A delulu world is where you can reach every possibility, achieve the highest of the high, have conversations that could have never taken part in reality.

It is the world where you can foresee yourself in different settings, characters, plots, conflicts and themes of life.

I call myself an expressive person with deep insight, yet am just a mere human with unreasonable conversations going in my head that have nothing to do with reality.

A smile from my math’s teacher(she is a stoic teacher when it comes to me I must say)makes me imagine a whole student of the year award(And the student of the year award goes to Mahdia Noor).

As well a single bad grade makes me feel as if I am gonna fail my whole life.

There are million ways in which a moment could have turned into before becoming reality. A thousand more misunderstandings could be solved through prepared speeches in our head, and an episode we thought up only in our mind.

yet,

Between a salaam and a fleeting body lies my delulu world.

I raise my hands to make dua(prayer) after salah, I am seated on a prayer mat when a presence makes me look to my left, seated on the sofa beside me.

He has topi(prayer cap) on his head, Pearl stubble beard, round oval face , wrinkled skin , dressed in an ivory shalwar kameez , looking at me with a kind expression.

DADA ABU!(grandfather)

What dua did you make my noor?

I prayed for all of our well-being and forgiveness.

That is a lovely dua!

What kind of dua do you make dada abu?

In this old age, my prayers are both shorter and longer than youth would have allowed me, I pray for peace and humanity and everything in between. I pray for my beloveds, including you my noor. May the spark in your eyes never dim and may your steps only lead you to good, my dear.

What kind of spark do you see in my eyes?

The spark of someone who is afraid she won’t be enough, yet never shies away from her thoughts. A girl learning how to navigate in life and not once made herself or anyone feel small.

You see the good in me beyond what it truly is, dada abu.

What do you think, did this beard go white under sun. No! I tell you what I see, Noori.

But they call me too much, an idiot, stupid, overreactor, alot to handle.

Then they don’t see you the way you should be seen, but that’s okay, its an imperfectly illusionist world, where people who are true to themselves are less, though the ones that are, they are told things they don’t deserve.

Don’t you think thats unfair.

Yes Noori, that is indeed unfair. So I will give you an old man’s advice my dearest, don’t feel guilty to be yourself, nor ashamed, and you shall be cherished by the ones who truly see you, although, you would have to face challanges in this mortal garden, where spring and autumn are always in a row, but believe me they are worth for your soul.

My eyes were stinging as I lay my head on dada abu’s lap while he silently cradled my it.

We sat like that for a long while until my mind became conscious of my surroundings. I was still seated on the prayer mat in my dim lighted room,though, dada abu was not there, as he is dead, he passed away even before my birth.

Still I feel our hearts are connected.

Through the tales I heard about him from people , It feels as if a person was home, he would have been mine.

I again raise my hands and this time I make dua for him. For his peace and forgiveness.

He is not gone. He lives in my heart, and shall ever till we meet in heaven.Inshallah.

In my delulu world he is my home, a kindred spirit. One I can spill my heart unto.

Thank you 🌸Preeti Pathak🌸for such an amazing challenge.

For the dreamers, the overthinkers, and those who have a little too much imagination. Enter your Delulu Land, give your imagination a story, and share them with Write Your World. Reality can wait.

Welcome To My Delulu World🏰 — A Writing Challenge

Welcome To My Delulu World — A Writing Challenge was originally published in Write Your World on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I am not scared of my dreams; I am scared of them coming true and that's scarier than ghosts as the ghost of ghosts is a dream.

Let me elaborate this thought.

Half of my childhood was spent being a child and the other half was spent seeing dreams in which my sibling or cousins got kidnapped.

I remember with certainty of a poet who describes hollow eyes that my trips to my nana’s house were the times when my worst dreams played with my sleep.

My nana’s house was far, quite far from ours in another province farther north, so you can imagine that I got pretty large time to relax myself that the haunting dreams will be paused this time but as we entered through the creaking gate of my nana’s house I realized that this won’t be better then the last time.

