Mesh Toraskar
Bio
A wannabe storyteller from London. Sometimes words spill out of me and the only way to mop the spillage is to write them down.
"If you arrive here, remember, it wasn't you - it was me, in my longing, who found you."
Stories (31/0)
Acquiescing to Colour: An Anthem
Sometimes, just before I fully sink into the deliciousness of sleep, as I hover on the moistened lip of unconsciousness, I see myself creating the world’s next literary masterpiece. In this vision, I am in a well-lit room, and strewn all over the room are myriad supplies: books, pens, notepads, figuratively epicentred by my confident vision and literally by a standing desk. The world’s next literary masterpiece will be a novel, as much a coming-of-age story as it is a coming-of-art.
By Mesh Toraskar10 months ago in Writers
Aftersun (dir. Charlotte Wells)
Memories, misunderstood as crystallised time capsules trellising our pasts are anything but. Real and imagined crudely stitched. Some tactile; others soft as ghosts, likely to morph upon discovery. Both evocative, neither enough to paint someone’s lingering silhouette whole.
By Mesh Toraskar11 months ago in Critique
In my quest to not get existential
I failed. Not the challenge, no! I am surprised I completed that with minimal difficulty. But to not fill myself with dread when left alone with my thoughts and given the freedom to spill them out without structure, form or intent.
By Mesh Toraskarabout a year ago in Humor