He wrote in tongues no one could read, yet his verses made people weep — as if recognizing something ancient in themselves.
By GoldenSpeech11 months ago in Chapters
She kept his clocks running after his death, though none told the right time. The hands pointed only toward where he used to stand.
One night, the sky went blank. Humans tried to remember constellations by heart. The sky listened, and the stars slowly returned.
Before him, everything was gray. He named red “hunger,” blue “distance,” and green “forgiveness.” The world suddenly made sense — and then stopped being mysterious.
He painted unseen forces — things that held the world down. People said his art made them feel heavier, and more real.
It burned cold and eternal. Those who stood near it never aged, but forgot what warmth felt like.
The Year I Stopped Performing Happiness I used to think happiness was a performance — a kind of social currency you traded for belonging. Smile at the right moments, say “I’m fine” when people ask, post the highlight reel online, and you’ll convince the world you’re okay. Maybe, in time, you’ll convince yourself too.
By SHAYAN11 months ago in Chapters
A poet discovered a word that meant everything and nothing. When he whispered it, speech ended — and understanding began.
Unwalked for centuries, it began to imagine footsteps — and from imagination, grass grew.
It ticked irregularly — not with seconds, but with emotions. Those who listened too long aged faster.
His canvases aged before his eyes — one minute newborn, the next ancient. Collectors couldn’t decide if they were looking at art or history.
Walls murmured names as people passed. When the house was torn down, the rubble whispered until wind scattered it silent.
