observations.

We marvel at the hush of stars, pin them to ceilings, etch constellations in our wrists, but forget the clamor of crickets that stitch the night from the ground up. A child presses her ear to a seashell, searching for the echo of oceans she's never seen meanwhile, the rain on her roof sings the same, in a tongue too familiar to be holy. We praise the silence of ancient ruins, travel miles to walk on sunbaked stone but curse the crumbling wall at the back of our homes where moss writes slow histories in a green script we never read. the pebble beneath our shoe once lived a thousand years in riverbeds "O, that is nuisance, not a memory." What are we? We are exiles from the republic of immediacy, tourists in our own elements, worshippers of distance,pilgrims of what is already gone. -Fahad Fayaz

Spring arrives not merely as a season but also as a provocation an ontological rupture veiled in blossoms. The word spring-echoes resistance, the image of coiled tension released, of a world rebounding from winter's pressure, yet this very recoil gestures toward a deeper disquiet, what does it mean to return, cyclically, to life, to warmth, to bloom, if each return is shadowed by the certainty of decay? Is spring a resurrection or a repetition compulsion? In its relentless re-emergence, does it affirm life or mock it by reducing it to a patterned inevitability? If it does? perhaps then, to celebrate spring is to tacitly accept the farce of renewal; to lament it is to resist the seduction of nothing but a mere illusion. Either way, it demands reckoning, not with flowers, but with time, death, and the myth of progress. Fahad Fayaz

I ride through streets where history lingers, branded, sold, left in the rain? A hand lifts, reaching— not for bread, but for the illusion of choice? The warmth is the capital now, a coffee clutched against the cold of a world that forgets its own hands? What happened? Clocks ring and not tick Where to find the meaning? Is it indifference or ignorance? Postmodernism or anything else?