Writer's Clan


Sometimes I wonder why my words look like that lunar eclipse, shadowing the moon which holds in itself the dark secrets of the universe. My words were supposed to be art. They were supposed to make me and everyone else feel something but apparently, they are too gloomy, like the grief that is too cauterized to be touched and too raw to be spoken of.
I have been fascinated about the breaking of the night into little glow sticks for a long time, I have been an audience to the horror show of tragedies and comedies taking place simultaneously and I have written about them endlessly.
And today when the universe has reversed its pace; when the friable moon has made its place between the life and the star and turned the reflections upon us red… I wonder if we will survive this loop, the playlist of the most depressing songs which is never-ending, the comedy that occurs just to clear the way for another tragedy, the momentary happiness they give us.
…and about art, what will be its significance if destruction and draining emotions are considered to be tragically artistic? If that is art then I want none of it. The way you describe it can be art but somebody free falling into an abyss cannot be. If that’s art, I reject being an artist.
Today, we are told again not to look up at the sky, not because of malevolence or corrosion but just because they want it these ways, they want us to fantasize tragedies because someday, giving up on ourselves will never feel easier! A little effort is all it takes.
//of eclipses that cast a lot more than a shadow…
-Aishwarya Diwakar

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