My thoughts like amoeba under a microscope, dance, take no form. Runny egg yolks that the albumen struggles to contain. Scattered and grey only in definition. Divided between pros and cons, rights and wrongs, my thoughts falter, they waver. They mirror our city, this complex city that you and I inhabit. Stuck between eras, even  it’s topography is confused. This city that fights to house remnants of its arranged marriage to the British, keepsakes from its love affair with the  Mughals.  It gathers crumbles from dust and with them creates images in your head of Heritage that once was. Heritage that now is overpowered by steel structures and neon lights. It is fighting to be remembered rather than recreated. It is failing. It is failing hard. It asks for its originality to be taken in account while it is being altered to accommodate its residents and their ideas of modernism. It is Lahore, not Dubai. That is all it is saying. Not screaming, not debating. Just whispering for it is vulnerable.  Perhaps, it is Dubai now. Perhaps it suffer from amnesia. Perhaps.