The reason the dreams were worse there was because it was the origin of them. My mamu(mother’s brother) told me one day when I was a a little older than a toddler that there is a man here in our hometown who kidnaps kids. He even showed me a picture of that man, old, long messy white hair, one closed eye and the other bloodshot, bushy salt and pepper beard. Child me got scared immediately.

At night the kidnapper got to chose among my cousins or siblings and in every dream I was unable to save them.

I recall the time when my little sister was in her early days in this world and I kept getting dreams of her being kidnapped.

I used to wake up at night and ask God to keep them all safe.

Sometimes I fought my sleep so that I don’t get haunted again by my dreams.

I am no longer a child, but to this day I get really nervous when my siblings or cousins go out by themselves. I can’t help but imagine the worst possible.

A ghost would hurt me, but my dreams took away my loved ones.

And a ghost becomes a ghost when its loved one is stolen from them or out of pure realization of being alone.

That is why my dreams are the ghosts of ghosts.

I am not as much scared of ghosts as I am scared of losing my loved ones, and this realization came because of my dreams, and those dreams origin is my childhood so yeah

I am scared of going back to my childhood

There is this hollowness in me when I remember those dreams, the sense of helplessness and loss with fear of being alone.

And that is why when my bestfriend asked me if I would sacrifice myself for her and I answered yes. Because in my dreams I couldn’t, I couldn’t save my loved ones and that what scares me most!

Not being able to save my loved ones.

My childhood creeps under my bed

spelling stories of the lost

recalling tears that I shed

On one full of cost.

Thank you Meta Marvelia, Sriram Yaladandi, Rishita Sharma💗, 🌸Preeti Pathak🌸 for this challenge

For the bravest writers. For those whose fears go beyond ghosts. Confront them by writing them in Pen With Paper. Only if you dare.

Things I’m Scared of More Than Ghosts — The Writing Dare

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Pen With Paper Submission Guidelines 2026 : A Brand New Way to Be Added as a Writer

Things I’m Scared of More Than Ghosts — The Writing Dare was originally published in Pen With Paper on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Autumn comes a little shy

Arriving faintly first, voice feeble

Passersby not yet aware

Of the leaves that will soon die

While she must wonder

Why all the insects meet her very first

And share a harmony

Unaware of cruel hands that slaughter

Though she pointedly chooses her pry

And as she treat them the best

And promises a promise so sweet

That they cannot help but not stay

On the rooftop fabric swayed

Of all colors you must ask

As she has her own palette

In golden and rust she is draped

She is unto break the traditions

Of yet another wind

Hues left to finally fill

The strong love ambitions

The night, the master, flared again

No cuckoo will I hear, all birds

For the sun becomes our guest soon

Her rainbow left to drain

Of beans and broths sipped

New arrivals in the markets, take

And brew your tea a little stronger

Prepare biscuits that shall be dipped

It is Autumn that thinks all

All the regrets and beginnings

All the past and the future

And all the feelings that silently crawl

Meet her and greet her well

Her mornings cruel you will see

Though she offers you blankets of warmth

And great tales she will tell.

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Pen With Paper Submission Guidelines 2026 : A Brand New Way to Be Added as a Writer

Shy Autumn was originally published in Pen With Paper on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Why is that, that you are so afraid to write

Put all your imagination in front of sight

It’s nothing so hard, when it seems so

You only need to say ready, set, go

And when you stumble, stumble well

And must not you try to hide in a shell

For there will come a period when you realize

The hard journey is the best prize

There will come days when you feel

that there is no possibility to heal

Take a break then, give yourself time

In the end, results shall be sublime

You will feel wholesome again

Need not you forget the pain

For it taught you to move forward

Though some will call you coward

Seldom can you feel the lowliest

Appear at those like the proudest

For your resilience, no matter what example

The evidence will remain the greatest ample

For Cloaks and coats, boots and shoe

were marks that centuries grew

And Are only ever named by change of time

So don’t fret on ringing of your chime

Take your own hand, all hard and sore

It will face challenges more

And more and more and more, on it goes

Isn’t that what’s set neatly in life’s rows

Now rest for a while before you start anew

My words, they I call true.

