An island where I thought I had lost my people*
It’s been several minutes while I am sitting in darkness, on that old chair, of which an arm support is broken into two pieces. I am staring at the balcony window of our living room feeling cold, because of the wind coming in just from the right corner of that window. Stars are there as always, resembling specks of dirt in the night-time darkness. Meanwhile, I am missing smoking a cigarette. That ugly yet pleasant smell, I am missing its smoke making my throat and lungs ill.
Writing poetry amid pure marketing*
I sneaked into my parents’ home studio late at night, me, silently slipping away to watch the telly with a family-size Coca-Cola. I looked askance at my dad’s camera on his desk, it had an orange ‘click’ and metal plating: always appealing for a four-year-old. From that day on, I have always been enjoying observing it, looking closely, cherishing its details, I adored the feeling of how my little hand adjusted to it. Without a doubt, the most delightful was to put my eye in a
