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We built not to keep the world out, but to give the chaos a shape. Our wall is a mold, and we are the poured consequence. Beyond the gate lies not freedom, but the howl of formlessness. We chose to be a noun, however heavy, rather than a verb forever fading.
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(Inspired by Darvish) So I’ve been doing this thing.Not”observing” like some high-IQ stalker,but just…looking.Because your notes, Darvish, they’re a bit much, aren’t they?So much”suffering for the craft.” I’ve got JEE prep and a cracked phone screen— I don’t need more gloom.I wanted to see if anyone is actually winning at this. Subject 1: The Librarian…
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The poet, struggling with creativity in a café, observes life around him but finds no inspiration. He attempts different settings, only to encounter frustration and self-doubt. As he writes, he feels haunted by the ghosts of great poets, realizing their influence permeates his work. Ultimately, he acknowledges artists recycle ideas, echoing past inspirations.
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A general walks through a tense great hall, burdened by his past and the eyes upon him. He collects their scrutiny as fuel for his purpose. As he stands before powerful figures, he transforms into a commanding presence, declaring, “THE DEVIL WAS HERE, YESTERDAY,” shaking the assembly into silence, signaling his emergence.
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I got to pay the bills… My fingers know the price of lentils, the weight of a lemon,the cold sweat on a milk carton. A faint flutter, a sigh of saffronat the edge of the glass door. I step out.Behind me, the cooler drones its one note.Before me, the street bakes and blares.And between, a…
Moon at Half Past Noon 