Evoke : Expressions from 2021
 

In  2021, Mysticeti collaborated with six brilliant artists for inspiring our community of writers with their creations. We are happily overwhelmed to present a compilation of all verses and stories that our community wrote and shared with us. We believe these represent our collective expressions from the past year.

Expressions about experiencing mysticism and liberation inspired by this paining by Maira Bose

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I SAW THE SEA AND BURIED IT WITH A WAVE by Aditi Sundan

I have lived on land my whole life, the mountains to be precise, deserted from the sandy shores of infinite beaches. I believed that any encounters I had with the sea were from my early childhood, existing only in second-hand memories handed down to me over and over until they were imprinted onto my brain. The imprint, as if a scene from a film, no subjectivity of my own, no emotional record of incidence, apart from a nostalgia that seemed appropriate but impersonal. Sometime during my second year of college, a buried memory came rushing back to me and broke through the continuity of what I had come to think of as my own memories. It happened during a class on Romanticism, where our Professor was talking about the ‘idea of sublimity’. I understood it as the depth of beauty and terror, the horror and might of how nature could be/make us feel.

 

My mind decided to escape from the classroom discourse, and take me back to the forgotten dark sand beaches of Daman. It had been a brief holiday tucked in between a longer trip across the region, so solitary, so unlike the handed-down memories of Bombay and Goa beaches with their festivities and crowds of people. This slice of an almost empty beach, almost as if behind a glass window, on arrival had seemed so far away, so strange, to my early-adolescent self. Every few hours, I had moved closer to the sea, paying little heed to warnings about it being alive, a creature, almost: how it could sneak up on me if I turned my back to it. I remember sitting on a rock a little far from where the waves were caressing the sand. Vaguely, the memory of the salty sea breeze and engulfing, warning, darkness made their way back to me.

 

Vividly, my gaze is now fixated on the horizon,

the impossibility of it,

and the possibilities of this endlessness.

The word unforgiving comes to my mind.

 

I had watched the sea rise, as the horror and draw of the glistening night climbed onto one another, swelling with new anxiety in my chest. I had been frozen in place, the wetness of the sea climbing further, the breeze, sharp against the receding warmth of my lungs. I had imagined the cries of the land dwellers, calling out as we had watched the sea come for me. As it continued to surge ahead, I had let the sea take me in its forbidden embrace. I had been knocked off my feet; the spell had been broken for a while.

 

I give into the ruthless stirrings of desire

to be engulfed by the darkness,

throw caution to the wind,

and submerge in the all-encompassing nothingness,

there, at the horizon.

 

The noise and swirls of white had reminded me about being gone for a while. Any sense of time had escaped me, and as I had rushed back to the shore, I remember looking for a search and rescue party.

 

And then I immediately retreat,

fearing this magnetism

that pulls me to this restlessness,

at the possibility of my own will.

 

Anticipating my parents’ anger and claims of worry, I had walked into the hotel lobby and spotted them getting ready to sit down for dinner. I had walked in, eyes darting towards the clock in the dining room. “Oh good! Where were you? And what do you want for dinner?”, my mother had asked, half looking at the menu. I had leaned over the table in an attempt to keep my semi-drenched clothes out of sight and answered, “Just looking around.”  

BACK AND FORTH by Sristi Suman Ray

Late one night towards the dying end of November, we took all his things to throw into the ocean as a part of the ritual. We had been doing this for five years, every year since my grandfather died. As a part of the ritual, we place all his things and then position grandfather’s picture (a 6x4 inch black and white bust-shot in which he is wearing a white shirt and his usual black tie) in front of this display. I had never witnessed the end of this ritual and had always wondered what they did with his picture. Do they throw it out and frame a new one every year? To me, this seemed like an almost pathetic errand to schedule every year in November. Or maybe they keep the picture? If they keep it, then where does it stay? Do they keep it in their temple next to the other and lesser important gods (because I have never noticed his picture in the main part of the temple)? Do they keep it somewhere else – safe and hidden with a sense of sanctity? If so, do they keep it face down or up? Exactly how do they place him in their psyche - is he a loss that is so revered that his picture is kept face down? Or is he a somewhat sublime loss, and therefore beautiful, and part of the thread that has kept the family together?

 

We fill ourselves into my uncle’s car, sometimes two of us sit in the front (usually I share the seat with Tikidei, my older cousin), and we drive along the short stretch of road to the beach. It is a beautiful road, with small government offices and houses designed in the typical colonial style which still survives in some parts. The vegetation is tropical, and as we get closer to the ocean we see saltbush and sea oats summoning the sand. On a particularly humid day like today, we can smell the salt in the air, saturated and crustacean. As we drive further along the length of the beach the crematorium comes into sight - its humble spire sticking out from the top of smoke and ash-dust.