Advice to Myself was originally published in Voice Of Words on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Morning breath, with evening tea beside my desk

A baby I hold not much older than three

In my work cloths I start doing house chores

My skin golden in the sun,

Not though bathroom vanity full

For breakfast Mana’eesh today

The one taught by my late mother

Life is going, on and about

The Country festival now a date

He came checking if our daughter is fine

His back to me, asked about how I slept

I gave a nod but he couldn’t see

So I had to reply with tounge of mine

In the hidden diary in my desk

I face my reality

My read filled ,so here it is :

Hold me close, the starlings of shyness

For the gift of break from physical spryness

I am rewarded with happiness of a child

Amidst the war, blossoming iris smiled

Soulmate of mine gave his share

For being there on every flare

9 clocks around, though one died

The first cry of my pride

Mirth blinked in my eyes

Though the room told me lies

love left to search for moon

while my Noor will depart soon

A bomb I heard though feeble sound

And my fate, there, then was bound

facing fears I sit beside refugees

Counting all my nephews needs

I wrote on the paper of mine

Let me construct my life in my design

And if this calls as a wish

May not god take it a miss

ignominy not a thing here

Only faith is what we hold near

If only I finished my degree

Then, though guilty I will flee

With everyone hand in hand

I will save all children of my land

Every petal will acquire knowledge

Every girl will go to college

Young will make a world

Where oppressions; not a known word

But at end my repeated request

Not yet known by my life’s quest

Let me love, let me live, let me taste bliss

Let me give my infant a kiss.

Have a family with full members start

No faithless man, no lifeless heart

Metamorphosis a common word

Vibrant sheep going in herd

On the land I can call home.

I finished reading and got to know

That I am alone and no genie will come

To grant my wish.

I don’t go to work,

I have no love

No child I hold onto

No language knows humanity

The world is just bitter sweet

With some full mouths,

while some starve

I here will soon embark

And tell my god all dirty crimes

Of cruelty of my time.

Dear Readers!

My sincere apology for not making this topic as hopeful as it should be but it was an utter need to write the truth.

This poem navigates through a women’s life who is from a country that is facing discrimination and genocide. Topics like child loss, woman education, their security and life, love, loss are emphasized.

Thank you 🌸Preeti Pathak🌸 for this challenge.

Tagging Sriram Yaladandi.

This story is part of Three Wishes — A Writing Challenge by Pen With Paper. If a genie granted you three wishes, what would you ask? For yourself, someone you love, your country, or the world? Go beyond the obvious, explore what your wishes reveal, and turn them into a story worth telling.

🧞Three Wishes — A Writing Challenge

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Pen With Paper Submission Guidelines 2026 : A Brand New Way to Be Added as a Writer

Three Wishes — A Writing Challenge was originally published in Pen With Paper on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Oh Night! kindly do not shy away,

for you bring back the lost.

Creativity stumbles at the door

words swirl in the breeze

You offer your dear enemy;

The moon itself.

Whom we flirt with in secret

Let our hearts be spilled.

You give comfort that not day

can hand till today,

So we beg for your arrival

And when dawn dares to light

You hide all your stars

Leave us in the dark;

never preparing us for its stay.

Oh Night! kindly do not shy away

For you bring back the lost.

Dear diary,

Today I finally wrote about night. It feels as if heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I was in constant torture, crying myself to sleep, and my mind won’t shut up. It kept giving me ideas and further ideas; things I should write about, titles, and books. Early in the night I met with moon again. We talked about life and how its going. But I must say I am glad that I sleep in an unlit room, the dark acts as a blanket. Though its almost 3am now and soon the curtains will be of less use. I don’t actually have the blackout curtains it seems so, that is why. So I guess I will have to write this much only, since I have to prepare myself for Mr. Day.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Gentlewomen and Gentlemen! what would you like to say about my poem?

