sound that haunts me – draining away life, and dreams, and idle reveries. Hard, sharp, ticks. I hate them. Measuring thought, infinite space, by cogs and wheels. Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that – I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much to learn – so very much to learn.

Hafsa Zafar 2