Skip to main content

New wipes out New

 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 and we, the ants that climb on top of them and make food for the winter.

The world keeps us distracted, away from the face of its own,

The old wiped out by the new, and the new, wiped out by the new.



-Anushruti Adhikari (अनुश्रुति अधिकारी)

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

When Charlie decided

When Charlie decided to die, his bagpack lost its painful weight of monotony and helplessness. A man standing behind him shoved his way to the front, nearly pushing him out of balance. Strong stench of tired armpits spread across the bus, mixing with the smell of diesel and something rotten. But Charlie had decided to die. So it was okay.   So how should he die?   When he reached his room, he undressed himself to nothing and looked around. His clothes were either dirty or unfolded. Ramita didi who would have to clean them tomorrow. Surely, she’d be the first to know about dead Charlie, but why would she clean the clothes of a dead man now?   He washed his dirty clothes and hung them to dry. The rest were ironed and folded neatly.   The day they find Charlie’s body in the room, Paale dai might look around and see these untouched pairs of shirts and pants, then decide to take it for his son.   He opened his fridge. The old broken mach...

Squiggles and Scribbles of Sashi

Sashi woke up today, annoyed and at 4 a.m. Her thinning blanket somehow turned over and her oiled-up feet were exposed to the ruthless chills of Magh. She angrily switched on the light, as if to scold the walls and windows of her room for the restless night.  Her belongings in the one-person rental flat are quite minimal, although symmetrically pleasing, like something straight out of a Wes Anderson movie, only, without the colours. Her clothes, from her mother's sarees to her work uniform had to put up a fight with her undiagnosed O.C.D; even the softest of the fabric was disciplined into a neat pile.  Her bathroom had nothing more than a single soap, dry on one side and slimy on the other. Her toothbrush, however, looked more worried, for the woman brushed ferociously, disappointed at her slightly yellow teeth which were now accompanied by often bleeding gums.  Her kitchen was completely empty, as she had decided not to eat in her room. The ventilation in the tiny flat ...

The Moment, The Lifetime

Imagine an age, an era, cramped into a single moment. We're bridges and buildings, burning, falling, rising, touching skies then falling again. Nothing remains forever. But the remains are forever to stay. It's an age cramped into a single moment. It's in one moment, which you pick up your pen. Inside you, you dust off the corners of your brain, search for the right words, the right depth, the right freefall. For that spot on the paper, which will be the beginning of your story. Blink, blink again, or close your eyes altogether and feel your soul searching, picking, and scratching in your flesh to find the right idea, the right treasure. Drink. Drink while you still can, drink everything you see. Drink the emptiness of the glass, the whiskey bottle, there is still some inspiration wandering. Drink the smell of your ink; drink the feel of the paper against your palms. Drink the passion of the love you just made. Search for more. You're still thirsty. Yo...