 

“They’ve installed electric burners now,” says my mother. My mother loves to talk about things in the news with certain people.

 

“Electric?” asked Tikidei. “How do they burn bodies with electricity?”

 

“Oh, it’s like a burner - there’s fire, you see…” my mother is impatient - she usually likes to discuss the matter instead of falling into the depths of definition.

 

“Yes, I heard. One of our neighbours,” my aunt begins to say, then turns to my other aunt and adds, “this man, you remember who drove you to what’s that place called…”

 

I was thinking about the crematorium and what it must be like. Women and kids are

usually not allowed to attend the last rites there. I had always imagined it to be a place without electricity – with the only light coming from the burning pyres, maybe three or five at a time. They said bodies burned one on top of the other during the pandemic. I could not imagine how electric burners, or whatever they are, would fit into the absurd, rather ridiculous drama of death and everything elaborate that comes after.

 

“I’m glad they’ve brought in those burners,” my mother said, her face resembling the pale colour of a lonely sky. I think she was talking about adapting our manner of suffering, as much as we adapt our manner of joy. You see, joy has not been amplified by our advancement as a species and neither has suffering become less solemn.

 

We drive past the crematorium and stop at a quiet stretch of the beach for the ritual. A few

fishermen are making their return to the shore, pulling their fishing boats behind them through the sand. They leave behind marks that look like french fries. In the distance, the moon looks weak, and against its light, a few shops are selling real and fake sea shells - their keepers are smoking bidis while watching the late-night news on YouTube.

 

After parking the car, we start walking towards the ocean, making our way through the sand just like circles of onion move in a bowl full of thick batter. Once we are knee-deep in water, they give me the bag full of his things.

 

“Throw it far and throw it with all your strength. Wait - wait for the moment the waves begin to return. Wait for a big one. It will go away as mightily as it comes,” said my uncle, bobbling my little cousin in his arms. To me, the waves seemed to be coming and going in a simultaneous rhythm. At the far end, close to the horizon some big ones were breaking upon the chest of the sea. And close by, some tiny ones were making small leaps, back and forth then forth and back. What is the motion? I thought to myself - how do I decide what the ocean is doing at any given point in time? Tumultuous waters. When I was younger, my father used to tell me something about the waves and how they were created by the moon. What was in front of me was not as easy as that theory. When must I throw? I have the strength, but is it enough to counter all other variables? Will the bag go away forever as we want (need) it to?

 

“Here, give it to me,” Tikidei said. She took the bag from me and launched it in the air. It went high. And far. The women laughed. There was a sense of secured finality in the act.

 

“Here. It is all coming back,” my uncle said pointing to the sand a few meters away.

 

A dozen broken pieces of coconut, charred, were pushed by tiny waves onto the sand. A few

spots of magenta and yellow were floating on the crests of the approaching waves.

 

“The flowers. The ocean won’t take anything; it will give everything back,” my uncle said.

 

Nobody said anything. We stood there, watching the waves give us back our things, piece by

piece. Something about it was devastating. I looked at my cousin, she was clicking pictures of the horizon.

 

“There’s a boat coming,” she said. The faint glimmer of synthetic sails was visible under the

moon. She clicked a beautiful picture.

 

“Can you see the bag?” she asked, zooming into the picture. I was curious. There it was – the black bag, with his newspapers and other things.

 

“Check if you can see the ash too,” my uncle said. My aunt laughed.

 

On our way back we bought a big tub of ice cream with jellies, nuts, brownie bits and syrup. The memory of that day is like a word cloud in my head. Some words appear bigger among the innumerable smaller ones.

 

The next day, we woke up in his house – without many marks of the things we had done yet probably a bit more grounded about our strangely destined relationships with each other and our shared losses. Same time next year, we would be here again – grown and changed, maybe with the same old jokes. We would be there, again, trying to throw his bag of remains and trying to play our little game with the ocean.

PERFORMING OBSERVERS by Vanshika Randev

On the port, we stand, facing the sea. 

Watching, as ghost ships cross, 

barely and briefly missing each other. 

Watching, as the lighthouse guides them homeward,

rays reflecting, glimmering against the waves. 

Watching unsuspecting men pass on rowboats, 

so sure, they’d bypass the storm,

caught by surprise and swift, cruel urgency.

