We are glad to see your posts, that's very unique and creative, would you like to work with us in our next anthology? The book will be published internationally with your name on the front cover and copies of it will be give to you.
Contact us for more details. Thank you If you are intrested kindly contact with us Charchit khandelwal Instagram- k_charchit Mail id - firstname.lastname@example.org
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...?
@mirakee I could only imagine myself visiting a fair amid these lockdown days. I know I'm quite late, yes, the conversation with my friend lasted very long. Here's a list poem about the items that I wanted to buy from the fair, but the prevailing covid-19 didn't let me dare.
I don't know how it would sound to the readers. Fingers crossed.
Thanks for reading my weird thoughts. ________________________________________
Trying something like this the first time. It's a fusion of English and French vocab (& Spanish, just one). A short casual poem depicting how visualising things through blacks ⚫ and whites ⚪ clarifies the situation and affects decision making in a rational way.
This also sheds light on how the company of a good friend impacts the life of a person, hence the title.
Blacks and whites help distinguish between right and wrong, which is sometimes cloaked in dazzling colours of ambiguity, making things difficult to understand.
I've given the synonymicon for the French words for the convince of the readers.
Thank you for taking your precious time out to read this little piece of jumbled up vocab.
aimer - like (French) blanche - white (French) clarté - clarity (French) coloré - colored (French) côte - coast (French) de - of (French) disparité - disparity (French) et - and (French) eldorado - The Golden (Spanish) façonner - shape (French) fais - do (French) feuilles - leaves (French) lentille - lens (French) ligne - line (French) négligé - neglected (French) noire - black (French) pensées - thoughts (French) philosophie - philosophy (French) poème - poem (French) poétique - poetic (French) vérité - truth (French)
_junaid@encomium noire et blanche, its about observing and distinguishing between right and wrong.
_junaid@encomium Basically, I have portrayed the colours black and white personified as a friend with strong sense of rationality, which helps me distinguish between right and wrong. That's the essence.
There's something about this monochrome surrounding that always awakens the sleeping soul to hum an elegiac hymn. Where in its simplistic mien have I found solace that often dares me to dream despite uncertainties, Guiding me through the intricacies of its elements woven within- Those moments of peace and joy of unison, Coupling with lugubrious countenance encapsulating the ones left behind
The serenest flow of nature stopping for a brief moment to take a breather Before embarking on an arduous journey of discoveries. What if we grow to like the paleness of It's myths and poetries For secrets of the bygone centuries to be relayed upon Through the performance of this divine comedy show As nature recites a poem about us becoming a victim of lifeless routines, Offering choices to relieve us from being trapped in this chamber of monotony. But rather reluctantly, we fall back, became submissive And Nightingale compose yet again a sad melody.
But it still amazed me how two colours collocate to make me elated instead And teach me about the world I haven't known Within its simplistic frame have I found my niche Because the cold facade was just meant to protect me from freezing Perhaps, this is what nature wants me to understand- That it too loves to change its clothes like we do; Like we carry unique eccentricity, they mean no harm.. So we can survive on these few shades like another family of greens.