One life, one’s life

This picture would generally not be considered good photography due to the sand particles stuck on the lens and its impression in the photo, and it hasn’t been edited at all. However, I couldn’t resist posting it because of its composition.
Drop me your feedback in the “comments” section!

Canon 1100 D,
India, 2018

Art on the web

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I haven’t made a post here in a while. I was busy with my coursework and just caught up everywhere, like a typical no-longer-a-teen-but-cannot-digest-it-yet. Because of all these, I also developed a huge writer’s block in the recent past, and thought re-inaugurating my blog after several weeks with this digital piece of art I made would be a good idea, since I couldn’t come up with more than a couple of lines for my latest poem.

This is technically digital art, but it’s nothing complicated and anyone of you can do it! Just visit the site http://weavesilk.com/ and drag your cursor any way you want. I personally, have put a lot of effort in creating this, one because I have seen my blog growing like a baby right in front of my eyes, and I give a lot of importance to stuff I post here. I put as much thought and effort in terms of design and colours etc. for this, as I would, for a poem. I redid this piece around ten times. And secondly, the features and interface of this particular website made me feel pretty surreal, so I thought I’d make something that reflects my current mood, concerns and struggles. I choose to refrain from telling you what those are, but the work is certainly open to interpretation, like my other works.

P.S.- This is not an advertisement for Silk, nobody has paid me or requested me to do it. I really enjoy creating designs on it, so I thought I’d share it here, for you guys to check out! It’s really cool 😀

Less bright red flowers

I feel a damp against my wiry body,

Spiralling against my non- spine, my fire-red flowers untouched,

Dirty green moss the colour of her saree on the wall.

I look again at her wiry body, a peek of ribs and white skin from the side.

I look down today at the less bright flowers from yesterday.

A bend from the waist, bony hands pick flowers

From the ground for oily hair snaking down a thin back.

Her passionate love for my flowers, though dead and smell-less

Lying on the ground. She cannot reach the ones sticking loosely to the wiry green body against moss covered bricks.

I long for her bony hands to pluck the bright wonders off my skin, drop them into fair palms cupped together.

She moves into the kitchen for the day, my flowers adorn a long oily trail, held together with a knot. I can only hear bangles clinking, a mechanical melody accompanying a mechanised grinding of coconut.

They will soon smell of coconut and turmeric, smell-less flowers from yesterday.

She throws them before her husband returns, our dried little secret. Fresh sandalwood paste on a broad forehead.

She always returns the following day. A moment alone, a treasure island of less-bright flowers strewn around.

A damp from the moss green wall against mine. I feel a damp against both our bodies. And I do not long for her glass bangles.