 

Watching, as shades of blue merge into each other. 

As parts of ourselves part to give way for change, 

splitting down the middle, parting at the seams. 

Every song, story and dream, 

crashing then collapsing, striking cliffs and the shore. 

Old instincts, reflexes, habits making themselves known, 

every now and again. Laying forgotten, dormant. 

All a phantom blue. Lingering, demanding to be seen.

Moving towards the shore, sprawling against the sand, 

only to be pulled back out, fading right past. 

The grip over reality, only transitionary. 

 

Watching waves sink and settle,

a constant, ever-evolving rhythm and hum. 

White against blue against the dark undercurrents, 

ripples cascading and building, thoughts replenishing. 

An everlasting ebb and flow, an instrument of calm and chaos,

knowing this is how the story goes. 

A powerful, resounding crescendo, colliding into itself. 

Making more of whatever it was. 

The crashing of the waves; the greatest of performances. 

Demanding constant applause. 

A quiet song, carried into the night. 

And we watch. Knowing we constantly head seaward. 

Watching, as it all fades to black. 

Expressions about seeking hope and happiness inspired by this illustration by Preksha Sipani.

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RECKONING by Bharti Bansal

yellow gaze of the setting sun
reminds me of the days
when the flowers wouldn't droop at the sight of me
i wonder if happiness is all glammed up
in the little corner of my heart
waiting for the train to arrive
and take me farther from this lonely world

 

glimmering sunflowers
and setting sun
teal blue sky
and violet eyes

 

Is it too much to ask for beauty?
 

i wonder if things when left alone
come back together like a lost cat to its home
it's still feral
this need to be happy

 

but tell me a sober way
where I don't run away
from striking realities
steel countenance of a monotonous life

 

i am afraid if I wait long enough
i might fade into nothingness
empty cans and unread books
vacant roads leading nowhere

 

Is it enough if dreams remain distant?
 

ghost of memories haunting at dusk
and me wondering things if touched become real
everything sleeps to the lullaby of silent sky
the flowers
the birds
the pages of a half-read book
and the girl who wonders about her place in this sinful world

 

everything eventually comes to an end
the colorful skies
the lonely birdling
the pigmented dreams
the rebellious blue moon
and me, entranced and sad
like the little star falling and fulfilling wishes

WAITING IN SUNSET by Sridevi

she found freedom

in between the lines

by moving the pages

escaped into another world

where she can breathe freely

letting herself out to it

to reflect her soul back

from the mirror globe

being there felt like

being in a warm shell

infinite inside

a tiny world of its own

filled with yellow flowers

grasslands and orange sky

during the sunset

waiting for darkness to arrive

to sit in the carriage of lilies

and move away

HOPE by Yashika Doshi

Just when I'm about to give up on the night

and let my body fall into a state of being that barely resembles sleeping,

I am distracted.

It's an ironic experience:

getting distracted by you,

getting distracted by the idea of you.

This idea that there exists a tomorrow for us

which doesn't come with the fear of instability.

Where the shape of loss didn't come in the form of your outline shaped through a wall

and where the business of postponing love hasn't made us its clients,

and that's why you see

I still end up dreaming of that tomorrow.

Years from now,

when I'll think that I've exhausted all the topics there were to write about

all the memories there were to derive words from,

I'll come back to you.

I'll come back to you like the falling stars find their way back home,

like the waves of the sea curl up towards the shore only to go back again.

I'll come back to you as if there indeed, is a future written for us.

TEMPORARY FIX by Akunthita Gogoi

When I am sad,

I read out to myself.

I pull out unsent letters, 

half-written poems, and

wistful stories 

from my memory.

 

I read them like a mother

reads bedtime stories

to her not-so-sleepy child.

About a limping fox getting married

on a sun-kissed rainy day 

and a sparrow dicing betel nuts

for the guests.

 

I chant creased words 

locked inside faded envelopes 

without a ‘from’ and a ‘to’, as if in a spell.

As hard as I try,

I sound nothing like you.

While you kill flowers by suffocating them

between pages,

I kill my longing.

 

I’ve heard that the wind carries 

one’s woes away if you ask it to.

 

Where’s the wind today?

I can only feel it in my hair.

I follow my shadow as the sun 

beckons me to wait. 

Should I?

Maybe if I wait, they won’t let me go.

…I stop and turn.

 

I’ll let the sadness brew a little longer,

till it all evaporates.

Just today.

A NEW START by Shruti Parwar

As I sat. Grey and lone. I asked myself
"Is this what life is?"
"Is it going to be this way forever?"

