A story about a funeral in the dead of the summer.
With the relapse of summer on its idyllic deathbed, I once again draw nothing with the close. It is the same feeling that follows me with every untimely visit to living mortuaries in the outskirts of city, bordered by red district lights and the wick of laden candles. Where concrete becomes an overture to a short-lived piece that we drag on and on.
Prospects of a middle-class seventeen-year-old growing at the pangs of a falling country that has forgotten what its children look like.
I thrive on writing. It’s freeing, and it feels as if that since the very beginning, my imagination has been running on the spill of punctuation and the doting tilde of analogies and similes. Coming more naturally to me than anything else and a forever love despite not being the most avid reader; I’ve taken it upon me to push forward with this mess. An angsty teenager with a pen and the Goodreads quote section for Chuck Palahniuk or the HelloPoetry collective of Allen Ginsberg is recipe for crisis.
So, I published a chapbook that contains a collection of my poetry and am in process of continuing a winter novel that has become so much more than I initially anticipated. Read more to find out about them, and stuff.