Sunday, February 9, 2025

Interstellar, Regrets & Mocktails

Spoiler Alert: If you haven't watched the movie yet.

Today, I watched
Interstellar again. There’s something about the film that always feels like it reaches into my chest and probes for something deep inside me. It’s like being caught in a vortex of emotions that, for a fleeting moment, leave you grappling with the vastness of space and the fragility of time itself. This time, it struck me even harder. Maybe it's because lately I've been so acutely aware of how time feels like something slipping through my fingers these days. Always too slow in making decisions, always regretting what I didn’t do, and always a casualty of time. Always a step behind, like life is moving forward and I’m watching from a distance, helpless to catch up. I suppose that’s why Interstellar hit so hard today. Its unsettling dance between the infinite and the finite made me reflect on my own life and the moments I’ve let slip by.

Time. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? The way it stretches and bends, sometimes moving so slowly and other times rushing past without warning. Something I couldn't shake after the movie ended. The scene that really got me this time was when Dad Cooper ends up in the fifth dimension. It's where time itself is the physical space, and Cooper is trying to make sense of the very thing that has kept him away from his children for so long.

The fifth dimension scene, where Cooper is in that strange, endless space, is obviously a stunning visualization of the layers of time. The moment he realizes that he's not just looking at physical objects but at moments, memories—fragments of time itself—is so shuddering. It struck me because I’ve often thought about time like that, if it's a thing we could touch or shape. I could feel this need in the scene: Cooper’s desperate need to communicate, to somehow make up for the lost years and choices that were never made. As he frantically tries to send a message through gravity to Daughter Murph, it feels like regret is getting embodied in front of his eyes.

Watching that scene felt like staring at a mirror. How many times have I wished I could go back and change a decision? How many times have I looked at my life and felt like there was something I missed, something I didn’t do or say in time? It’s an overwhelming feeling. The film shows time is not just a linear force—it’s something that can be manipulated, something we can control or be controlled by. Not sure about actuality. But Cooper’s desperate attempt to alter the past mirrors how I often feel. Maybe not in such an extraordinary way, but there are moments when I wish I could turn back time, fix mistakes, or have the courage to seize opportunities I let slip away.

It’s this paradox of time that makes me belly-churningly 
uncomfortable that forces me to rethink: How much of the past can we change? How much control do we have over our own time, and when do we have to let go of the regrets that haunt us? Especially when it comes to human relationships? And, love? Cooper’s love for his children, especially for Murph, his guidance through the vastness of space. Love is the reason he can’t let go of his mission, love is the reason he went on this mission, and love is the reason he reaches out across time to communicate with her.

Gut-wrenching it is when Cooper watches the video messages from his children, spanning 23 years. Son Tom expresses his frustration and eventual acceptance of Cooper's absence, turning the funerals of his granddad and child into his father's as well, while Murph shares her birthday message, revealing that she is now the same age Cooper was when he left.
"But today's my birthday. And it's a special one, because you told me... you once told me that when you came back, we might be the same age," hit me like a ton of bricks. She has grown up without him, and that he has missed so much of her life is a powerful testament to the fact that being a casualty of time makes you gain a lot of distance between you and the people in your life.

I’ve often heard people say that time changes things, but does it really? Or does it simply ingrain those connections even further? I’ve experienced moments where I let time slip away thinking I would reach out later—years of distance between friends, family, and even romantic relationships. I wonder: Does time heal wounds? At the end, when Cooper and Murph finally reconnect, she tells him that she always knew he was out there, that she never gave up hope. The sheer emotion of that moment, the weight of all those years of separation, is something I can’t quite put into words. I can’t help but think about the people I’ve drifted away from—what would it take to reconnect? And would it be worth it? Time is fleeting. Every second I spend regretting the past or worrying about the future is one I lose in the present. We can make choices that affect our future. It made me think about how I navigate my own life. Am I really making the most of my time? Am I cherishing the relationships I have? Or am I constantly chasing something that’s just out of reach, like Cooper chasing time in that fifth dimension?

- Oizys.

Wednesday, February 5, 2025

Turning Point [of Weather] — Winter ends, Sun shines

It has been a roller coaster. I do not have the zeal to write. But I kind of have to. There is a weird cosmic energy called "annoying thoughts and pecking memories" that is making me. If I don't, they will keep swirling in this porta potty of vegetable brain of mine. Metaphors and jibes will keep the hurricane around and destroy my focus. 

The first job has ended. Closed that whole book, but not before making me have a full-blown and final settlement of breakdown on the 28th of January. It made me cry my brains out, which almost made it sound like I was praying. On my knees in a temple, begging for someone. [Hah. Begging to have someone I could turn to. Begging to have someone I could lie beside. Begging to have someone hold my hand. Begging to have someone who would be a non-judgemental pair of ears. Begging to have someone who would not pick my wounds but just silently bandage them. Begging to have someone who would not ask me to stop crying but contain all my flowing tears. Begging to have someone who would not pry further into what's wrong but just acknowledge something is wrong. Just someone. Anyone. Oh.] As the last working date crawled closer, everything just felt like it was dragging me around. It reminded me of those days when I would return home walking or cycling after a long, hard day with a full bladder about to explode, and the nearer I would get to home, the longer the distance would get. The more and more I would understand the importance of Kegels.

Finally, 31st of January. The whole day went by quite busy. It was all the very same or more strenuous, I would say. Until the end of the business day. Then, we had a final call. Ugh. This ugh is a mixture product of awkwardness, guilt, rotten anger, and some unjustified, irrational, unwillful sadness. All in all, each and every component is capable of making me hurl [both ways]. Everyone said nice words. Some said nicer ones. And some were just nice to keep my bile at bay. No matter what, it was an experience that is now forever etched in the geological record of my career. Doesn't matter if I remove it from the ol' resume or delete it from LinkedIn. It is here to stay forever. Even though I spent the last few weeks, in particular, sewing some distasteful comments to use in order to successfully burn the bridges, I could not. I like to believe it is because, underneath it all, I am a polite person. Some might argue it is just plain cowardice.

Anyway. Dreamy, unemployed weekend passed by. The 1st of February was sweet. The sun came up and shone like a good, obedient boy. My mother & I are suckers for sunny infant days. The initial rays of warmth hitting the stone cold and melting you just change your perspective. Even for half a day, it does. The winter is gone.

And the 3rd of February arrived quite quickly. I waited and waited. The new company seems to be on some retreat in a faraway coastal city. Some person did reach out for a bit of onboarding but only gave the ticket and asked me to wait in the line. So, I did. But while waiting, I fell asleep. And, might I say, I had the sweetest sleep in a long, long time. Actually sweet. It did not leave an aftertaste of guilt and regret, nor did it give me headaches. I woke up feeling refreshed. Woah. It almost feels blasphemous writing such things.

4th of February woke me up in a pool of blood and passed by with some side dish of anxiety of whether they remember me and if I exist or not. Not before fixing it with some fantastical made-ups. The night wrapped itself up with the pondering of whether fantastical make-believes are still fantasy if they become real. Is it still fantasy after one becomes reality and I still spend myself in woolgathering, or does it transform into setting next goals? Hmmm... 

5th arrived knocking on doors with some reassurance from the other side that I will surely be onboarded tomorrow as the retreat wraps up today, so I should also take chill. I spent my day repeating to myself to remind myself to take chill and did heaps of laundry while doing some pre-work prep. As the day ended, I could feel a bug of fear making itself known. Maybe that's why I am still awake. Do I want to sabotage this too? Do I not trust myself? Believe in myself? Yep, right. How could I forget? Nothing ever changes. I think my mother is giving me that look. I should retire. Good luck to me for tomorrow. Hope I am strong enough to contain whatever shit hits the fan.

- Oizys.

Sunday, January 12, 2025

My Hunger, My Starvation :: My Shame, My Salvation

My hunger was long dead. I remember. It was prolonged and deliberate. Died when I was a single digit. I killed it with my mother's hatred and father's anger. It took its time to depart, and I made sure it was silent. It whinged a little during the nights under the low lights. I remember how the hunger fought back, clawing and howling, begging to be fed. It had small, short-lived moments of victory. 

As I grew, the starvation anchored me. The emptiness kept me up. And with it, I killed my appetite. I thought that was victory. I received compliments too! The absence of hunger and indifference towards consumption felt like control, like I’d finally tamed the wild beast inside me. But now, when I eat—when I let the smallest morsel pass my lips—it’s not hunger that returns. It’s something worse. 

It’s shame.

I went out to eat today. The emptiness inside me opens like a vortex, and the food tumbles into it, disappearing before I even realise what I’m doing. There’s no pleasure, no satisfaction—just the raw act of filling a void that never truly fills. And after I finished, I could not help but notice how beastly it was. Reflected in the knife’s edge or the gloss of a spoon. My gut, crouching behind my ribs, its jaws smeared with shame. I looked around, and it’s like suddenly a different world, one where I’m an outsider. I am sat at the table, the empty plate in front of me a gaping wound. 

The act of eating. Mechanical and humiliating. Like I unlearned how to eat when I killed hunger.

I killed my hunger, but I didn’t bury it. I starved my appetite, but I didn’t forget how to consume. Now I devour like an animal, and when I’m done, all that remains is the shame. It seeps into my skin, into my breath, into the very air around me.

Maybe now, all that’s left is the hunger and the shame. And me, somewhere in between. Or, right in the core of the vortex.

