Origin of Thoughts

It’s better to write, because no person will read it further than three lines. It’s better to write, because somehow I can talk about why I think we are at a continuous crisis, why I believe that there is no free will, and I can leave it on a piece of paper with my bank account number scribbled right in the middle, and I can walk away, with the paper still at the restaurant table, hot and waiting for the customer who will sit there next, and somehow, the next day, next week, next month, my money will still be untouched, unbothered, asleep.   I may not be a writer, but I call myself one because that’s how I get paid. For me, the definition of a writer is as confusing as the definition of feminism, and somehow, strangely, I believe I become less of a writer the more I write.   My concepts aren’t tempting, my opinions aren’t critical, and I become a slower reader by every passing year, trying, desperately, to make meaning of what I just read: She   bla...

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)

You. It's strange how we crave for isolation but disgust our loneliness. Imagine this. How would you feel if you were changing the world but nobody knew? Today, my loneliness could not embrace me. I kept looking for answers, for reasons for why I am how I am. Why I exist. What difference do I make. I make no difference. I want no one to help me. My own isolation guides me. I find little, sometimes no pleasure in blending with people. What do I do then? I work. I work some more. When I'm done, who's going to be the one to see what I've done? The people of course. The people I forgot about. We all do this. If you don't, you're one step ahead of me. If you do, you're still ahead of me, that is,if you haven’t lost your mind questioning your existence like I did. How often have you not been able to explain your sorrow? The truth is, you can. You actually know the reason why you are in such a pain. Your life is purely doubtful. Your existence...