From the creator of Quirky Rants: I’ve started a new publication called Nudge — a space for stories born from a sudden thought.

If you’ve ever had a thought that wouldn’t leave you alone until you turned it into a story, Nudge might be the place for it. Explore Nudge and submit your story.

Nudge — A Publication!

📌 This story is published under Quirky Rants — a home for unfiltered thoughts, everyday oddities, and real, relatable voices.
Want to share your story too? Join us here.

Quirky Rants — A Publication!

Oh Night! Kindly Do Not Shy Away was originally published in Quirky Rants on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“The nature of language, the depth of an accent, words of wisdom, and phrases unheard; among the artist’s art, in the whispers of wailing willows, buried the quiet yearning for expression.” — Mahdia Noor

Language is manifolded, through it myriad utterances are acquired, the hint of accent in voices makes phrases more meaningful. We humans express ourselves by our speech.

I have recently discovered my fondness for literature. I highlight phrases in books, articles, scroll through Pinterest and have made 3 entire boards dedicated to words, phrases, idioms and rules.

Ever since I have stumbled upon a Latin phrase, “Dum spiro spero” which means “while I live, I hope”, It has silently become piece of my mind’s anatomy. I, who believe in hope, in a way poets believe in metaphors, clung to this phrase almost instantly.

My existence is yellow, I run in the field of iris and am surrounded by butterflies.

The first article I wrote on medium; I used this certain idiom, and I am sure many of us have used it oftentimes “There is light at the end of the tunnel”, this idiom resonates with the Latin phrase perfectly and is the part of my ideology.

There’s this renowned Urdu verse Pakistani parents and teachers remind us morning, noon, and night .It goes like:

“گیا وقت پھر ہاتھ آتا نہیں، سدا عیش دوراں دکھاتا نہیں”

English translation:

“Time past is time lost; good times and luxury do not stay forever, and a lost opportunity never returns.”

It is similar to the English proverb “time and tide wait for no man”

It sometimes awakens my spirit and when I am dilly-dallying it provokes me.

But it has come to my attention that we don’t usually use the full idiom , the full phrase, in school also I have noticed that we are mostly taught incomplete idioms, like

Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

It focuses on encouraging curiosity and interest, which in my opinion is really clever and empowering in its sense.

And in the end aren’t we all searching for a word, a phrase, a language, in which we can air our views or just simply express our soul’s voice. As Henry Miller once said:

“I’m searching for a phrase that will release everything that’s pent up in me.”

— Thank you Supriya for this challenge!

Let’s Have Fun with Words

Fun with words was originally published in Voice Of Words on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Tell me, what a dream is supposed to be?

Is it a mere murmur against your mind?

Or is it there to wake you up in morn?

The dreams I see are there

And I remember them in the counting of my breaths

They play with my mind all day

So sometimes when I feel hollow

I take a look at them

In when the traditions were still alive,

Upon my unblinking eyes

The night offers me its plight

In a container,

a container I am stuck

with my mother on a truck

It's a railway road I see

While we in our conscious flee

A sound cuts out the void in my chest

It's my brother running to catch up

Though he never makes it

up on the truck

and then I am woken by

the sound of my mom,

telling me to wake up for school

but that scene,it lingers

It lingers in my mind all day

The grimness it felt

As if the world would never end

and the truck would go on and on

leaving my brother behind.

Over the years this dream

haunted me like a threat

Telling me to kill with kindness

explaining its cause

So I madeup my mind on it

This dream is what I hold onto

When the coldness in me

jeopardizes to unravel its true form

This dream makes me

go on the right path.

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Pen With Paper Submission Guidelines 2026 : A Brand New Way to Be Added as a Writer

What is a dream supposed to be? was originally published in Pen With Paper on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Welcome In the mind of a child!

Hello my name is Mahdia , and I am 5 years old, my bestfriend is whoever gives me candies although my mama says they are bad for my teeth and stay away from stranger danger. But the shopkeeper uncle gave me an extra chocolate yesterday, he seems kind ,so I guess he’s my bestfriend now.