I starve because I think it will save me. I eat because I’m still human. But when I do, I remember why I stopped. I don’t know how to stop this cycle. I starve. I eat. I am ashamed. I starve again.

- Oizys.

Wednesday, January 8, 2025

Nothing Changes... Ever

I am still me. I am still scared. Still anxious. Hesitant. Shrinkingly worried. Rattled by everything, even the sound of my own typing. Everything just ruffling my feathers. Trying to get under my skin. Do we ever change? Does anything ever change like it does in television? How that one tired crone sips some luxurious tea and becomes the picture of health, epitome of beauty. I am still constrained by my own crippling fear of what will happen tomorrow morning. It keeps me physically captured. I cannot seem to shake it off and stop over-apprehending it. Maybe, when I seek change, I hope it to happen on molecular levels. Changes not only big, but changes that are so small that they slip past our conscious mind, forging themselves into the glass sheet between who I am and who I could be. And, when I don't have that, I feel the same. Remain the same. Rot the same. Cry the same. Live the same. And, that is probably my worst fear. Not failing in an exam, not unable to find a job, not not being able to quit a toxic job. But, not being able to change my construct. It is the same bricks and I keep building the same house. The doors keep slamming. And, the windows never open. Nor, they close properly. And, no one comes and rings the bell. No one comes looking for me. The world outside moves on, indifferent to the house I keep rebuilding. I wonder if it knows I’m here, or if I’ve become invisible, hidden behind these walls of my own making. The rooms are always so quiet and the walls are always stickily closing in. The emptiness is heavy and all the boxes feel hollow—reminding me of all the words I never said, all the doors I never dared to walk through. It’s not that I don’t want someone to come. It’s that I don’t know how to let them in without showing them the cracks, the places where the foundation buckles under its own weight. It's not that I don't want someone to help me. It's that what if the rubble reveals nothing worth saving, what if they tear it all down and find there’s no blueprint for something better? So, I keep playing with the same bricks. I sleep the same lie. I wake up to the same lie. I know the truth: it’s not the house that traps me. It’s the fear of stepping outside. Fear of being homesick or... not being homesick. Fear of unlearning myself. Fear of altering my code. Of leaving these bricks behind and learning how to stand under the open sky: unshielded, vulnerable, alive.

- Oizys.

P.S.: I don't know if I am making sense. I actually cannot sleep because I am dreading every single day of this notice period, and I do not want to wake up tomorrow morning to log in again. And I wish I had someone to crib about this with, but since I pushed basically every single person away, far away, with all these stubborn bricks, this corner of the web is the only place I have. 

Saturday, January 4, 2025

I Resigned

I resigned yesterday. It was surreal and quick. I still cannot believe it. My body seemed to not be able to handle it, and I could feel red, hot, gaseous bile rising that kept me up and walking almost the entire night. Yesterday morning was colossally bad, and I could not seem to wait for the written offer for this new job, and everything was getting too scratchy with my skin and patience. And it just happened. All of a sudden. I got it, and I sent that heavily marinated letter of resignation. Then the barrage of messages and calls hit me. I just took them, answering with first thoughts with my mind. Did not think at all. No second thoughts injected by others' manipulation. I stood still. I have to. All of last year, I resigned every day from the joys of life (I cannot believe I am using phrases like 'joys of life,' though...), cribbed every single minute, and cried my eyes out thanking I have a remote job so my co-workers cannot see me cry. And, I cannot believe I was the one who decided to put an end to it yesterday. I felt capability seeping into my veins, invading with fear and cowardice. A pool of brave tremor? Courageous hesitation? When you live life starved of purpose and lack of prosper, any fresh air of change will send a chill down your spine. Trigger your gut. Open up your untapped marrow of life to possible infections too. The following hours felt blurrily bizarre. Like, I could almost hear the sound of my own pulse thumping in my throat, a constant reminder that this was real. I thought about how little of it made sense—how everything had felt like a long, drawn-out mistake that I had grown used to. Yet, here I was, making the decision that would set it all in motion. I had always pictured this moment, decided how it would feel, the exact words I would say, but reality never really follows the script you write. There’s no cinematic relief, no big dramatic pause where everything falls into place. It’s just... quiet. And in that quiet, I could feel something inside me starting to shift. It’s not peace, exactly, but a heavy silence. The kind that comes right before something profound changes. I thought I would feel stronger, like a person who finally figured it out. Instead, I felt small. A bundle of fear wrapped up in impatience, waiting to see what this “bravery” would lead to. Would it unravel me? Would I be someone completely different when it was all over? Or would I be just a mess, wandering in a new direction? Still, there’s a strange comfort in the mess. A feeling of being exposed, raw, vulnerable even, but alive in a way I hadn’t felt in months. I guess this is what they don’t tell you about breaking away from something that’s been draining the life out of you. You’re not met with instant relief but with a stark awareness of how long you’ve been in that space. It’s like stepping into daylight after a long, endless night—your eyes struggle to adjust, but you know it’s a good thing. So, I sit here now, waiting for the next wave to come, not knowing what will happen next, but understanding that I had to be the one to pull myself out. Even if it means stumbling, even if it means falling. At least I know I’m falling forward.

Through the trees, a glimmer of orange light—like the first spark of change. Resigning was my sunrise. New beginnings of embracing change.

- Oizys.

Tuesday, December 31, 2024

The Best Endings Are Always Wrapped In Change (Or, Just The Anticipation Of It?)

Life is not concrete. Endings are not coherent. Is it supposed to make sense? Or it does not, but since it has already happened, we attribute certain sense to it so we can manipulate ourselves? Sometimes, all you need is one small beam of blurriness, and it can heal wounds that you thought never existed. Even if it unresolves itself later, it balms your red-coaled belly with all its layers turned inside out with somersaulting anxiety and panic attacks. The whole year I kept diminishing myself in size, in attitude, in mindset, in living. I erased myself so much that I felt more disappeared than I could. I shrank my existence. Kept my mind thirsty until it started scratching its own surface looking for droplets of survival. And all it took was one phone call. Few words to describe the verbal offer of a job for which I haven't received the letter. And it made me the picture of health and contentment. Made me shiver with all the happiness that I had buried deep inside my mother's old almirah. It made me question all of it at once. Is it real? Or am I dreaming? Since when have I started dreaming in high quality, though? I am still the same, but something just changed forever. Is this what change is like? So quietly seismic, like the moment you realise you’ve been holding your breath for a decade and now you can finally exhale. Does this mean I have come up with new fodder for my mental masturbation, by the way? Does this mean I have to move forward? Evolve? I have to grow. I have to be more. I cannot shrivel up under my three layers of blankets whenever things get difficult and not eat for a week. The last day of this parched year ended with getting absolutely gutted sick after eating some overpriced pizza, which was mildly tasteful. I cannot decide whether it was worth it or not. Because I cannot, until now, believe some things might actually be happening. To me. For me. In favour of me. For some reason, it is not an idea that is exactly chewable for me. Perhaps the indigestion? I keep thinking, why do I think like this? Am I truly not capable, or is it just a long year of nothingness and rejections that made my confidence starve to the brink of extinction? I just knew I had to write. Write something. So that I can store it, ink it forever. That at least one random anonymous account on the wide web will read and decide to leave an ambiguous comment underneath. Because I know this for sure: there are many more worse days to come in a life like mine, but such moments of giddy and childlike hope will perhaps keep me going, keep me grounded, keep me reminded that I was once capable of feeling worthy, happy, & sanguine… This is anyone who ever reads this (if anyone reading this): I sincerely distribute this meagre ration of hope amongst you that you get all of what you hope for this new year. Even if you are scared. Even if you are confused. Even if you are a bit inexperienced. Even if you fail after you get it. You are unsure. Indecisive. I hope you get it. And experience it. Experiment with it. Perhaps, just merely surviving is getting old now. Maybe it is time for enjoying the ride once in a while. I cannot, for my life, believe I am typing all of this. Words with scorching optimism. And maybe all of this gets undone when I wake up tomorrow. But I have recorded this moment forever with my words, and I will make it my point of return when things go haywire in the opposite direction.

- Oizys.

Monday, December 30, 2024

Somebody Stop The Clock

Things have been ricocheting lately. It is a hair bundle of 'could be worse' and 'this is the worst I can take.' Amidst this, every day I carry this delusional hope in my head that my life will change tomorrow, and a part of my brain knows it is not going to and stops me from sleeping. And, I juggle. Like a failed clown. Started this year with a constipation so bad I needed someone to excavate it and ending it with a belly so empty, so acidic, my hunger is gutted. With days and nights filled with snot and tears and piercing headaches and ending it with absolute nonchalance tripping over clumsy reality every now and then with empty, itchy eyes. People keep saying things will change; change is the only constant. Then why is it that constancy is the only thing that doesn't change? I have been a stagnant pond. No one visits, no one loves, and no one even bothers to fill me with sand to put an end to it. Reminds me of a woman who lay on a hospital bed for almost half a century in a vegetative state because no one was there around her to pull the plug for her. I see such things, and I contemplate. I try to predict regret. Or, is the prediction itself the first act of it? I review my daydreams and try to measure my tics. I shovel within me, deeper and deeper. And yet, I cannot seem to go back. To pinpoint the past. It all seems burdensome when added up, but when I break them into small, mullable pieces, it doesn't give me that divine richness of spice of life. I chain myself to bed with my blanket and freeze my legs with my taxing thought process. I think of how different I am. How disgustingly I eat dumplings. How common I am. How obscenely mediocre I am. How shamefully hungry I am. How suppressingly faster I am. How full of hate I am. How much love I carry in the attic of this thunderous household of my mind. How upsettingly prepared I am. How bafflingly out of touch I am. How anciently adult I am. How crudely childish I am. I wish to stop all of this. This prolonging train of thought is the worst form of self-flagellation in the fourth circle of hell. It keeps running. On time. No stops missed. And it will keep running. In the same town. Stuck in the same track. Again and again. Again. Until I am completely numb. And incapable of processing a new piece of the world. 

