हमने आपकी रचनाएँ पढ़ी, वह सभी अद्वितिय हैं। हम आपको अपनी नई पुस्तक में सहयोग देने के लिए आमंत्रित करना चाहते हैं। पुस्तक आपके नाम के साथ प्रकाशित होगी साथ उसकी प्रतियां भी आपको दी जाएंगी। आपको सम्मानित करते हुए स्वर्ण पदक भी दिया जाएगा।
अधिक जानकारी के लिए संपर्क करें।
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Autumn was in the last stages of its life cycle when transition kicked in. Creeping step by step in sync with the ticking hands of the clock. The leafless deciduous trees could feel the cold hints of a change. The blue planet, spinning in its usual position took a desperate turn. A tilt, which is the essence of transition, is of significance here. The orbit being the same, has a new story to tell. On the doorstep of the blue planet, a new season knocks. I'm winter, and I'm here to write my penellion on the aureate vermillion leaves, with snow flakes.
The leafless trees stood tall but with a sense of lament, as if paying homage to the departed leaves grounded along the path through which I flew. Passing through the woods I flew, to relieve them with my snowy anesthetic metaphor. Writing my autobiography on the frozen lakes for the readers on the surface above and the surface below. Preserving the dormant seeds under the snow, for the next phase to rise with a radiant glow.
I am the white ornament to the mountains, which shines with the first ray of the golden sun, reflecting through the prismatic bejeweled crystals of snow, an euphoria to the eyes that gleam with the fantasy of a blissful but transient phase. Impermanence of this ephemeral world is a harsh truth. Reminiscent of the season bygone, we all are impermanence personified.
That cup of hot coffee on the table by the window in the chilling golden mornings, accompanied by freshly baked fruit cake, that hot chocolate topped up with vanilla vibes, with those choco cookies in the morning, oozing aroma of solace, I make them special. The fruits and nuts, the winter fruits that you savour in your breakfast and brunch, cracking open the walnut and chewing with a crunch, and all those chocolates that you munch every day after lunch, yes, I make them special.
Those winter vacations that you long waited for, those long road trips chasing the sun, for a little warmth, for a little fun. Those delightful picnics with the family, those carefree cycle rides, those soothing casual strolls, absorbing the rays from the sun. That selfie with the snow man, those snow balls tingling cold. Those winter poems, that essay on the snow, those frosted goggles, that squirrel by the window. Those overstretched nights, where dreams took flight. Those deep dark nights decorated by starry lights. Staying awake late night and counting the stars, winter's come halfway and you've reached this far.
The pile of snow at your doorstep, that you clean every day, clearing snowflakes every morning from your drive way, they are there for a reason, to make you realise that life is not the same every day, that life is a group of phases and they are not here to stay. That woollen cardigan knitted by grandma, that wind cheater to deceive the cold, those gloves that give you warmth, that muffler with a fold, all these should make you grateful because many are deprived of these.
I am winter and I stand for a change, I'm not a mere season with a familiar name. For the preoccupied lot, I'm just a phase in the annual slot. For those who pay heed, I have a moral to read. The chilling tranquil winter has something to say, listen to the silence so benefit you may. Change is inevitable part of life, but those changes shouldn't change you, you should remain you, the real you. You don't need to change, you have to adapt. That's life for me, that's life for you, adapt to the changes and set your mind free. With every transition there's a lesson to be learnt, life unfolds in phases and everything happens for a reason, even if its me, the winter season.
I shall too pass, melting away into the soil, setting you free from the chilling turmoil. I shall too pass, exhibiting impermanence, paving way for the rejuvenating season. Leaving you with memories of a shortlived transition of rejoice. I would sit and watch from a corner, the cinematic you'd play in your mind, of the snow man shivering in the backyard, of those delicious morning breakfasts, the cart full of white snow, from the doorstep that you used to tow, and of the countless delights that you enjoy with a chill, somewhere deep down in the heart, I'll feel proud that I made it special.
There'll come after me a season that will replenish the incumbent phase, the ice will melt away and make way for the brighter shiny days. I'm winter, bidding adeau with the promise that one day I'll return, return until the earth keeps spinning and the sun rises anew. With the hope that you'd not change with the changing seasons, I'll meet you again hoping that you'd be you.
A questionnaire to self, by a man who wasted all his life running after this materialistic world.
Tell me... How's life now? Now when you've lost your family. Running after money, Money that you've piled up. But of no use. You're left alone, Alone with the lifeless paper notes, That won't consloe you, In this lonely old age. What you gained, what you lost? Tell me now.