(Sigh, I close the book)

"NO." something inside me replied.
"Not if you want it to be"
"But how?" I asked.

Close your eyes…

Breathe...

Feel the warmth as the sun kisses your cheeks. Listen to the breeze as it tries to sing. Smile as the stray curls tickle your neck. See the beauty of infinite colours. Smell the sweet flowers as they bloom. 

They come and go and come again.
As long you have them, you can always start anew. 

AN EVENING IN THE VALLEY by Arya Jash

She could see the breeze before she felt it. The flowers on the far side of the field parted first, bending their colorful heads, and this movement came closer and closer to her, gently touching her shoulders. It blew past, ruffling the frills of her off-shoulder top, the edges of her beige skirt fluttered, and her hair was blown all over her face. She smiled, and with a shake of her head, threw her hair back into place. Her eyes were closed, enjoying the gentle warmth of the evening sun on her face. The book she was idly flipping through, was firmly bookmarked with her thumb. Ever since she’d come to the valley, she was…lighter. She was so far away from it all, from the city and the preying, hungry eyes which lurked there. There was no one watching her here, only the sun with its benevolent, sheltered gaze. The wind toyed with her, and the flowers of the plain brushed against her hand, a friendly, familiar touch. The scars on her left hand were almost gone, the only trace of an event that was a dull, nearly-forgotten memory. She was so much happier now. Opening her eyes, she watched the setting sun disappear behind the hills, giving out one last moment of light before giving over to the night. She started heading back towards her cottage. A sense of liberation washed over her as she broke into self-indulgent laughter, realizing she’d finally found peace.

Expressions about accepting loss and living in monotony inspired by Shashwat Bulusu's Winter Winter.

SHADOW by Vinita Agrawal

In the cold of your shadow

I feel the spasms of an ebbing life

 

the slow evaporation 

of marrow from bones, 

 

liquid 

from the joints of togetherness.

 

Yesterday's grains lie bare and husked

winnowed in the winds, scattered like paper dots

 

My body presses upon your shadow

measures its grey length with sighs

 

It folds and unfolds upon itself

an origami creasing of existence

 

This shadow doesn't shorten at noon 

nor does it lengthen at dusk

 

It grows in circles 

like ripples of water 

 

when hit by a stone

when shaken to the core. 

MAKING MELANCHOLY SING by Ipshita Sur

The silhouettes of the bed

still fresh as dew drops on a sleek leaf.

My feet crouching, too let loose. 

It's morning! It's morning again. 

 

The morning accompanies the sunny glow

a new beginning - as said.

To me, it's the same. 

The sane dissent into same. 

 

My life's not seasonal, it's Antarctic winter -

where beams don't peak

and melancholy sings.

   

Memory fondles my mind

to a lane not usually taken

where a little miss runs on the snow.

She enjoys her small steps 

as she plows her way 

and lets the flakes touch her rosy cheeks.

 

Where is that little miss?

Miss, you are missed.

Now when you are gone

or might be trapped in a treasure box

on an island, the city won't guide to.

The city, its office, 

with tall buildings and high expectations.

 

Just then, my alarm rings again

and I get out of bed with guilt.

I buried that little miss

And the comfy sun will never touch me again

 

It's always dark Antarctic winter here.

LUMINESQUE by Sujash Purna

tinkering rainclouds               

the dead red leaves,               

you ask me                             

Weightless                             

dramatic pull                          

language nobody                    

only birds                               

to do this                                

a child inside                         

mirrors                       

find out I can                         

cuts someday                         

these wings grow                   

around the dead                     

fall from                                 

knew I                                    

 

like Persephone                     

an obvious abductee              

asks me                                  

be like his wife                      

asks me why                          

death when I needed              

in the midst of            

asking to be let go                  

back                                       

You see, my Love,                 

make our wings                     

our fingers tiptoe                   

drying red                              

fall .This tinkering                 

only mourns                           

plunge of loud            

tiptoe around

another fall

what makes me so

in the midst of such

I reply in some

speaks but

There’s another way

they tell me, leaving

a room with no

they don’t want me

see these

you can see

someday. So they tiptoe

red drops, another

height they never

could brave someday

I become

my father

why I never grew to

my mother

I never learned about

hiding behind a silent altar

praying hands

Here I am now

to take them away

our cuts

grow

around the dead

for another

raincloud

to some plastic

plaintive sounds.

SISYPHUS by Sumyrah Khan

Stammering repetition.