I cannot even think of words to write anymore. Wow, I am adding this part as I edit what I have written in this entry. And... Have I lost it? My ability to write? Is this my final act of bedrotting? I am done... for life? Is this the end of me? The blank pages have always stared back, drafting mocking testaments to the void in my mind. It's not just writer's block, but this? This is a complete and utter shutdown. The words, once my trusted companions, now sound like trapped echoes in the labyrinth of my miragey mind. Even the act of trying feels like a monumental task, each attempt at stringing together a coherent sentence resulting in a humiliating tangle of disconnected literacy. It's as if the very language I've relied on has abandoned me, leaving me under the heavy rocks of silence. I have watched the cursor blink, persistently reminding me of my failure many times. But this is an insult to injury; I catch myself adding this very passage, a desperate attempt to acknowledge the very thing I'm failing at while attempting it for the last time? Am I unraveling? Has the well of my creativity finally run dry? Is this it, then? Only a house of snakes and lowly anger. The slow, silent surrender to the pull of inertia, the final descent into a life lived on the periphery? I'm frozen, caught in this moment, a prisoner of my own mind. Time feels heavy, each tick of the clock a crushing blow. If this is the end, someone, please... Please, somebody stop the clock. Uh, irony?

- Oizys.

Saturday, November 16, 2024

Perpetually Late to the Table of Life

You know, they say life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death. But somehow, I’ve managed to be the one perpetually late to the table. It’s almost comical in a dark, twisted sort of way. While others are diving into the feast of experiences, I find myself wandering around the edges, observing from a distance, clutching a plate that’s perpetually empty. As I reflect on this, I can't help but feel a deep sense of sadness. It’s not that I lack opportunities; it’s more like I’ve built a fortress around myself, complete with walls of self-doubt and a moat of anxiety. Each day, I can see the table, beautifully spread out with vibrant colors and enticing aromas. Friends laughing, lovers sharing secrets, and strangers forming new connections—all of it feels so vibrant and alive. And yet, here I am, drowning in a pool of retrospection, feeling like a ghost haunting my own life. I often find myself indulging in dark thoughts, tracing back to my childhood, when I seemed to be always a step behind. Remember that time in elementary school when I hesitated to raise my hand, only to hear the teacher call on someone else? It’s a small moment, but it echoes in my mind like a haunting refrain. The feeling of standing still while life rushes by has become a theme, woven throughout my existence with threads of regret. The irony is not lost on me. In a world that glorifies hustle and speed, here I am, the slowpoke. While my peers race ahead, I’m left standing at the starting line, watching as they gather experiences—relationships, careers, adventures. I often wonder if there’s a cosmic clock somewhere, ticking away, reminding me that I’m behind schedule. Is it too late for me to catch up? As I sift through these thoughts, I recognize that my retro-introspective nature is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it grants me the ability to reflect deeply. I can analyze my feelings, my choices, and the paths I’ve taken—or, more appropriately, the paths I’ve avoided. I can sit on the sidelines and observe the world’s chaos, extracting life lessons from the stories of others. It feels like watching a movie; thrilling yet painfully distant. Today, I took a long walk to clear my mind. As I strolled through the park, I couldn’t help but notice the vibrancy around me. Children played, couples strolled hand in hand, and friends gathered for picnics. It was a microcosm of life unfolding in real-time, and I felt oddly disconnected. I found a bench under a sprawling oak tree and sat there for a while, allowing the sun to warm my face. In that moment, I contemplated the beauty of life, yet I felt like an outsider gazing into a world I just couldn’t penetrate. What holds me back? Fear? Indecision? Or perhaps an overwhelming sense of inadequacy? Each of these feelings weighs heavily on my heart. I find myself questioning my worth, doubting whether I have anything valuable to contribute to the table of life. It’s hard to join in when the voice in my head constantly whispers, “You don’t belong here.” I returned home with a heavy heart, burdened by the realization that I’ve spent too much time in the shadows. The retro-introspective spiral often leads me to question whether I’ve wasted my potential. Have I let opportunities slip through my fingers while I lingered in self-doubt and hesitation? But as I write this, I also recognize a flicker of hope. Maybe being perpetually late has its own unique charm. It has provided me with a different perspective, one that allows for deeper contemplation. Perhaps I can learn to maneuver around the table, picking up nuggets of wisdom from those who are already seated. Maybe it’s time to embrace this late arrival. Rather than viewing it as a setback, I can see it as an opportunity to craft a unique narrative. There’s a certain beauty in being a late bloomer, right? Those who arrive fashionably late often bring stories, laughter, and fresh energy that can ignite the atmosphere. I could be that person. Taking a deep breath, I allow myself to daydream about what it would be like to join the table fully. To engage in conversations, to share my stories, and perhaps even to find joy in the experience. I realize I don’t need to rush; each moment has its own value. As I sit here, pen in hand, I commit to taking small steps towards the table of life. I’ll start by reaching out to a friend I haven’t spoken to in a while. Maybe a simple hello-

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Back home. I’m sitting here, a cup of lukewarm coffee in hand and a swirl of thoughts in my mind, trying to sort through this feeling. The air is thick with the weight of another day that feels like a rehearsal for a play I never auditioned for. You know that feeling when you show up to a party and realize you’ve missed the best part? Well, I feel like that—perpetually late to the table of life, watching the laughter and the joy unfold without me, a spectator in my own existence. It’s a sad, dark kind of irony, isn’t it? I’ve always prided myself on being observant, on noticing the little details that others overlook. But here I am, observing my own life from the sidelines, feeling trapped in a retro-introspective loop that seems to play over and over again. The laughter echoes, but I can’t quite reach it. What does being “perpetually late” even mean in the grand scheme of existence? For me, it’s not just about physical tardiness. It’s about missing the moments that matter. It’s about watching friends move forward while I feel stuck in this strange, timeless void. Life seems to be moving at lightning speed for everyone else, while I’m left fumbling with the buttons on my watch, desperately trying to catch up. I often find myself diving deep into reflection during these quiet evenings. Each thought pulls me into a spiral of nostalgia, where I sift through memories that both comfort and haunt me. I remember the times when I felt vibrant, alive, and present—those moments when I was at the table, sharing stories, laughter, and dreams with friends and family. But those memories often fade like old photographs, leaving behind a stark contrast to the present. There’s a darker side to this introspection. It exposes fears I try to keep at bay—the fear of never quite fitting in, of being the outlier that no one notices. I constantly compare my journey to others, and it often feels like I’m running a race where everyone else has already crossed the finish line. Their lives are bursting with adventures and milestones, while I’m left tracing my fingers over the lines of my own muted story. Today, I decided to dig deeper. I pulled out my old journals, the ones filled with dreams and aspirations from years past. It was an emotional journey, flipping through pages filled with hope, excitement, and the occasional doodle. Each entry resonated with a sense of possibility. “I will travel the world,” I wrote. “I will create something beautiful.” I thought. It’s sobering to realize how those dreams sometimes drift away like whispers in the wind, leaving me feeling disenchanted. As I sat on my bed, surrounded by the scattered pages of my past, I couldn’t help but wonder where it all went wrong. Did I grow complacent? Did I let the pressures of life drown out my ambition? Or was I simply too afraid to take that leap of faith? There’s a tension between reality and nostalgia that pulls me in two directions, and it feels like a tug-of-war for my soul. But perhaps this is where the opportunity lies. Maybe being late to the table isn’t just about missing out; maybe it’s about taking the time to reflect, to reassess what truly matters. What if I could use this introspection as a catalyst for change? What if I could rewrite my narrative, shift my perspective, and embrace the journey instead of fixating on the destination? I can almost hear a voice whispering to me, urging me to take that leap—to challenge the notion that I’m a spectator in my own life. Each moment, no matter how quiet or mundane, holds potential. I might not have been at the table when everyone else was, but I can carve out my own seat. I can invite new experiences, new people, and new adventures into my life. So, what’s next? I think it’s time to focus on what I can control. Instead of lamenting the past, I’ll set small, achievable goals. I’ll start reaching out to people—friends I haven’t spoken to in ages, new acquaintances I’ve been too shy to approach. I’ll explore my interests, dive into creative projects, and dare to step outside my comfort zone. I can choose to be present in the now, rather than ruminating on what I’ve missed. Sure, I might be late to the table, but that doesn’t mean I can’t contribute to the feast. The world is vast, and while I might feel lost in the shadows, I can still find my own light. As I close this entry, I remind myself that life is not a linear path; it’s a winding road full of jostles-