Tell me... How's life now? Now when you've lost your friends. Running after boss's meetings, Presentations rotting in your hard drive. But of no use. You're left alone, Alone with the lifeless .xml files, That won't wipe your tears, In this lonely old age. What you gained, what you lost? Tell me now.
Tell me... How's life now? Now when you've lost your health. Running after business trips, Business cards withering inside your wallet. But of no use. You're left alone. Alone with mere phone numbers, Who won't attend your call now, In this lonely old age. What you gained, what you lost? Tell me now.
Tell me... How's life now? Now when you've lost your youth. Running after never-ending targets, Best employee awards biting dust in the shelf. But of no use. You're left alone. Alone with shortlived elation bygone, Which faded away into oblivion, In this lonely old age. What you gained, what you lost? Tell me now.
Tell me... How's life now? Now when you've lost your childhood. Running after that football to running after clients, Childhood memories stocked in an album. But of no use. You're left alone. Alone with images of a phase long gone, Which won't take you back in time, In this lonely old age. What you gained, what you lost? Tell me now.
Tell me... How's life now? Now when you've lost most of your time. Running after the materialistic worldly desires, Regret as the residue of those yearnings. But of no use. You're left alone. Alone with a chest full of ceaseless remorse, Which can never be reversed, In this lonely old age. What you gained, what you lost? Tell me now.
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Burried down beneath the ingredient of your entity, your decay is the beginning of a new life. For your fragments mixed up again with the familiar atoms tremulous, you wake up in a entirely different world.
Your decay can be your freedom or it can be your captivity, its only up to you, how do you want to decay.
You decay, decay down the door of a new life. And yes, decay is just the beginning of transition.
------------------------------- ///From the diary of a former sketch artist. Date: antiquated Time: clock malfunctioned Monologue: forgotten artist -------------------------------- Thanks for reading./// -----------------‐--------------
Deep down the in the dark basement of a four walled existence called a house.
I found some faded but evident footsteps reminiscent of an era bygone.
For a while it made me walk down the staircase of the memory lane that was abandoned until now.
The first foot on the staircase bought me back to senses with a creepy squeak from the wooden plank.
I gathered the courage and started stepping down with heavy steps trembling from the weird adrenaline rush mixed with a tinge of nostalgia engulfing me.
Finally, in front of me was a crumpled door deprived of human touch, waiting to be opened wide since dimensions unknown.
The first grip (in years) of the door knob, cold, the lock lever, rusted red, a hard twist by the trembling wrist, and the door opened with a squeak from the corroded hinges.
Gloomy dark, melancholy looming large, no sign of light, I switched on the light. An obsolete light bulb with pale incandescent yellow glow, struggling to hold up, flickering. Fragments of lead sketched memories scattered all over in oxidised paper oozing metaphorical hue, bleeding only black and not blue.
Sketching, I left behind my childhood passion, chasing this materialistic world. And I learnt the hard way, even after a prolonged time, materialism eventually fades away, leaving you drenched in the oblivion of cold shivering sweat tingling your spine.
In a corner, a glimpse of a drawing board half covered by a worn out, tattered cloth and other half covered in creepy cobwebs stalled me still.
Removing the frayed cloth revealed a half done and washed out sketch of a city, my city, the city which is no longer the same. The old friendly fellows, the sweet quiet bustle, the old-school traffic light signaling emerald green, the vintage classic cars geared up, fleeting out of the canvas, the random monsoon rain drops hitting the big black umbrellas, all this sinking in like a calm cool wind, but all blown away with it.
Reminiscent memories flashing with flickering pale light bulb, flowing through the cerebral reservoirs, jutting out from the eye with wrinkled eyelids. The city then and now, diversified irreversibly, forever.
It's never too late to relive my childhood passion, or is it?
It's never too late to revert back to a long forsaken hobby, or is it?
What should I do with the half done sketch of my old city?
Should I complete it in the old way so as to live therein, in the fascinating memories of yesterday?
Or should I complete it as the new diversified metropolis, both the halves echoing a strikingly unbelievable contrast which will keep piercing this faint fragile heart, haunting me with every glance I'll take?
The artist, still young inside my feeble old body is in a dilemma of to or not to. Halted at a crossroad of choices, stuck between the crowded streets of these unanswered questions blocking my perception.
A former sketch artist, but can't sketch out the answers to these beleaguering questions, my pencil resting broken, the sharpener no longer sharpens, the rusted blades don't allow it and the half used eraser, eroded by the friction of creativity, eager to erase everything from the canvas, it's dust still scattered around, afresh.
Still searching around the tenebrous basement with the questionnaire still in my trembling hands, unanswered. Could anyone answer from amongst you...?