An involuntary mistake made

incessantly.  

LOOP by Amarabati Bhattacharyya

i've been living

the exact same day for many many years

as if i’m stuck in an absurdist time loop

opening my eyes to 2pm sunlight 

i begin with a fight 

i must i must change my life

ending with one solitary compromise 

tomorrow again i'll try

 

i've been suffering

with as they say 

extreme existential dread

i'm only twenty plus three 

but the pointlessness of life absorbs me

and i am entirely aware

before you struggle to remind me 

that besides me all of humanity 

toils endlessly  

for an answer - unreceived

AN INTERPRETATION OF WORDS IN WINTER WINTER by Doyel Chawla

Winter Winter: your facade to hide the autumn that went by

Why I love: a thought you can never find answers to

Maybe time I wasn't done: an everlasting feeling

Wonder how love we're waiting for: you hoped once

This day: your scream that hasn't been let out yet

& as this slow oboe goes about its odyssey in this porcelain Winterland: you go back to the fall to find answers

You twist: realisation confuses you

You rise: for once you think there is hope again

You fall: you are falling again

Winter winter is a long haul: you let out the scream

Expressions about coming-of-age and healing inspired by this playlist curated by A Humming Heart,

PANACEA by Mehuly Chakraborthy

You paint autumn,
In your tattered oeuvre, bruised and thin,
Sketching a broken silhouette with wearied pens,
Dwindling like dead lines in brittle folios,
Or perhaps, a dimming poet that once
Etched songs under grey banyan trees.

You tell me that
Blending soft pastels in dusk, heals.
That the little thorns that you bred,
Are now dried mulberry roses,
Shedding old novels, vintage and raw.
That you’re a renaissance of
Everything good, subtle.

Knitting slow proses of ephemeral quietude,
You remind me of round towering stairways,
That reside in yellowed terraces of wrinkled Calcutta lanes;
Dignified like the summer of old schooldays,
Of the first love note, that was wrapped in
A little bow, blooming with small poetries of innocence.

I’d then ask you to define, the sad papery stroke
That you keep marking, in different palettes,
Melding them with your fingertips, burnt…pained.
You’d smile;
The one you do when your mother hugs you tight,
On rainy days, talking about honey cakes and crinkled diaries.

And like dawn, brimming amidst souls misplaced,
I'd know that you’ve re-read yourself,
The way you wanted,
Amidst azure tinted windowpanes,
Stitching the cracks with rainbow threads and Wordsworth,
Breathing and pausing like a tale that lasted good -
Knowing to exist, needlessly.

PEEKABOO by Shombuddha Majumdar

soaring above 

a quilt of dark grey clouds

the sun plays peekaboo

squeal, giggle, and shout 

it's too cold for us 

to be playing like little kids 

open curtains 

neighbours looking in 

LET ME KNOW BY TOMORROW IF POSSIBLE by Rajat Kindangan

melancholy words dancing to restful tunes

take me back to our nostalgic noons

 

when you'd serenade me 

with your wistful melody

 

gently bringing forth longings 

without meanings 

without warnings

 

of nervous highs of adolescent love

and grounding wisdom from up above

 

and they all seem new to me

and they all still ring true to me

MY INNER SELF IS A PLANT by Ria Chauhan

How does a plant grow?

It sits on a window still 

wishing for sunlight

getting none, sometimes some.

How does a plant grow?

By showing its best leaves for you

to know that you are alive today -

blood in your veins,

sunshine in your face.

And so you keep your worries aside

as you water the soil and trim the sides.

You step out to get it some sun

even when you don't have it enough.

How does a plant grow?

When you care for it even when 

your own 'good days' are few

and it sits on a window still

loving you.

POWER NAP by Stuti Sareen

aerial view of a street walked in

sudden focus on the snowman in Nyon

one knee buried in snow 

on aimless walks around town

wishing to touch the spread of glitter

across the distant hill

as she stares at it from the parallel top

careless dips in the frozen green lake

as she focuses on the feeling of winter sun on her skin

climbing forbidden brick walls to empty her spray cans

as she continues roaming the empty streets at 3am

the sound of her alarm every morning

which is still mine now to remind

of that playful spirit

the confident walks

and thoughtless talks

When did I stop being free?

SKIN by Ishani Sengupta

it took a while

to get used to my strangeness

 

late summer blooms

and muted August light

while I drowned in rain

walking in Kandyland

 

maybe it was the bluegrass

or that dinner with wine

that I found I liked my skin

 

love may be the blue shift

but far beyond your blues now 

how am I to explain 

that I keep finding my own in me

 

not a flower child

but a forest girl

with purple leaves fluttering

on my city tabletop

Expressions about nostalgia and daydreaming inspired by this cloud doodle by Rohini Kejriwal.