-

Today, I find myself reflecting on the peculiar notion of time. Time—an ever-flowing river in which we all swim, yet somehow, I always seem to be paddling against the current. It’s as if life has set a table, lavishly decorated with opportunities, joy, and connections, and I perpetually arrive late, missing the feast. Being late to the table of life is an uncomfortable existence, a bittersweet dance with both sadness and retrospective contemplation. I can hear the laughter from the gathering, the clinking of glasses, and the warmth of shared stories. But I stand outside, peering in, feeling like a ghost at a party meant for the living. I wonder if the others can sense my presence, this strange mix of longing and resignation. Do they notice the way I linger at the edges, just out of reach, contemplating whether to pull up a chair or quietly drift away? It’s sad, really. Perhaps this feeling of being “late” isn’t merely a matter of minutes or hours. It’s a deep-seated sensation that I’ve been trailing behind in life’s grand race. While friends celebrate milestones—birthdays, promotions, love interests—I often find myself lost in the shadows of my own thoughts, a retro-introspective soul reflecting on what could have been. It’s dark here, in these thoughts, where I dissect my choices, my hesitations, and the moments that slipped through my fingers like grains of sand. Remember that time when I hesitated to join my friends on that spontaneous road trip? They were all excited, laughing about the adventures that awaited them. I hesitated, caught in the web of “what ifs.” What if I didn’t fit in? What if I became a burden? The fear of being late to the party, both literally and metaphorically, paralyzed me. They made memories without me while I remained in my cocoon of self-doubt—perpetually late. Yet, in these moments of darkness, I sometimes find unexpected glimmers of insight. The retro-introspective journey allows me to understand myself better. I often write about these feelings, pouring my thoughts onto the pages of this diary, trying to make sense of the late arrivals in my life. The late-night revelations, the early morning epiphanies—they hold a beauty of their own. There’s something deeply human about being late, I remind myself. Life is not a race; it is a series of experiences, some hurried, others slow and meandering. Perhaps, in this perpetual lateness, I discover a nuanced appreciation for the world around me. I notice the subtleties that others may overlook—the way the sunlight dances on the leaves or how laughter echoes in the distance. As I sit here in my cozy corner, sipping on a warm cup of tea, I think about the times I did arrive just in time. The laughter shared over dinner with old friends, the adrenaline of a last-minute adventure, the comfort of finding solace in someone’s company. Those moments remind me that life’s table can be approached at any time, even if I feel like I’m running late. The dark clouds of doubt may linger, but they can’t overshadow the light of companionship and warmth. I also consider the silver lining of my retro-introspective nature. Being reflective has allowed me to grow and evolve. I’ve learned to embrace my emotions, to understand that sadness doesn’t equate to weakness; it is merely a part of the rich tapestry of existence. I am learning to share these feelings with others, to finally pull up a chair at the table and engage in conversations about vulnerability. So, dear diary, I promise to work on my relationship with time. Instead of viewing it as an adversary, I shall approach it as a companion. I might be late, but that doesn’t mean I am unwelcome. The beauty of life lies not in punctuality, but in presence. I’ll take a deep breath and remind myself that every moment is an opportunity to engage with life, to savor the experiences yet to come. As I conclude this entry, I feel a sense of hope blossoming within me. I may have arrived late to the table before, but I hold the power to change that narrative. I’ll set my intentions for tomorrow, to step out into the world with renewed energy and openness. I want to embrace the next invitation, to say yes to spontaneity, to understand that it’s okay to arrive at my own pace. So here’s to me, the one who’s often late but is learning to dance with time. Here’s to the moments yet to come, the laughter that awaits, and the connections that are just waiting to be made. I will no longer be a ghost at this feast; I’ll be-

-

[Part 1: The Weight of Time] Every morning, the alarm buzzes obnoxiously, jarring me from the comfortable embrace of sleep. I roll over, half-heartedly hitting the snooze button, and as the minutes slip away like grains of sand through my fingers, I am reminded of the curse of being perpetually late. It’s not just a habit; it feels more like a burden, an unwelcome companion that shadows me through life. Each day begins with the promise of productivity, yet I find myself trapped in a cycle of procrastination and excuses. The feeling is sad, dark, and oddly fitting for my retro-introspective existence. Looking back, I’ve realized that I’ve always found myself at the periphery of life’s great table. While everyone else feasts on opportunities, I’m left picking at the crumbs of my own indecision. I find myself reflecting on missed moments, lost connections, and the nagging sensation that I’m one step behind where I should be. [Part 2: The Ripple Effect of Delay] As I sit here, I can’t help but think about the ripple effect of my lateness. It’s not just my own experiences that suffer; my friends and family bear the brunt of my tardiness too. I’ve bailed on dinner plans, missed celebrations, and arrived late to the most significant events of their lives. Each apology feels like a rusty key trying to unlock a door already closed. There’s a heaviness in my chest as I consider how my actions—my choices—have created distance between me and those I care about. In my mind, I visualize them gathered around tables, laughing, sharing stories, and creating memories while I remain an outsider looking in. It’s a haunting thought that lingers in the corners of my mind, reminding me that life continues to move forward, even as I remain stuck in a loop of hesitation and regret. [Part 3: Embracing the Dark] But why dwell on the sadness? Perhaps there’s something profound in this darkness I keep encountering. Maybe my perpetual lateness is a reflection of a deeper struggle—one that intertwines with my identity and shapes the way I perceive the world. In moments of solitude, I’ve begun to embrace the shadows that have followed me for so long. It’s in these quiet times that I confront my fears head-on. I explore the reasons behind my procrastination, peeling back layers of insecurity and anxiety. I acknowledge that I’ve often allowed the fear of failure to paralyze me, leading to a paralysis of action. It’s a dark realization, but it’s also liberating. By naming the beast, I can begin to reframe my narrative and take steps toward change. [Part 4: The Retro-Introspective Hallucination] This retro-introspective journey feels like diving into a time capsule. I rummage through the emotional artifacts of my past—old journals, photographs, letters—each piece narrating a different chapter of my life. I find solace in nostalgia and the bittersweet memories that come flooding back. They remind me of who I’ve been and the times I’ve felt like I was truly living. Strangely enough, in my quest to understand my relationship with time, I’ve started to perceive it differently. Each delay, each missed moment, has contributed to the tapestry of my story. So, instead of resenting my lateness, I choose to honor it. It’s an integral part of my journey, a testament to the lessons I’ve learned along the way. [Part 5: Seizing the Moment] Today, I made a conscious decision to seize the moment. I put my phone on silent, silenced the incessant noise of social media, and focused on the present. I brewed my favorite cup of coffee, savoring each sip as I sat in the sunlight filtering through my window. I began writing down my thoughts, a cathartic release that grounded me in the now. While I may still occasionally miss the mark, I’m learning to embrace the beauty of spontaneity. Life isn’t always about arriving on time; sometimes, it’s about being fully present in the moments that matter. I remind myself that not every experience has to be perfectly orchestrated. In fact, some of the most meaningful connections happen in the unplanned spaces of life. [Part 6: Getting A Perspective] As I reflect on my journey, I’m starting to see the world through a new lens. I’m learning to let go of the guilt that often accompanies my lateness. Instead of viewing it as a flaw, I now see it as a unique aspect of my personality. It’s an invitation to explore, to appreciate life’s unpredictability, and to embrace the lessons buried within each experience. I am beginning to commit to change-

-

I give up.

- Oizys.

Wednesday, September 25, 2024

Things Are Getting Hard Again

Things are getting hard again, and I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go. My belly is juggling coals. My skin is crawling to escape. And my mind is rotting. I am so tired of being scared. Being judged. Being fearful. Being less. Being mocked. Being excluded. Being looked at. Laughed at. Sneered at. And all I do is beg in disguise of fantasies. I sit here in a corner and make up castles that are filled with nonsensical hope and delusion. I have limited myself so much to a point of complete erasure that it is almost a crime. And I am just sad. Sad to be. It pains so much. To be lack of something. To be looked at and not accepted anywhere. To be not allowed to dream. What is it that smells so much? What is wrong with me? Why me? And why not me? I have dreamt so much to a point of praying to God knows who that it is almost a shame. And I hear back nothing. I get back nothing. More exclusion. More limitation. More nothing. I have lacked so much to a point of loneliness that it almost feels natural. To be unloved. To be understood. To be not believed. And it is cold. Lonely. Dark. 

It’s as if the walls are closing in, each brick a reminder of all I’ve lost and all I can’t reach. I want to scream, to break free from this suffocating silence, but the words twist in my throat. Silence chokes me. I watch life unfold from a distance, a spectator in a world that seems to move on without me. Life excludes me. Each day blurs into the next, a disposed thread of longing and despair. I search for a glow—a thread of connection—but it slips through my fingers like sand. Why do I keep trying when every effort feels futile? I think of the castles I build, elaborate yet fragile. They’re my refuge, but they crumble at the slightest breeze, the slightest connection with reality. Hope feels like a joke, a cruel trick played by fate. What is it that I truly want? Love? Understanding? A voice that echoes back when I speak into the void? I ache for the simple comfort of being understood, yet I feel like a ghost haunting my own life.

I hide myself underneath these flimsy covers and end this to force myself to fall into sleep with yet another delusion of the possibility of not waking up tomorrow morning. Please. If anyone is listening...

- Oizys.

Thursday, July 11, 2024

A Collage of Micromanagement and Masquerades

Last week was a whirlwind. One of my professors finally defended his PhD, a momentous occasion that left everyone in awe. Meanwhile, another killed his father for being debt-ridden. The contrast was stark and unsettling, setting the tone for the week. It has been painting thoughts in my mind lately, filling my head with vivid images.

