Writer's own thoughts!

  They do not know my name, yet they speak it inwardly as if repetition could convert exposure into permission. As if watching long enough—scrolling, lingering, memorizing the tilt of a smile rendered pixel by pixel—could justify digital stalking dressed up as affection, A devotion that mistakes access for intimacy and observation for reciprocity. In this architecture of screens, digital obsession grows quietly, not with the violence of intrusion but with the persistence of attention. The kind that never knocks yet feels entitled to entry, The kind that believes every posted fragment is an invitation rather than a remainder, Left deliberately incomplete. Here, online entitlement does not announce itself as a threat; It arrives politely, disguised as concern, admiration, curiosity— Why did you disappear? Why did you not post today? Why did you not respond— Questions that assume my availability as a public utility, My silence as a breach of contract. What they consume is not me, ...

  I do not vanish from the world;  I learn instead the older art of appearing partially. The way dusk offers light without confession, The way water reflects a face yet refuses to keep it. I allow the morning to speak through a cup warming my palms, Through a window rehearsing the sky, But I withhold the coordinates of my breath, Because some selves, once rendered in full resolution, Are never returned to their original owners. The eye of the machine asks for clarity, symmetry, and obedience— It wants my face as data, my hours as pattern,  My silence as consent— So I answer with angles, with cropped horizons,  With hands that hold language instead of evidence, With shadows trained to mean presence without surrender. What they call sharing, I rename selection; What they call access, I dilute into fragments. Enough warmth to remain legible, Never enough exposure to be consumed and overtly visible. My life continues to pulse online, yes, but behind a membrane woven of c...

When the dawn shifts to dusk and everything is quiet on the frontier, Ask yourself if it is necessary to burn like the sunlight in the misty morning. In the dew—you get wet without any signs of overpowering  heavy rain, Without any reason. Ask yourself if you need to show each and every parts of yourself to the world that doesn't care, That doesn't care about your well-being, Your life, visions and contributions, Or, your emotions. All the social goods that you do for people while you are simply breathing, Your simple existence had made so many differences, But, people do not care, The world doesn't care how much it took from you, Your smile, Your passion,  Your strength, your happiness. Ask yourself when you don't feel the urge to connect or showcase anything to the world, Would you live or act the same? How many people are you connecting with, actually by exposing yourself? People only admires the exterior, They don't see the grind nor the loneliness, People only ...

Once a blonde girl sang song by the seashore, Now, she writes dark lyrics for the gone people, Once she was into white and black spectrum, She wore royal navy blue. Now she wears colors of hue. Those were the color of hurdles that were put on her, She was chained to her death in the death-chamber, Amber like her cheeks were fainted pale in the cruelty of cold winter. She stays between the greys now, declining all the binaries. Nothing is too bad; nothing is too good. But can love be relative? Or, is it eternal? The wounds are eternal for sure. But, what about the subconscious  memories that lie beneath the surface  like an undercurrent in the deep blue sea?! She once wore blue, Now she herself became a tragic deep sea. An ocean of blue grief passes in her body like never ending currents, She does not know where the shore is. She keeps surfing. Surfing in the deep blue ocean of grief. Grief does not knock. It arranges itself beneath the floorboards of breath. Folded carefully, ...

  The handpicked flower doesn’t know it has died.... it still leans into the warmth of a borrowed palm, still believes the sky is close, that thirst is only a pause before rain. Its fragrance keeps speaking, long after the stem has forgotten its roots, long after the soil has closed its mouth and refuses to answer. Petals rehearse memory, not loss.... they soften, they bruise, they fall without ever naming the violence that called it love. If death is distance, then the flower is innocent: it does not measure absence, It does not recognize abuse, it does not accuse the hand. It only fades, thinking this quiet allure is rest. Thinking this dusky mist is blessed. ©® Farheen Akter Bhuian Nancy  Time Frame: 8 am, Morning, Tea, Officer's mess