Aryaman Kakkar's Archive

Glittering, gleaming, shining cityscape. Cinema at its finest as a pair take the wilderness as their stage, their feet shuffling and flying. All we hear is the swish of her dress as it hits his trousers and the sound of dust being kicked up against the peak of humanity. There is no music here.  The full moon somehow has enough light to give and we see each sequins, each weave of their expensively poor clothes, and we are invoked as ghosts of everlasting futures. Suspended animation / willful suspension of disbelief - it's all the same to us. Different names, same surround sound system. Moonlight is darker with the smudges of the histories and poems that clamour its name, and we add silver lamplight to make up for the humanity that afflicts it.  There is no perfect shadow here. Let's change this picture a bit shall we?  Add the dust of a landscape that bears the weight of the artists it failed to provide for. The ugly neon of lamplights that would replace the moonlight and...

  I should lessen the amount of times I cry listening to music, even if it's just for a few seconds. Sadness is a comfort now.  I told someone about a hidden daydream. Wearing a wine-dark plain lehenga underneath a deep lilac kurta. Twirl the swirling fabric to show off my painted Vans; I hope they last until I get a chance. Aquamarine nail-polish and tattoos of flowers as thick bands on my wrists. I always loved the idea of covering my wrist, but never enjoyed the weight of watches and chafing rakhis. A tattooed choker around my neck, I think I like the idea of being bound too much. Not having to make decisions, letting go… I remember reading once “Those who delight in being alone are either beasts or gods” and I don’t want to know who said it. Cause it would mean a man said it, and I can’t have any more memories sullied with mortality. Its fallibility. Everything would fall apart if we gave to it its history and context and author, not because of the disbelief that something...