I decided to take a leave from work, my first in a long time. The reason? My new team lead. Once a close colleague, her promotion had transformed her into a micromanaging tyrant. She insisted on hovering over me or sometimes having me on her lap, her breath hot on my neck, as she nitpicked every detail of my work. Our relationship, once cordial, had soured. Her yellow highlighter slashed through my mistakes, while her use of a whitener to obscure my hard work and hardships felt like a cruel joke.

My family does not know I am on leave. I lie and sit in front of my computer, acting like I am working. I have been hiding a lot of things. Each click of the mouse the moment I (fake-)clocked in felt like another step deeper into the labyrinth of my hidden truths, where every corner held a secret begging to be screamed out. A week of leave passed by, which began with thoughts of accomplishing tasks and ended with the burden of being unable to accomplish them, with a garnish of regret for procrastination, of course!

But I did not entirely waste it. I fed corporations my same details again and again that I have been feeding since time immemorial to get a job. Inducing action verbs into my personality while keeping it compact and one-page since it is only an infant in profesh terms. Making it parse-able for the AI to grab it as someone exciting yet oppression-worthy. I did make one of those rejection email collages* to end this ephemeral week off. But I do not have an offer letter at the end to add the effect of success. Just a museum of failures. Normally, I delete one as soon as I receive one. I had a few lying around. Revisiting them was... fun and a masochistic ritual. The wounds are surprisingly fresh. It is good to keep picking up those past reminders of being unachieved and underqualified.

Amidst the chaos, there was a brief moment of joy. On Wednesday afternoon, I made sandwiches with my mother and sister. It was a rare, serene interlude. But even in that moment of nicety, my inner critic, the animal within, roared in disapproval.

- Oizys.

*Here it is:

Sunday, June 2, 2024

Demon of Delay & Burden of Slowness - Regrets

I have been grappling with the daunting task of putting pen to paper lately. Each attempt feels like an uphill battle against the invisible force of writer's block. But amidst the frustration and the constant struggle, I stumbled upon a timeless poem that etched itself into the very fabric of my being a long time ago: "Hamesha Der Kar Deta Hun." And now, as it gains traction on social media platforms, appearing before me time and again (oh, the algorithmic magic on writer's block! ), my mind is inundated with memories, emotions, and reflections.

The essence of these words—the essence of delay and slowness—resonates with a familiarity that is both comforting and unsettling. It's as though they cradle my life's journey in a nutshell, each syllable a marker of the moments I've hesitated, the opportunities I've let slip by, and the regrets that linger in the shadows of my mind, clinging to the very skin of my being.

The demon of delay has been a faithful companion on this journey, whispering its seductive lies in the quiet corners of my consciousness. It urges me to wait for the "perfect" moment, the "ideal" circumstances, keeping me handcuffed to the woolgathering illusions of tomorrow. With each instance of delay, I've unwittingly shouldered the burden of slowness, the weight of missed chances, and unfulfilled dreams. Each moment of hesitation has compounded into the offspring of regrets, casting a long and ominous shadow over my aspirations and desires.

But as I've come to realise, perfection is but a mirage, and time, relentless in its march forward, waits for no one. It just slips. And slips. The more I grasp at it, the more it eludes my fingertips, leaving behind only the residue of missed opportunities and unspoken words. The allure of the waiting room has kept me ensnared in a web of hesitation and doubt. Each delay, each moment of indecision, has only served to prolong the inevitable confrontation with my own fears and insecurities.

The weight of delay presses upon my shoulders like a heavy burden, each moment of hesitation adding another layer of doubt and regret. It's suffocating—this constant feeling of being trapped in a cycle of indecision, unable to break free from the chains of my own making. The demon of delay whispers its love potion, weaving a tangled web of excuses and rationalisations to justify my inaction. It's easier to wait and hope for the perfect moment to present itself than to face the uncertainty of taking a leap into the unknown. But with each passing day, the sense of urgency grows stronger, and the realisation dawns that time is slipping away, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. And yet, I find myself rooted to the spot, paralysed by the fear of making the wrong choice or taking the wrong step. The burden of slowness weighs heavily on me, a constant reminder of the opportunities missed and the dreams deferred. It's a heavy load to bear, this weight of regret and self-doubt, dragging me down into the depths of despair. Just incomplete shelves poorly nailed to a weak, old wall. And so, I find myself caught in a vicious cycle of delay and regret, unable to break free from the grip of my own insecurities. Each day blends into the next, a blur of missed chances and unfulfilled promises, until it feels as though I am drowning in a sea of my own (un-)making.

"Hamesha Der Kar Deta Hoon Main"

Hamesha der kar deta hoon main,
Zaroori baat kahni ho, koi waada nibhaana ho,
Use awaaz deni ho, use wapas bulaana ho,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(I always delay,
In saying something important, in keeping a promise,
In calling out to someone, in bringing them back,
I always delay.)

Madad karni ho uski, ya koi gham baantna ho,
Badalna ho kisi raah ko, yaaron ko manaana ho,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(In helping someone, or sharing someone's sorrow,
In changing a path, in making up with friends,
I always delay.)

Kisi ko maut se bachna ho, jaan deni ho kisi ko,
Bahut derina raahon par kisi se milne jaana ho,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(In saving someone from death, in giving my life for someone,
In meeting someone on long-forgotten paths,
I always delay.)

Haqiqat aur thi kuch, usko jaake yeh batana tha,
Magar is daur mein jeene ka sirf bahana tha,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(The reality was different, I had to go and tell them,
But in this age, it was just an excuse to live,
I always delay.)

- Munir Ahmed Niazi. (Translation by me.)

Extension of the poem by me:

Uski khushi mein shaamil hona, khud ko bhul jaane dena,
Par har dafa yeh sochna, aur phir se door jaane dena,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(To be part of their happiness, to let myself forget,
But always thinking this, and then letting them go far away again,
I always delay.)

Pyar bhare lafzon ko chup chaap hi rehne dena,
Uski aankhon mein khud ko, kabhi na dekh paana,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(To keep loving words unspoken,
Never seeing myself in their eyes,
I always delay.)

Nayi raahon ko apnaana, naye sapne sajaana,
Par har mod par ruk jaana, aur pichhe hi reh jaana,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(To embrace new paths, to decorate new dreams,
But to stop at every turn, and remain behind,
I always delay.)

Maafi maangni ho kabhi, apne galat ko maan lena,
Par har baar der se pachtaana, aur dil ko udaas karna,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(In asking for forgiveness, in admitting my mistakes,
But always regretting late, and making the heart sad,
I always delay.)

Apne liye waqt nikalna, sehat ka khayal rakhna,
Har baar yeh soch kar talna, aur bimaar ho jaana,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(In taking time for myself, in taking care of my health,
Always postponing with this thought, and falling ill,
I always delay.)

Dar ko saamna karna, himmat se kadam badhaana,
Par har baar dar ke samne, bas jhuk kar reh jaana,
Hamesha der kar deta hoon main.

(In facing fears, in taking steps with courage,
But always bowing down in front of fear,
I always delay.)

- Oizys. (Translation by me.)

P.S.: Forgive me for my abysmal translation skills.

Friday, May 17, 2024

April 30, 2023 to May 17, 2024: Stream of Regurgitation

An update? How long has it been? Do I remember what to write? Do I even remember writing anymore? From where should I start? I cannot think of words or phrases. I am fighting the urge to scratch my keyboard in order to just write something, just something. Oh, how I long for words to just flow. Let's see.

April 30, 2023. I abandoned my friends after going shopping with them the day before farewell and shut myself down for a long time. I tried NaPoWriMo and started well but could not finish. I did not get into university. Got a meagre job. I miserably started it. I tried my best. Failed. Perfomed poorly. I cried while working and thanked the universe; it is a work-from-home job, and nobody can see me. I did not attend graduation. I left all group chats and deleted everyone's number. Cried more. I stayed in the room. I rotted on my bed. I watched people pass by, move on, and succeed. Shamefully went back to college to get degrees. Ran back home. My sister came. I stepped out after many months with her. I came back and stayed in my room. I rotted some more. Sister left. I got my probation period extended. I did not eat. I did not drink water. I did not bathe. I did not brush. I just woke up, logged on, worked, logged out, and lied in bed. Got hospitalized.  I got three enemas, and then my excreta was manually removed on a Sunday night in the second hospital. Logged on next morning because no leaves on probation period. Kept rotting. I got off probation. I thought of starting fresh on a random day in March. But I just stayed in my room. Decided to rejoin social media. Rotted while scrolling. I thought of applying for more jobs but didn't get anywhere. Stopped. I tried NaPoWriMo again. Failed miserably. I waited for an increment. The sister came back. I went out again after a long time. I got poked for not stepping out more. I made it through with closed fists and pretention. I tried eating something, but they put eggs in it. The drink was nice. Minty Melon. I tried clicking pictures. It came out ugly. Deleted. I just posted a photo of my shoes on Instagram. Never going out again. I thought of starting to read again. Read nine pages of White Oleander, posted on Instagram. Couldn't continue. Stopped. Weighed myself. 62 kgs. The father called me fat. I thought of writing research papers again. I tried starting, but I don't know whether I will go along. I got promoted and a meagre, blurry increment, but my team lead asked for me to fill in for her. I got triggered while opening the curtains, lost myself, and screamed again after a super long time. Cried. I thought of applying for entrance tests again. Memories of incompetence and mediocrity rushed back. I cried my rot out. But it still feels the same. I ordered a pizza. I ate for two days. Belly feels heavy with burden and melted regret. May 17, 2024. A friend reached out to me on Instagram. Asking about where I work. How can she get in? I fought every single fibre of my remaining rot. Responded with some kind words and helped. I saw the Instagram story of another collegemate. She chose not to join the job she got in college. For which I was waitlisted. Rather, passed entrance exams. Studied further. I might lose myself again. Tried screaming. Nothing came out. I finally sat down to write.

