The Clarity Chronicles Media

    We all exaggerated our COVID experiences , but what about the medium itself that sustained us the air we breathe? Is it still safe, still usable? No. We are taking nature for granted in countless ways: deforestation , chemical emissions from factories , unnecessary fires , people smoking in frustration … Have you ever thought about this? — We slept with our eyes open, While wonders of the air we breathed silently killed, While factories swallowed space, While fires burned nights within — but who counts the smokes, the fires, the factories? We donned masks when the virus came, Wearing them as guardians of ourselves… but the city still breathes unprotected. Where inhalers are compulsion, not choice, When scars turn too dreadful to watch, When stars blur into haze, When people scream in the dead of night, When inhalers become lifelines. A kid clutches her chest— asking with innocence, "we wore a mask, but who will mask the city itself?"

When tricolor threads itself into the sky and the air hums with the heartbeat of freedom, we remember — independence was never gifted, it was earned, bled for, and dreamt into reality. Yet, as the flag unfurls in the wind, I cannot help but wonder: is freedom only about borders, or does it live in the quiet courage to speak, to create, and to hope? The answer lies not in history alone, but in the voices we raise today. People think that telling a girl she is “not enough” will break her spirit. Yet history proves the opposite — it forges her into something unforgettable, a name that becomes a warning to the world whenever the word “injustice” is spoken. That’s what they did to her: turned her into a symbol, not of weakness, but of the price of silence. No one knows the weight of guilt a person carries in the dark, yet the world keeps adding stones to it with words never asked for. They never ask, “Are you okay?” Instead, they demand strength as if it’s a birthright. And so, another girl...

A SERIES HONORING THE POEMS THAT COULD'NT BE POSTED :      Healing or Just Hiding Behind a Mask? A DISAPPEARANCE CALLED HEALING We burned the masks, not the memory, Laughed in crowds, not in therapy. No alarms this time, just silent fear — Did we heal, or just disappear? THE ECHOES OF HALLWAYS We moved ahead, but left a trace, Of sanitizer and a guarded face. No sirens screamed, no headlines roared, Just empty desks and hearts ignored. So tell me now, are we truly free? Or walking ghosts of what used to be? SOMEWHERE BETWEEN HEALING AND HIDING We coughed in corners, not just with breath, But with thoughts too loud and fears of death. We grew in silence, we aged in screens, And called it life, in shattered routines. Now if we’re asked: “Did you survive?” We’d say — “We did... but not all alive.” So if healing comes, let it come slow, Let it touch the parts we never show.

Healing or Just Hiding Behind a Mask?   We smiled behind the masks for long,  Humming hope like a quiet song.  Now the world seems fine, but still we feel —  Did we ever hurt enough to heal?              COVID-19 has us turning back to our deepest nightmares — returning in a scene we never imagined it would. With cases rising once again, students are returning to fear — carrying emotional baggage we never wanted to unpack again.          No alarms this time, just coughing rooms,       The silence louder in headline tombs.         Did we heal, or just forget to feel?          Did we cure the wound, or hide what’s real?        They say fear takes the form of whatever we dread the most — and just when we finally believed it was all over, that we were free, that nothing could take away our offline schooling or peaceful...

  A SERIES HONORING THE POEMS THAT COULD'NT BE POSTED :                  WE WERE AT WAR : NOT JUST WITH THEM, BUT WITHIN .....WE FOUGHT.... We didn’t just bleed on borders, We bled in beliefs. We didn’t just fall in war zones, We fell in silence. But still— We rose. They said we were at war. But weren’t we always? Fighting for peace, Losing sleep, And praying silence wins someday. But borders didn’t break that day — hearts did. And the loudest noise wasn't from missiles — it was from mothers watching the news. NOT FOR GLORY, BUT FOR US They rose with fire, not fame in mind, Their courage carved in every line. Not just the guns, but hearts that bled, For every word that went unsaid. A PART OF US STILL STOOD UP Schools stand empty, playgrounds still, Convoys rumble, and time stands still. Sirens wail, a chilling song, Innocence lost where fears belong. Words on paper, protests declared, Voices plead, but no one’s prepared. In halls of powe...

  A SERIES HONORING THE POEMS THAT COULD'NT BE POSTED :          MURDERER OF NATURE: GUILTY AS CHARGED? ROOTS REMEMBERED We carved roads through forests deep, And sowed no seeds, yet longed to reap. The rivers cried, the skies turned grey, Still we marched the modern way. But roots remember—trees don’t forget, The promises we broke, the silent debt. So now the wind no longer sings, It howls with pain at what progress brings.

  We Were at War : Not Just with Them, But Within Sirens didn’t just echo through the valleys — they echoed through our minds. Not every war is fought with weapons; some are fought in whispers, in breaking news, in homes where fear knocks louder than truth. Not just in the sky, But in our hearts. They weren’t just sounds of warning — They were echoes of history, Of blood, and borders, Of fears too old, and futures too fragile. The youth, the future, the silent protesters in school uniforms and social media stories — we didn’t start this war, but we feel its weight. Not because we are soldiers on the frontier, but because we are hearts on the sidelines. And in this war — of ego, borders, power, and pain — every heart counts. This isn’t just about two countries. This is about two kinds of silence — the one before the bomb drops, and the one that follows when the world forgets.   WHAT TRIGGERED THE FLAMES AGAIN?                   ...

 The Murderer of Nature: Guilty as Charged?                                 People often say that life is about repaying our mother — through love, sacrifices, and efforts to make her happy. But is that truly what we are doing?  Maybe we've repaid our mothers , but at what cost? The cost of money, perhaps — earned by cutting down trees, the first children of our Mother Earth . Or through mining activities that scar her skin and slowly erode the soul of our natural heritage . Are we truly shaping our culture, or are we blindly exploiting our future in the name of progress? Is it enough to cut trees for development? Or should we begin planting them — not just as a gift to nature, but as a debt we owe to Mother Earth ?   As her concerned child who truly cares for our mother and her future, shouldn't we stop focusing only on what fills our pockets—by cutting down trees and damaging our own pro...