I got scolded by my mama today, yet she wouldn’t dare to touch me because I ran to my dado(grandmother), which means I am save from all evil. haha!

I believe my dado is like a protector if I am with her no force on earth can even touch me.

But my sadness today has another reason, My brother jumped over me while I was lying down on my bed, so now my height won’t grow. I will remain short forever. This is the greatest tragedy ever happened to me. I will be known as the bona(dwarf) in my family, among my friend and worst of all in public.

Any ways I went to shopping with my family this evening, the car ride was short but I am a curious person, I started asking my baba all the questions I could think of at the moment, like, Why are animals kept in cages?, I never got a proper answer to that question ,but its seems as if my baba is a scholar, he knows everything and anything!

My baba is like superman, he solves our problems in a minute.

Tomorrow night I have already decided that I am gonna go with my baba for a walk. Chanda mamu ( uncle moon) will be there too but I wonder why he keeps following me, so I decided I will challenge him to a hide and seek.

Alas! It is that no bird has came to deliver my baby sibling. I really hope to have a little sibling that I can be bossy around . Nevertheless having a big brother is still okay as long as I remain the center of attention of my parents.

I went to a nearby park with my cousins and we all know the drill the one who can successfully run up the slide the fastest is truly skilled. We all tried to push each other aside so we win. It was fun.

At night I never dare to remove the sheet from my feet, If I would than there a cruel mighty beast will eat them. Ch-Ch-Ch.

I rely on my father’s stories in order to fall asleep. And sleep won’t come until or unless I recite all duas(prayers). Its the no.1 rule.

I have accepted that fact that if I would tell a bad dream to someone on that same day I saw it, it will come true, thus, I won’t even dream of doing that.

Although I love being my age, I have a wish in my heart for a while now, You see how adults can make their own choices and do stuff they want without asking for permission, I just want to have the same privilege .But its stupid, I guess; because unlike me they don’t get to have fun in play area or wear cute panda fits.

If I am not wrong they feel embarrassed to do that but you know its okay not to care about what people think and be your own damn beautiful self. Unbothered and free!

You are extraordinary, both in your words and in your heart.

Note!

Thank you!

Sriram Yaladandi, 🌸Preeti Pathak🌸, and Rishita Sharma💗

For giving such an amazing, nostalgic and beautiful topic to write on.

This story joins The Thing Every Child Believed — A Writing Challenge, hosted by “Pen With Paper”, celebrating the innocent logic, strange theories, funny beliefs, and unforgettable little stories that made childhood what it was.

The Thing Every Child Believed — A Writing Challenge

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Pen With Paper Submission Guidelines 2026 : A Brand New Way to Be Added as a Writer

The Thing Every Child Believed — A Writing Challenge was originally published in Pen With Paper on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I beg the wailers

with the passing wind

the falling leaves

the dried ink

on empty paper

What am I?

just a mere helpless human,

ruptured in my soul

I cling to meaningless words

ambiguous phrases

and the vivid spring flowers

describing hollow eyes

with an accuracy of a poet

My courtesy is shown above,

though my sins keep my head bowed

The society calls me protagonist

in my acts of foul

Yet I am the drying tree

In the play of generosity

You give me a rule book

its just so you can feel free

while kept in a cage

I am tale who lost way

You have your own will

But don’t you care about us

So I wrote in my dairy

I am a story unwritten

daring to get heard

though no listener upon call

I am not the indelible being you see

I am not with laugh of richness

though I have a heart that plea

for the world to become a little kinder

Though I have eyes that see

they bury the nasty truths beneath

with a lie key

I present the world my amused smile

give them my buoyant expressions

Be asked what makes me this mirthful

Its just the fact that I live,

and that I have faith

Me who wish for morning sunlight

evening stars

with the moon phases ;all

I am not the autumn leave

nor the spring’s bloom

That is what I am.

Thanks for reading!