‘The oppressed, instead of striving for liberation, tend themselves to become oppressors’ (Freire, 1968). This ideology proposed by philosopher Paulo Freire, draws the spitting image of Animal Farm under the rule of Napoleon. In revolting against Mr Jones, animals gained authority and power to rule their own lives, creating a…

Photo by Enzo B on Unsplash

The door only opens at night. When the sky is darker than the shadows that lurk in and out of the winding corridors only broken by the ghostly gleam of the full moon, and the misty rain that pitters and patters against the windows. I hear its rusty lock click…

Photo by Nate Neelson on Unsplash



do I feel

so exhausted…

we were an embodiment of ecstatic euphoria

that rush of adrenaline as you take your first hit

that night blur of intoxication

we were something…

oh were we something…

there I am standing untouched

hands curled in my sleeves,

my jacket zipped all…

Photo by Johannes Plenio

During the silent hours of the night,

sleep steals me away,

from the steady rhythm of your heart,

from your chest rising and falling against my back,

But even then,

my dreams are of you and me

when once,

there was only me

I dream of the breeze that swirls…

Photo by Scott Van Hoy

The story starts with a message in a bottle, an old-time convention when pirates ruled the sea. But now when bottles travel up from the waves, who is to say, what will emerge from underneath?

Trapped within borders, a girl sits and dreams; about the people and places, stuck in…

Photo by Stijn Swinnen

Explosions felt from miles away,

Our slow yet sudden march to death,

The skies above us coloured sickly pale,

Anticipating our very last breath,

The lines were drawn,

And the shots were fired,

My comrades turned stiff beside me,

Our wall of men growing tired,

Yet no one willing to…

Photo by Chris Calviello

The night begins and ends beside the river Seine, illuminated by warm lights dancing atop its dark waters. A light breeze carries the soft hum of the joyous accordions and violins sounding down the cobblestone through the lively yet secret labyrinthine alleys of Paris. There, upon a stone ledge overlooking…

Aashna Pant

a poet. a writer. or at least I like to call myself that.

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