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Blight of Social Commentary

Let me paint this visual for your eyes, It is a lazy laid back warm afternoon, the verandahs are still your only quinessntial medium of communication with world and people outside without stepping out of the comfort of your home. A glance from a verandah to another is an invitation in silence, it is a language of intimation with eyes. This weather draws families to this pod for every human is a social animal.Over tea or coffee with snacks, discussions brew within and outside the family and they ususally end there itself. They revolve around the upcoming world cup or the local elections, few people discuss markets and some pupils dilate at such whisperings. Mostly it is the gossip that survives a session, the potpurri of happenings around the society or sometimes the world is where the aroma of excitement never dies within one room but spreads from house to house. It was a time when thoughts had a very little chance in becoming a idea that grips a nation overnight.

Things have changed dramatically, technology whose purported meaning was to make life easier has now engaged societies, people or even nations at scales unimaginable. Every single thought now has the capabilitiy of become an idea. No matter good or bad or worse. With the means of communication at our fingertips, is the conscious movement of people driven by an idea tearing down the social constructs of “individualistic decisions and its sole consequences”? In simpler words, do we still have the capacity to originate an original idea and stand by it ? Or even better, do we have the time even to sit and gauge the idea that is being pushed down our throats? Can we like old times, sleep over a perception, or research over an idea? Is the entire construct of developing ideas and perception has been affected by the huge unavoidable influx of social commentary driven by humans drunk on an Idealogy?

In a time, where the definition of freedom is debated, can we debate the individualistic freedom of making self driven decisions? It is almost ironical that this is a social commentary, another idea pushed down by a social means but there is no end to this circle. I would sleep over this off, Its a weekend, let it be like that.

Shashank Bhardwaj


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creative-writing, nature, Poems, Poetry, think

Color of Love

Last night, I sojourned in the warm fields of cherry blossom,
letting my silence convolve with the voiceless dreams.

I cried in a language, I never heard before.
The memory of my voice absconds
for a few days.
Leaving only regretful notes, of unending sabbaticals.

Nature never speaks, I have observed.
It just pours a volume of voices from its belly,
into a pot full of colors,
to melt and coalesce
for our eyes to fathom in silence.

So the next time, we lie on the bed,
don’t speak, just observe all of my colors
as I trace the aching fan dying out above.

Whisper to me then gently, if you wish,
of how does the grey mix in the volumes of smiles bright?
And yet never turns loud enough
for us to tremble and dissolve
in one another,
painting our silence
into this unspeakable color of love.

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beauty, creative-writing, Desire, Fiction & Poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, think

Swallowing Sabbaticals

Warmth is a long sedimentary pause,
sip it,slowly,
through eyes that have learned
the craft of forgetting.

Too much of an interlude
and the spaces around you
start spewing nostalgic visions.

The Sabbaticals turn to never ending
regrets.
I turn to a normality I feared:
A morning in April with no rain.

I should have woken up,
when It was winter,
and my heart still booming
with the summer’s dream

– Shashank Bhardwaj

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beauty, creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, think

A room with no music

I swallow a room in my mind,
to digest its origins.
Its woodwork churns and mollifies,
I could feel my fingers full of sawdust and laughter,
lost handprints(possibly mine), from the dying
furniture and the floor caress my head.

You will always find a way to meet yourself,
once you are forgotten by everyone.

The lights are turning dim,
I do not know, how to serve light in a tall glass for myself?
Can you teach my fist to hold sands of darkness?
I shall learn somehow, to sprinkle when necessary.

You can learn anything, you want.
But remember to put off the light in the end.

The garden screams with its emptiness,
and my eyes could bear the shrieks.
Is this is how I forget your touch?
Without music? Without sleep?

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beauty, Death, Fiction & Poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, think

Forget

I kiss every sparkle of light
with my dark pupils:

A river smelling of forgotten touches
can only be cold,
my blood can only hold a limit of warmth
in every dream,

A little more
and my heart shall melt,

like the sun who devoured fire,
just to forget,
the kiss of the seas.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

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creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry, think

Sins of a Dreamer

I wanted to be real,
To be a rain in winters,
Whom they cannot despise,
love or forget,
to be a chaotic origin of resentment,
mysterious, magical and everything in between
and beyond.

I was a tofu once,
my liver poisoned by
daily savouring of pure alcohol of dreams,
It didn’t kill me then,
It didn’t kill me now.

Bring your hands and choke
the light within me,
Turn me into a grass spilled with fresh soaked blood,
turn me into a a galaxy of restlessness
with kisses of pause and serenity eloping madness.

I shall write all about it.
Till your eyes melt in dreams of forgetting me,
Again and again,
every night
You poor, dreamer of death.

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