Still in my room. Randomly breaking down. In my corner. There is no one to hold onto. There was no one to hug. There is no one to rely on. There is no one to sit silently with. Just rotting while rotating different balls of gathered wool. Trying to break free but keep falling into quicksand of delusions, sinking deeper and farther away from reality with every slap from it. Trying to sit straight and drink enough water while there is a constant tug-of-war between chasing a chimaera and the harsh reality bringing me back to my rock-bottom worth. This is getting too pathetic. Maybe I should just stop. What have I become? Just a pot of jealousy and misery. For what? Why? Was it because of the lack of love in my mother's eyes or the lack of recognition in my father's? Or is it because my mother's words turned out to be true that I will forever be a burden to my sister? Or is it my father's belief that furthered my incompetence and I just smalled myself? Or, is it because I have a second father now? I try to concoct all these reasons, thinking this might change things. But I know for a fact they won't. I will fall and try to get up while fantasising again about starting over again just to forget how much it hurt to fall than the last time. Even though I know I will remain in this endless cycle, I will never be able to make peace with it. I think I will forever remain here and try to start reading again, but I am actually building castles in Spain while people watch my second mother. I should stop writing now, or should I call it a stream of regurgitation?

- Oizys.

Sunday, April 21, 2024

April Twenty First: NaPoWriMo: Mellows of a Palette Veiled

And now for our (optional) prompt! Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that repeats or focuses on a single color. Some examples for you – Diane Wakoski’s “Blue Monday,” Walter de la Mare’s “Silver,” and Dorothea Lasky’s “Red Rum.”

Dreaming of golden-green fields,
And, watching amber-orange sunsets.
The senstional journalism, headlines hued.
The lily-livered heart, timid and pale.
The xanthous tumor in my soul,
a subtle pain.
The icteric tint in my cerebellum,
a shadowed stain.
The bronze repellent in my skin, an armor worn thin.
The soft ochre in my memories, where to even begin?
The goldenrod grin on my face, radiant and true
The tetartanopia of emotions in my vision, a bluish view
The dandelion-gathering in my thoughts, a dream grounded.
The citrine caress in my yearnings, a soft light.
The brass ancience in my resolve, a bold past.
The sickly peeling wallpaper, a solitary spell.

Guess the colour?

- Oizys.


Sunday, April 14, 2024

April Fourteenth: NaPoWriMo: Suspended In

Today’s (optional) prompt asks you to write a poem of at least ten lines in which each line begins with the same word (e.g., “Because,” “Forget,” “Not,” “If”). This technique of beginning multiple lines with the same word or phrase is called anaphora, and has long been used to give poems a driving rhythm and/or a sense of puzzlebox mystery. To give you more context, here’s an essay by Rebecca Hazelton on her students’ “adventures in anaphora,” and a contemporary poem that uses anaphora to great effect: Layli Long Soldier’s “Whereas.”

Suspended in time, a moment escaped,
Suspended in space, a dream folded,
Suspended in thoughts, a journey concluded,
Suspended in whispers, secrets concealed,
Suspended in laughter, echoes hushed,
Suspended in tears, emotions retained,
Suspended in silence, truths recoiled,
Suspended in hope, a future ignored,
Suspended in love, hearts disentangled,
Suspended in grace, a universe forgotten.

- Oizys.

Saturday, April 13, 2024

April Thirteenth: NaPoWriMo: World of Wonder

Finally, our optional prompt for the day asks you to play with rhyme. Start by creating a “word bank” of ten simple words. They should only have one or two syllables apiece. Five should correspond to each of the five senses (i.e., one word that is a thing you can see, one word that is a type of sound, one word that is a thing you can taste, etc). Three more should be concrete nouns of whatever character you choose (i.e., “bridge,” “sun,” “airplane,” “cat”), and the last two should be verbs. Now, come up with rhymes for each of your ten words. (If you’re having trouble coming up with rhymes, the wonderful Rhymezone is at your service). Use your expanded word-bank, with rhymes, as the seeds for your poem. Your effort doesn’t actually have to rhyme in the sense of having each line end with a rhymed word, but try to use as much soundplay in your poem as possible.

1. Word Bank:

See: hole (in flour)
Sound:
creak (slow heavy footsteps on cracking wood)
Taste: luscious (figs)
Touch: bed
Smell: acrid (burning dust)
Noun: book
Noun: ticker
Noun: chair
Verb: peel
Verb: sniff

2. Rhymes:

Hole: pole, stroll (pole in shower, stroll in bower)
Creak: peak, leek
Luscious: piceous,
Bed: bread, red
Acrid: kid, vivid
Book: look, hook
Ticker: liquor, bicker
Chair: bear, mare
Peel: conceal, reveal
Sniff: cliff, adrift

3. Seed Poem:

In a quaint old cottage nestled in the woods,
A hole in the flour, a sight for the scullery absurd,
The sound of slow heavy footsteps
creaking on cracking wood,
understood, undeterred?

The taste of luscious figs, a delight to savor,
The touch of a soft bed, inviting and warm,
The acrid smell of burning dust, no favor
But still, in this place, there’s a certain flavour.

A book on the shelf, waiting to be read,
A ticker that ticks with a steady beat,
A chair by the fire, where thoughts are fed,
Peeling away layers, revealing something dread.

I sit and I sniff the air so unclear,
Wisting place of peace, with nothing to fear.

As I stroll through the bower, with a pole in hand,
I hear the creak of the trees, like a grind band,
The earthy scent of pine, like piceous and truth,
I reach for a moment, and gaseous, a muse come to.

On a bed of soft red, I rest my weary head,
The acrid smell of the fire, like a mare's comfort in dread,
I pick up the book, to escape from the din,
And lose myself in words, a world within.

The ticker on the wall, keeping time steady,
As I sit in my chair, thoughts running ready,
I peel back the layers, and reveal what’s inside,
A world of wonder, where hearts can confide.

I sniff the air, so sweet and divine,
In this place of solace, where all is fine.

The peak of the mountain, so high and steep,
A creak from the branches, where secrets keep,
The juicy dream of victory, so vivid and psyche,
I reach for the stars, in the dead of the night.

On a bread of today, I lay my tired soul,
The acrid smell of success, making me toll,
I look to the future, with hope and with sneer,
And relent the unknown, even with so fear.

The liquor in the glass, a taste of good plight,
As I sit in my chair, surrounded by
piceous light,
I bicker and banter, with figments so dear,
As we laugh and we love, with nothing to fear.

I peel back the layers, and reveal what’s within,
A heart full of love, a soul free from sin.

In some world of wonder, where dreams take flight,
I sit by the cliff, staring into the night,
The sweet scent of freedom, so clear and adrift,
I close my eyes, and let my spirits lift.

So let me go on with all that's pure and right,
While dreams fall from sight, in the dead of night.

- Oizys.

Friday, April 12, 2024

April Twelfth: NaPoWriMo: The Tall Tale Teller

And last but not least, our optional prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that plays with the idea of a “tall tale.” American tall tales feature larger-than-life characters like Paul Bunyan (who is literally larger than life), Bulltop Stormalong (also gigantic), and Pecos Bill (apparently normal-sized, but he doesn’t let it slow him down). If you’d like to see a modern poetic take on the tall tale, try Jennifer L. Knox’s hilarious poem, “Burt Reynolds FAQ.” Your poem can revolve around a mythical character, one you make up entirely, or add fantastical elements into a real person’s biography.

In the cusp of a forgotten woods,
Where the shadows leered ancient secrets,
There lived a man of colossal stature,
Known far and wide as the Tall Tale Teller.

His origins shrouded in mystery,
Some said he was born from the murmurs of the wind,
Others claimed he was a lost prince turned hermit,
But all agreed he was a figure of wonder and wrath.

His limbs stretched like ancient trees,
His voice a deep rumble like thunder in the night,
And his eyes, oh his eyes, held the wisdom of ages past,
Glistening like ancient treasurebox in the darkness.

The Tall Tale Teller wandered the land,
Spreading his stories like seeds in fertile soil,
Each tale more fantastical than the last,
Each word a spell that captivated the listener's soul.

He spoke of dragons that danced in the sky,
Of mermaids who sang siren songs to lost sailors,
Of forests that whispered secrets to those who dared listen,
And of a world beyond our own, where magic and wonder reign supreme.

But beneath the grandeur of his tales,
Lurked a sadness that clung like mist to his every word,
For the Tall Tale Teller knew the weight of solitude,
The burden of being a myth in a world of cold reality.

He longed for connection, for a kindred spirit,
Someone who would listen not just to his stories,
But to the cries of his heart that whispered in the night,
A companion to share the burden of his loneliness.

