A checklist draped over a shopping cart or a moleskin notebook scribbled with one’s schedule for the month seem like modern-day anachronisms, given the fact that in the digital eon, a virtual platform exists for all such purposes: the tangible papery feel of your to-do lists has been replaced with an app, albeit it cannot emulate the fleeting yet immaculate satisfaction…
When one fails to grasp the vivid possibilities that the life of the other may carry, the gaping absence of empathy makes it all the more convenient for the person to kill and, from a wider vantage point, enables nations to wage war on each other.
On the other side of a translucent glass membrane, a membrane breaking up the opacity and channeling the outside world, our autotrophic forefathers, their mathematical symmetries reified as branches of the tree of life, beckon. Or they most likely hadn’t beckoned; however, there is little one can do in defying the
All four paws gently touched the moldy wall, just barely—a fleeting contact of fur and plaster, the mold ever-present and melding into the wall. The soft morning light nuzzled against a furry friend’s soft belly, rise and fall in slow rhythm – a comforting sight such that time might as well be non-existent. All sorts of cacophonic entities- drilling noises, traffic, the calls of the vegetable vendors, live their lifetimes without receiving the slightest attention from this one in her blissful world. The shrill sibilance of the pressure cooker drowned out her stertorous breathing, perhaps. Ah! What a delicious thing it is – Sleep.
On one fine spring afternoon in my second year of freshman, I vowed never to enter a library again. Standing in my place some hundred years ago, Virginia Woolf was ousted from the doors of an ‘Oxbridge’ library. She was done so on account of her gender, while I stood suspended because Spotify thought it would be an excellent time to auto play Arctic Monkeys’ 5O5. It was a messy gallop all across the slippery tiled aisle to my deck while reaching for my phone in the bottom of my sling bag, whereby I stumbled upon some readers
I am a tarot reading Gen Z. Is there magic in daily life? I don’t know. I can’t see it. They say it is in the tarots, the crystals, the sigils, and the amulets. A little over a month ago, I brought my first-ever deck of tarot cards home. It was almost involuntary how attracted to it I was. I’d like to think it chose me. There is no greater comfort than feeling special, even if it is to an object of the occult or a pet. Tarot reading has been a closed practice for many years. It has been a bit of a taboo as well.
We took an essential architectural feature and turned it into a language. Windows are not just windows; they are stories, philosophies, and rewards. In a screen-lined world where we dig deeper into our metaverse, a window is always there to escape.
The cold evening breeze sweeps the leftover afternoon heat away, something that does not require going outdoors to be sensed. But people do. To taste the sensation of pleasant. This curious junction of hot sun and cold breeze with the resulting pleasantness is temporary; it alters with time. What comes shortly after is only more pleasant. The cooler draft becomes a conciliatory benevolent oppressor to the gradually receding afternoon heat. I choose the quaint train station as a space to experience these phenomena of nature’s evening play.
The ridge was around fifteen feet long and ten feet wide. It straddled the surrounding features without providing any clear view to the top. One could peer over the edge and see a long drop, nearly three thousand feet into the gorge where a turbulent stream thundered down. In its wake were broken trees and stones, requiring careful consideration by intrepid outdoor enthusiasts.
They moved to the city. It has been seven years now. The family had lived next door all my life. I had grown up with their children; the daughter was my best friend; the son was like a little brother to me. As far as I can remember, their house was always full of people and life. They took every visitor in – human or animal. Their garden, where I learned to notice plants and later take care of them, was my second home alongside the most beautiful birdsongs during the day and chirping crickets in the night.
You notice the girl beside you, her brown hair streaked with lines of pink pulled back into a ponytail. She has her music on, and you try to imagine how her playlist might look. Her feet go tap-tap-tap quicker than you blink; it makes you wonder the kind of music she leans on for support. You imagine her sifting her way carefully through her punk rock anthems, deciding what goes next in her playlist. Maybe she finds her comfort in old-age rock with its poetry or the more contemporary, more crass tunes. Or perhaps she just lets her luck determine for her, takes her chance with whatever the app throws at her, and goes along with it.
Most of us do not think twice about that pebble we find on the beach by the river. Nor do we think about what is behind its smooth, flattened form that makes a stone ideal to skid upon the water’s surface. This rounded pebble was once a sharp, rugged piece of rock, thrust out of a larger geological body, such as a cliff upon the hills. When we hold the pebble, we do not think of the knocks and gashes that broke the rock into smaller pieces or the movement of the water as it…
The long, drawn sigh was covered up by the sound of the gurgling toilet flush. It came out spontaneously, having no name attached, yet clung on to it was a definitive trail of melancholy. Rubbing hands in the apron, she came out, banging the door behind her. Despondency hung around her, rivaling the pungent odor of cleaning acid. A gaze at the watch revealed a time for a bit of rest, not one that she enjoys a lot; nevertheless…
Fifty-three times and 7 million random taps a day, the phone screen lights up. Fifty-three times and 7 million random taps a day, those remarkable wallpaper eyes smile at you. A smile a second long. Enough to last till the next tap. Among the endless profile pictures, contact photos, mirror selfies, the wallpaper is extra special. Like your life trapped in crystal, this object with a screen is your world in your fist. Wave it, and it comes alive.
The black hair tie rests between the tinted lips as the nose picks up the essence of the freshly washed hair from it. It could have lingered there a little while, but a tingling pain has crept up the arms from holding up the hair in its place. The hair goes through loops and twists and turns to engulf the tie like ivy does to a stick. There was no harm in letting the hair down, feeling it softly brush against the skin, imparting it the freedom to dance to the wind, playing all over the face as the wavering willows play peek-a-boo with the sun.