Year: 2017

In Solitude They Are Least Alone:

‘Martin!’ ….’Martin, Martin! Look out into the street tomorrow, for I shall come.’ Martin Avdeiteh, a cobbler who lived in a certain town in Leo Tolstoy‘s short story: Where Love Is, God is. A black/white city. All quiet, static, befogged, moist, damped, or even imbecile where in a humid and pluvial morning someone has forgotten to close the windows and left for work. Think of this empty apartment. What would be the perception without someone to witness the apartment, the open window, the wet floors right under it, the damped wind, the swinging almanac on the wall, the hapless town and the savanna right outside of it, the dangling meadows and shrubs, the forests and the trees, the mild waves on the lake, the dew and water drops on the leaves, the pristine and occult spirits that only incarnate in secrecy? Or what could possibly be the perception of a post-apocalyptic city, all gray and demolished, the shattered houses, the annihilated people, or a billowing and corrugating sea at night, a dense and perplexed forest in …

The Ghost of Anhedonia:

If you walk towards west you’ll meet a crossing. There is a cafe right across the street. Closed. A road has come straight from the west, one from the south and another from north. If you walk to north, the road is quite dusty and fuzzy yellow light shines upon the place to make it look surreal. And, yeah, you’ll get to see a record store and a lady of around 30 years, probably the owner of it, noticing your existence and your walk with her cold eyes while sitting on a bench and cleaning the vinyls, on your way, right beside the closed cafe, to the north pointedly. A 2 minutes walk and you’ll get to see it.. Dreams can be admittedly expressive and are, in some ways, able to exhibit the tangible world through distortion, exaggeration, primitivism, and fantasy. However, it’s not that I have ample knowledge of dreams but what I do have is ample amount of defiled instincts. About 1937, Max Ernst, a German painter, sculptor, graphic artist, poet and a primary pioneer of the Dada movement and Surrealism, …

One Person at a Time: An Oasis of Serenity Amidst the Heart of Bakkhali

3:30 am was when the phone rang. Nobody answered. 4:00 am, the alarm went off. I woke up, gave a call back, did a few other calls, went to the bathroom, brush my teeth, took the backpack, set out. 5:12 am was when the train was supposed to arrive. Was it on time? I don’t remember. When we reached in Bakkhali it was around 9 O’Clock in the morning. The beach was almost empty like most of the time. Minimalism has always been a thing for me. From a piece of music to a mediocre sea with a wide beach with no or few people, it has been something I’ve always found myself in love with. I have been asked a lot of times why do I love to be in a place or spend my money for a place that has no impregnate beauty whatsoever! Not that I have been able to quench their thirst for a legitimate answer because minimalism itself is a complex and abstract subject. A couple of days ago I …