And so he wandered, ever searching,
Through valleys and mountains, forests and seas,
Hoping to find that elusive soul who would see beyond the tall tales,
And into the heart of the man who spun them.

But as the years passed and the seasons changed,
The Tall Tale Teller's steps grew weary,
His voice grew hoarse from the weight of his stories,
And his eyes dimmed with the sorrow of unfulfilled longing.

Yet still he wandered, for to stop would be to lose himself,
To forget the magic that danced in his words,
To silence the stories that were his only solace,
And so he walked, a solitary figure in a world of noise and chaos.

And though his heart may ache with the weight of his solitude,
The Tall Tale Teller never gave in to despair,
For in his stories he found an affirmation to survive,
A connection to something greater than himself.

And so he roamed the land until the end of days,
A living legend, a myth made flesh,
A reminder that even in the darkest of nights,
A single voice can light the way to a brighter tomorrow.

- Oizys.

Thursday, April 11, 2024

April Eleventh: NaPoWriMo: One-Liners

Finally, our optional prompt for the day honors the “ones” in the number 11. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write either a monostich, which is a one-line poem, or a poem made up of one-liner style jokes/sentiments. Need inspiration? Take a look at Joe Brainard’s poem “30 One-Liners” or Frank O’Hara’s “Lines for the Fortune Cookies.”

One-liners and poetry. Wow. Normally, I am an extremist when it comes to words. It's either throttling silence or a logorrheic dumpyard. I will use this ricocheting behavior to further this prompt.

Finding the balance between silence and speech,
A tightrope walk on the edge of expression's reach.

- Oizys.

I think I will use this post as a junkyard to post all one-liners that crosses my mind or I come across. I feel like it's a fun idea! A digital scrapyard of wit and whimsy.

Tuesday, April 9, 2024

April Ninth: NaPoWriMo: An Ode to My Kitchen Knife: The Blunted Blade

Our prompt for today (optional, as always) takes its inspiration from Pablo Neruda, the Chilean-born poet and Nobel Prize Winner. While he is most famous in the English-speaking world for his collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, he also wrote more than two hundred odes, and had a penchant for writing sometimes-long poems of appreciation for very common or mundane things. You can read English translations of “Ode to the Dictionary” at the bottom of this page, “Ode to My Socks” here, and “Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market” here.

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own ode celebrating an everyday object.

I pick: Kitchen Knife.

In the quiet hum of everyday life's refrain,
We find solace in the mundane's gentle reign,
A kitchen knife, once sharp and keen,
Now dulled by time, yet steadfast, serene.

Within my kitchen's heart, it resides,
A loyal companion, where memories abide.
Each day it dances, slicing with grace,
An unspoken artist in its sacred space.

But as the years weave their silent song,
Its edge, once sharp, starts to belong
To a realm of weariness, a journey trod,
Like a traveler weathered by time's façade.

Oh, kitchen knife, bearer of tales untold,
Your bluntness echoes life's stories, bold.
With every cut, a piece of edge lost,
A reflection of the paths we've crossed.

Your worn handle, a testament true,
To the hands that wield, the tasks they pursue.
Each scar on your blade, a narrative unfurled,
Of flavors savored, of a world twirled.

Let's raise a toast to this humble guide,
Nurturer of flavors, in you we confide.
Though your edge may wane, your spirit's song,
Like poetry, timeless, forever strong.

O kitchen knife, dulled yet bright,
A symbol of resilience in fading light,
Your bluntness mirrors life's refrain,
A reminder of strength amidst the mundane.

In your sheath, you rest, serene and still,
Awaiting the touch that ignites the thrill,
Of slicing through doubts, fears, and woe,
To find solace in the ebb and flow.

So here's to you, companion dear,
In your bluntness, life's echoes clear.
For in your dulled edge, we find our own,
A testament to how we've grown.

- Oizys.

Monday, April 8, 2024

April Eight: NaPoWriMo: Forbidden Encounter — Lovemoth

Finally, our (optional) prompt for the day takes its inspiration from Laura Foley’s poem “Year End.” Today, we challenge you to write a poem that centers around an encounter or relationship between two people (or things) that shouldn’t really have ever met – whether due to time, space, age, the differences in their nature, or for any other reason.

In the tapestry of fate’s cruel design,
A love story shrouded in darkness and dread,
In the depths of a forsaken land,
Where shadows dance in wicked delight,
Two souls entwined where none should align,
A tragic tale that Fatewrathius had silently led,
An impossible union in the dead of night.

Through hatred's veil and heartache's coughs,
They journeyed together on paths mostly known to woe,
Their worlds collide with a deafening clash,
Adulthood facing off against innocence pure,
In a world where love was forbidden to grow,
Their essence intertwined in a cruel, dark flash,
Their bond tested by Chaosmorpher's icy throne.

But even amidst the darkness deep,
A flicker of hope began to ignite,
One bore the mark of chaos and despair,
Other radiated shiny cun untouched by time,
In their arms, secrets found their keep,
As they embraced in defiance of night.

So let them whisper tales untold,
Of a love that defied all laws set by man,
One pair eyes held the depth of human pain,
While the other sparkled with untold mare's nest bright,
In a realm where darkness controlled,
Their forbidden encounter forever began.

The air crackled with tension as they drew near,
A collision of desires echoing through the void,
In this twisted waltz, where danger was clear,
Their hearts intertwined but forever annoyed.

- Oizys.

After writing this, I remembered this quote I had saved long time ago:   

I write about love like I know it so well, but to be honest, love and I have never officially met. (source: secretlywanderlust)

April 8, 2024 - Cringosity and the Chasm

April 6th and 7th went by seamlessly, according to the standards I had set to my life and yet there was a hole drilled in my middle. I woke up this morning and fell into that hole of desolation with the gravitational force of my existence. Anyway here is a poem I wrote when I was 13 (or, I was already 14...? I don't remember well but all I know is, it was Valentine's Day and my grandmother was dying). and had just discovered my "boyfriend" was not exactly my "boyfriend". Don't proceed if you do not wish to get slapped by a bag of cringe coins that will devolve the entire human race by a smidgen.

"We are a collision that was never meant to occur.
I despise your temples, they are too seductive.
I don't need to work, I just need someone to worship.
I want you to see me right now, but you are kilometers, kilometers away.
I took the steps hoping for you at the door waiting for me with a jug of tea.
You used to be my favourite sample, you used to be the place I went home to.
One last touch was never enough, every street becomes a past polaroid of us together.
I trace our steps lingering mist, while you have dissipated the cobblestones of our time.
You are the only one who knows, I am not okay without you.
I'd write all my time to you, I'd rename all my past for you.
Your memories will return to dust, when my bones rebuild themselves.
Did you know? Abraham left Isaac for God?
We'll soar to lavender fields, where life's more than toil and fray.
Mr. Postman knocked today; room service for one, a solitary stay.
He is the one I long to be, because he has all the letters to your reach your doorstep.

We are a story that was never meant to be.
Poets are pretenders but I am a nostalgic devotee.
Is this thing on yet? Does this thing rhyme yet?
This is the line I'd delete if there was a button for that.
Romance is not a race, yet we are all the rats who are left behind.
Will you cancel your plans for me, to eat lotus seeds by the beach?
I feel spinning planets around my head while all your messages go to my junkmail folder.
You are the white dwarf I have molded into a diamond in the sky, d
isdainful yet luminous.
I recall your heartbeats with the memory of your wrists while all your visits went unmanned.
I'd like to see you at my fashion show, etch a smile on your face even when your grief pours onto your shoes.
One strike won't keep me away for life, we live in glass houses afraid they'll break.
Wear your sunday best for the shrine hopping, this is the memory I will never bury.
Nobody sees the trouble I've been through, the brown box on the highest shelf.
We shared a drink over my patterned grandma quilt, lies shrivel up when it comes to you.
Mr. Postman stopped by today; front row seats to the disaster show, eagerly awaited.
He is the one I long to be, because he has all the letters to your reach your doorstep."


Reading back on that poem from my 13-year-old self feels like stumbling upon a buried treasure chest filled with embarrassing relics that was meant to dissipate with time. The cringe-inducing journey down memory lane, but there's a strange comfort in revisiting the melodramatic musings of my teenage years. In retrospect, it's chucklingly sad how I thought my world was ending over what now seems like trivial teenage drama. And, I kept going on. I still wrote in my diary, miserably passed my exams, and half-leggedly finished my sleep. But in that moment, every word felt like a dagger to the heart. Amidst the cringe, there's an underscoring of innocence and intensity of teendom. It's a reminder of how deeply we can feel things at that age, even if those feelings may seem exaggerated or misplaced in hindsight. And, this sad monster named Nostalgrox comforts the adult me. Pats my head, runs its fingers through my crony hair and tells me to keep going. It chokes my body in its arms, under its foaming mouth while it regurgitates my past to forcefeed me the wisdom of this hole. The rock-bottom is an absolute, pants-on-fire mirage. It's hard, cold and unyielding. I prefer this chasm, it has a soft ground and I have absolutely all the time in the world to dig, let the dirt bathe me, let the roots choke my wrists to spasm my heatbeats. And, I am sure, somewhere in the quiet trenches, I will find solace in altering my pasts by sowing seeds of delusion and pies where possibilities stretch out like endless constellations in the night sky.

