Origin of Thoughts

Cracked heels have thousands of stories. Cracked ribs have some more. Even the trees that are six feet under, breathe when no one is looking. Talks in pauses, thinking, not about what to say, but rather, why it should be said.   Shorter questions take more time to answer. Are you happy What are you looking at What are you thinking about Why aren't you out of bed What did you do today I brushed. I showered. I wore clean clothes.   Can you do it again tomorrow? No.   The people around you know what they are doing. Everybody has done their homework. But you haven't, because it slipped out of your mind. The teacher is taking her rounds now. But, you might say, there is no homework here. There are no teachers, or braided hair, or long pleated skirts or even big blank books. You don't need to do your homework because you don't-QUIET NOW The teacher is close. You can smell her. And in times like these, the sti

 You have beautiful dreams for the human kind, and yet, I dream of death. I think of the ends, I think of the spares, the forgotten and the broken. the universe belongs inside the minds and outside it. You have reached but a very small dot of what is to explore. I see the far edge. What will happen when you are done explaining everything? Will you go on for more? Or will you come to the realization that exploration is not passion, but the endless and mindless river that has its ups and downs towards a timeless nothingness? The voids are no more in spaces which you leave unattended, but in memories you keep, unforgotten. The moments, to which you hold so tightly, succumb with the power you have to preserve it. With all the time in the world, you switch off to a far off space where no one recognizes you as the human that once was. All the dead you remember, all the super humans that remain in the periphery of the world you wish to be in, are nothing but strands of unlucky clovers

Echoes that I  fear, put me to sleep at night. All my goosebumps have died. All the body has felt and so it feels no more. Echoes that dont' dig deep, echoes, that march with you on the forbidden old street. Where you lost all your fingers feeding the hungry wolves. Echoes laugh. Laugh heartily as you cry. Echoes that follow you to the deserts, echoes that make sands softer so that you fall, and you hear grains of sand ringing in your brain. Echoes that cry when you're deep in meditation. Why would it cry? But it does. Echoes turn the pages of the stories you dreaded, when you were age nine. Echoes that flush you into the sewer, leaving the place for the next victim clean and white. Echoes are the moan that failed to penetrate the walls and when the room was filled, it made all the blankets fall. Echo, I remember her digging my grave. - Anushruti Adhikari (अनुश्रुति अधिकारी)