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LOOKING AT CLOUDS by Elizabeth Hasan

I have looked at clouds

from various windows,

rooms, hallways, and cities -

but none were as interesting

as what I used to see

from that classroom

hiding behind the trees.

We sat on the third floor

while the clouds hid

along the window grills,

playing peek-a-boo was their favorite, and

daydreaming was my thrill.

They were like water -

took the shape of my mind’s

fantasy, until the science teacher

bonked me on the head

and scolded, ‘They are made of water,

You stupid!’

If they are made of water,

then tell me -

why, on gray-colored afternoons

they look like my grandma?

And why, on honey-colored evenings

the clouds look like samosa?

Why do they look like the boy

who ignored me on purpose?

Why do they look like the memories

I forgot cause of life’s rush?

For a long time, the clouds

were black, either passing by

or non-existent; even though

bright shone the blue sky.

For a long time,

clouds lost their meaning

even as I gazed afar.

But these days I can make out

an ice cream or a friend,

and I know

it’s not over yet, so far.

DISGUISE by Kamali Ganpathy

I trembled at the sight of dark cloudy skies but only later I realized they were bles'seal' in disguise

 SEAL AWAY by Shreya Jain

i am floating in the sky

for the very first time

spreading my flippers

i don't need a slipper

 

the air is brushing my whiskers

the clouds make my silhouette

i am looking up and forward

no more baggage to carry around

RECEESSES by Rubica Kler

i see calm

you see an outline

i see hope

you see an eel perched on a cloud

i see a smile

you see a flat line

 

Disposition is a funny thing.

 

Where you see the sky

i see the recesses 

of my mind.

Day 500: LESSONS, WORKING FROM HOME by Bani Jolly

My tired brain spends another morning sleeping through my alarm. As I rush through my morning ritual, I look up at the blue sky from my balcony and realise that I’ve missed a beautiful rainy morning. I feel a bit, well, blue. So, I decide to cling to one happy memory. 

I’m ten years old and lounging on the grass with my two best friends. My hands are tucked behind my head and I’m staring at clouds while my mind is finding shapes where there seem to be none. 

 

I decide to recreate this memory from my balcony. For a while, I see nothing but the blue sky and shapeless clouds. As I continue looking up, the chatter from the past few months begins to fade till I finally spot a playful seal smiling down at me - its silver outline akin to fluffy crochet.

 

Maybe if I stop being so ‘sky blind’, things might just turn out to be okay. 

moonflowwer_edited.jpg

Consummating life/
Breaking up with life by Neharika Gupta

The butterfly sings for you to wake up and dream of movement as pure as it is painful; with silvery inventions which master creation like a statue bursting forth with rain as pencilled-in prophecies erupt like fireworks in twenty-three new memories which are fragile; inquisitive; and hold themselves up against the sun.
 
Remembering that, the sky is jealous of the happiness of the eclipse – happy as fingertips reaching for the azure mind of the orange sky where shimmering salts give us space to understand its brightness; it is like expecting someone whose drops of laughter dream out loud for you; pirouetting across like dreams.
The flowers cast a shadow of blood and the lantern spins in the mirror while the calcite unites and the paper ball crumples and uncrumples in the soil; as tea bags of salt whitewash the room; the accuracy of the haunting giving way to shreds of thought like broken music dancing before your eyes.
 
Supposing… just suppose yellow melancholy raindrops in a second flash like ghosts do on reality; and shock us into believing our kisses are numbered – interrupting the love reverie of the owl in beat to the glory and colour of the stain on the landscape; of the inadequate skeletons of porcelain.

Discovery by Ria Chauhan

On the path of discovery

I look for a key.

 

Dipping into a pool for energy 

only to find it replenished

with each touch from me. 

How does this work? 

 

Scrounging around, and 

puddles keep on growing. 

Now, they seem like the 

perfect spot for growth.

 

So, I sit bare-feet.

Maybe answers are buried deep in - 

each time I go looking outside 

I somehow heal more from within. 

 

And flowers bloom

where doubts once loomed 

with each stroke of my hand

my mind eases down.

 

Don’t pick them it says, 

they are just a part of you. 

All of the blooms, and thorns too. 

 

Bring some water to the pool instead

and surround yourself. 

The answer sits besides you 

quietly, as it always has.