As I close the pages of my teenage diary, I can't help but feel comfortable at the absurdity of it all. Life moves on, and so do we, leaving behind a trail of embarrassing poems and awkward memories. And maybe, just maybe, that's part of what makes it all so grotesquely human. Finding comfort from past's rot to escape present's turmoil.

- Oizys.

Sunday, April 7, 2024

April Seventh: NaPoWriMo: Wish You Were Here

And last but not least, we’re taking it easy with today’s (optional) prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem titled “Wish You Were Here” that takes its inspiration from the idea of a postcard. Consistent with the abbreviated format of a postcard, your poem should be short, and should play with the idea of travel, distance, or sightseeing. If you’re having trouble getting started, perhaps you’ll find some inspiration in these images of vintage postcards.

Wish you were here,
Amidst this tranquil scene.

The air is crisp and fresh,
Filled with the sweet scent of pine,
And the sound of birdsong.

The lake, so secluded,
Its glassy surface, reflective,
Shimmering in the sunlight.

The surrounding woods,
The canopy cradling heaven,
Casting long shadows across the water.

The verdant valley,
Grabs your neck to take a pause,
And inhale the moment.

The lush greenery,
Washing over peace and serenity,
Cleansing itself all over you.

The mountains stand tall,
Jagged peaks piercing the sky,
Sheltering serenity upon your soul.

The crystal-clear rivers with gentle currents,
Meander through your feet,
While reflecting the azure sky above.

The warmth of the sunlight,
Filtering through the leaves,
Deepening the stirrings in the soul.

The gentle rustle of the breeze,
Slapping your face,
As the evening blurs.

I write to you from a distant shore,
Where nature's embrace feels like a dream.

And, with each passing vista,
I find myself missing you, more than you know.

Do you remember the days of yore?
When we'd yearn for adventure under the sky?

Now as I wander, my heart holds dear,
The memories of us, together, near.

Yet as I scribble these lines so clear,
I realize it's not just you I hold dear.

For in every journey, in each unknown place,
I'm writing to the person I used to chase.

I randomly came across this post where this person suggests they write a letter to themselves, from every where they travel to! And, this inspired me to craft this poem. Also, here's another postcard treat for any reader here.

I made a postcard on Canva and the last four couplets to it. Let me know if you all like it.


- Oizys.

An edited version where the above piece is broken into two separated poems as suggested by Elizabeth Boquet (use the 9 tercets as a poem alone, and use the rest in a separate poem.)

Part 1: Premise - Prelude to Paradise

The air is crisp and fresh,
Filled with the sweet scent of pine,
And the sound of birdsong.

The lake, so secluded,
Its glassy surface, reflective,
Shimmering in the sunlight.

The surrounding woods,
The canopy cradling heaven,
Casting long shadows across the water.

The verdant valley,
Grabs your neck to take a pause,
And inhale the moment.

The lush greenery,
Washing over peace and serenity,
Cleansing itself all over you.

The mountains stand tall,
Jagged peaks piercing the sky,
Sheltering serenity upon your soul.

The crystal-clear rivers with gentle currents,
Meander through your feet,
While reflecting the azure sky above.

The warmth of the sunlight,
Filtering through the leaves,
Deepening the stirrings in the soul.

The gentle rustle of the breeze,
Slapping your face,
As the evening blurs.

Part 2: Postcard - Ponderings to P.

I write to you from a distant shore,
Where nature's embrace feels like a dream.

And, with each passing vista,
I find myself missing you, more than you know.

Do you remember the days of yore?
When we'd yearn for adventure under the sky?

Now as I wander, my heart holds dear,
The memories of us, together, near.

Yet as I scribble these lines so clear,
I realize it's not just you I hold dear.

For in every journey, in each unknown place,
I'm writing to the person I used to chase.

- Oizys.

Saturday, April 6, 2024

April Sixth: NaPoWriMo: Wisdom in the Weird?

And now for our (optional) prompt. Today’s we’d like to challenge you to write a poem rooted in “weird wisdom,” by which we mean something objectively odd that someone told you once, and that has stuck with you ever since. Need an example? Check out Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “Making a Fist.”

Moments of failure feel
Like reality stumbling onto me,
While the world moves forward
And I shuffle into my past.
They creep into my hands slowly,
And burst inside my mouth suddenly.
My fingers shiver and cramp,
My mouth foaming with desperation.
My knuckles cringe,
My throat shuts.
Ungrappled opportunities slip from my shaking hand,
Self-doubt and the weight of will melt bitterly on my tongue.
Weak fingers stroke a weak throat.
I try to remember the prayer, but it is too foggy.
I try to recall the words of wisdom, but they are too woolly.
What was it..?
Ignorance is bliss?

- Oizys.

Friday, April 5, 2024

April Fifth: NaPoWriMo: The Lament of the Spatula, the Notebook, the Ice Pick

Now, let’s get to our optional prompt! Today we’d like you to start by taking a look at Alicia Ostriker’s poem, “The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog.” Now try your hand at writing your own poem about how a pair or trio very different things would perceive of a blessing or, alternatively, how these very different things would think of something else (luck, grief, happiness, etc).

Today's prompt's inspiration was taken from my kitchen. Three objects I saw. Stirring tale of kitchen mementos.

In the dimly lit kitchen,
Where shadows scratch walls
Like memories seeking solace of past,
A lone figure stands amidst the remnants of fading will.

The spatula rests awkwardly against the worn countertop,
Its once gleaming surface,
Now dulled by the weight of countless meals prepared with obligation and desperation.
Its edges, once sharp and precise,
Now bear the scars of battles fought
And lost in the relentless war against time and helplessness.

Beside it lies the notebook,
Its pages yellowed with age and turmeric,
And fragile with the weight of recurrent stories and forgotten dreams.
Each scribble upon its surface whispers of hopes dashed and aspirations undone,
A silent evidence to the cruelty of time and the frailty of human existence.
Within its weathered confines lie the echoes of a soul laid bare,
Seeking solace amidst the chaos of life's relentless march.

And then there is the ice pick,
A cruel reminder of the chill that grips the heart in moments of despair.
Its jagged edges glint in the faint light,
A stark contrast to the warmth that once filled this sacred space.
In its cold embrace lies the promise of oblivion, 
A fleeting respite from the pain that threatens to consume all that remains.

As she stands amidst these relics of a kichten left behind, 
A sense of longing washes over her like a wave crashing upon the shore.
Memories swirl around her like ghosts in the night,
Whispering secrets long forgotten and truths carved open.
In this quiet moment of reflection,
She finds herself lost amidst the fragments of a past she can never transpose,
Yearning for a sense that now eludes her grasp.

And so she sits down,
Trapped between the echoes of what once was
And the harsh reality of what is to come,
her heart heavy with the weight of a hundred sorrows.
In this fleeting moment of rotting sadness and choking nostalgia,
She finds herself longing for the warmth of the sun upon her skin,
And the promise of a different dawn on the horizon.

But for now,
She remains rooted in the darkness,
Haunted by the ghosts of past inactions and piercing regret,
The vivid banality and throttling certainty of what lies ahead.

- Oizys.

Thursday, April 4, 2024

April Fourth: NaPoWriMo: The Whisper of the Dancing Forest

Our (optional) prompt for the day challenges you to write a poem in which you take your title or some language/ideas from The Strangest Things in the World. First published in 1958, the book gives shortish descriptions of odd natural phenomena, and is notable for both its author’s turn of phrase and intermittently dubious facts. Perhaps you will be inspired by the “The Self-Perpetuating Sponge” or “The World’s Biggest Sneeze.” Or maybe the quirky descriptions of luminous plants, monstrous bears, or the language of ravens will give you inspiration.

In the depths of Russia, where whispers roam,
Where trees sway and spirits find their home,
There lies a place of mystic lore,
Where the dance of the forest does adore.

A phenomenon, strange and true,
Where trees waltz in a mystical brew,
Their roots intertwined in a rhythmic trance,
In a dance that defies all earthly stance.

The Dancing Forest, they call it so,
Where the ground beneath seems to glow,
As if the earth itself joins the fray,
In this waltz that lasts night and day.

No one knows why they dance so grand,
In a land where nature's hand
Paints wonders beyond human ken,
In the secret glades of this hidden den.

Some say it's the spirits of old,
Tales from folklore, mysteries untold,
Guiding the trees in their graceful glide,
As they dance with the wind, side by side.

Others claim it's the earth's own song,
A melody ancient, profound, and long,
Echoing through the roots and leaves,
As the forest whirls and weaves.

But whatever the reason, it remains unknown,
In the heart of the forest, where secrets are sown,
Where the dance of the Dancing Forest unfurls,
In a symphony of nature, for the world to behold.

The idea I took from "The Strangest Things in the World" is the phenomenon known as the Dancing Forest, which is said to exist in Kaliningrad Oblast, Russia. This strange natural occurrence involves a forest where the trees appear to be dancing due to their uniquely twisted and contorted shapes. While the exact cause of this phenomenon remains unknown, it is believed to be a combination of environmental factors such as wind patterns, soil composition, and possibly even the presence of underlying permafrost.

I chose this idea because it intrigued me about the mysterious and enchanting qualities often found in nature's oddities. The notion of a forest where trees seem to come alive and dance captured my imagination and created a huge scope of speculation about the hidden forces at play in the natural world. A great playground to fool around with imagery, metaphor and symbolism that lends itself well to my poetic exploration.

- Oizys.