December Is Cold And Full Of Regrets

The end of December approaches. As I wrap myself in this thick blanket and search for some sleep in this deep cold, a layer of regrets settles on me. It is heavy. And it is chilly. Like the night. My ankles are locked. My hands were trembling under my chin. I reminisce. About all the opportunities I could have taken advantage of but did not because I was too afraid. About all the messages I could have talked to people but didn't because I was too disconnected. About all the times I could have gone out and been with people but did not because I was a bit too tired. About all the time I could have been just happy but did not because I was a bit too caught in my own head. About all the times I could have sat with my family and laughed but didn't because I was upset.

December is ruthless. Pricking you with the worst nostalgia. I cover myself from head to toe, hoping to escape this layer of regrets by immersing myself in my fantasyland, only to regret not sleeping properly the next morning.

- Oizys.
 

Is It All Just Plain Dramatic?

 Am I too dramatic? With feeling all these emotions constantly. Constantly stressed out. Just worried. Filling my entries with all the overthinking. Am I too much? Do I crib a lot?

On this beautiful, chilly night, I was neck-deep at work. And, suddenly, the above thoughts hit me like someone splashing water on my face.

Is it true, though? Sometimes, I wonder. Am I a buzzkill? I often look at my friends or family and think, "Would they be having more fun if I were not here?" If I were not here, they would be doing all those things that I am holding them back from or that they are not doing because of me. Would this place become a better place if I were to stop existing here? Sometimes, when I was younger, I would think. Is there any way to escape and watch my life from afar? Like, I won't be here, and everything else is the same. How would that affect the lives that are connected to mine? And I don't think like this with bad intentions about my near and dear ones. I would never want them to be hurt or sad. I just wonder if they would be happier if I were not here. Or simply feel and act differently if I were no longer a part of their lives. Just to make sure that I am not a burden on them,

Such intrusive thoughts. Yet very absorbing. That is, I keep looking for meaning in my non-existence while completely ignoring my existence as if it holds no meaning.

- Oizys.

Am I Doing Enough Or Not?

Currently, I do not have much going on in my life to write about. It is all the same. Wake up, work, sleep. But, I have been wondering. About the university, I had mentioned earlier. I was so caught up in desiring and fearing, I forgot to think if I am prepared for it. I mean, that is the most important part. Am I doing enough? Am I eligible to study there? Am I preparing enought for it? I am so scared and feeling so jittery. Ugh. Why can't I be more decisive? And, confident? Or, a bit more sorted? Why do I have to be constantly worried about things. A constant itch in my left foot numbing my entire body out of anxiety and twitchiness. Why can't it be a bit simple for me just once? Sometimes, I feel like I cribble too much about it but then I think, is everything else also always crippling with constant uneasiness and collywobbles like me? I wish I could have something or someone who would just tell me, what would it be for me? What's in the store for me? What will the providence throw at me this time? I just cannot stop ruminating, over and over again. I am mentally exhausted. 

- Oizys.

Success Is Weird

It feels so weird to go to the next level, right? You have worked hard for it. Sleepless nights. All the running around. The juggling. All for something. And, then when you get it, it feels weird. People say it is just self-doubt creeping in. Some say, you are not in the same place anymore and the new place is just... new and you need to start getting used to it. And, when you are there, the easiest option is to take a step back to where you previously were. That itch in your foot. Ugh. I start feeling anxious. Do I deserve this? Do I do this or that? Am I doing it right? That constant itch in my foot had numbed my entire leg and I am so, so tired. So tired of feeling incompetent in my own head. So tired of underestimating myself. But, I can't stop. Because the moment I stop, the other set of thoughts wakes up on the other foot. And, the cycle continues. I feel constrained and drained. You give everything you have just to worry if you deserve it when you finally get it.

- Oizys.

The Urge To Erase Everything And Go Away

I have this overwhelming urge to erase everything, delete every picture, delete every number, cut every tie, and go away to someplace else where I am alone and new. I do not know if it is the itch to get out of my comfort zone or the yearning to leave my uncomfortable life. People say you need to get out of your comfort zone. But what if you never had one? And you have been working really hard to create one for yourself. Then, why leave? Why not stay there? Anyway, about this urge: I don't know what to do with it. I often wonder why I think the way I do. Is it because I have not much space around me between this half bed and a small table? Am I not able to grow? Am I not scared enough? Or am I just running away because I am paranoid? My inner self is screaming at me to run away from everyone and everything. Now, let me assure you. While I am thinking like this, I have zero intentions of hurting my near and dear ones. In fact, I often think I should go away from them for their betterment. I look at my father, and I feel like I am a burden. I sit with my mother, and I feel like she will finally be at peace when I leave the house forever. I talk to my sister, and I feel like she is just unwillingly fulfilling her duty as my elder sister to look after me. I go out with my friends, and I feel like I am constantly holding them back from having fun and from achieving more. I simply do not feel at ease. And when I come back to my spot, there is nothing but an empty me. A phone with no texts waiting to be answered. A laptop that has no mail waiting to be read There is no list of books to be read. There are no movies downloaded to watch. Nothing. I search for something, just something—maybe a hand to reach out to. But, nothing. The hollowness is jarring. I want to escape this vacuum. But how? How do you escape nothing? I try adding things, but they all dissolve. All dissolve into my banality. Is it an urge to run away from being a burden on others or on my own self?

- Oizys.

An Orange - A Poem

Some entertain, but I follow your clay-like path.
Here I am, a warm brain loitering in the university of elixir.

Conversations of precisions, the recitation
of curtains, we
call an aquatic necklace.
Cinnamon and pure father,
which is a silent map of directions
three hundred, or too many to count, rejoiced
on a bed or in the warm land
directions of the leg, a calculation in your tails.
Halfway.
For river was rabid and morally positive.

- Oizys

{I love writing. I have been through so many phases in my life, but one thing that has remained constant is my love for writing. Well, another could be my dream to become a writer. No matter how mediocre, cringy, or banal my words can be, it has never made me give up. I would read more and try to write better. Some days, I fantasised about writing stories and novels. Some days, I would dream of publishing my poetry in magazines here and there and then compiling them into one. Some days, I would dream of becoming an unknown diarist whose diaries get published posthumusly. But words have been constant. It is true that most of these dreams are nowhere near becoming true, but it is not a crime to dream.}

I'm A Spectator Of My Own Life

I'm an idle spectator of my own life. I am watching everything from afar. Just passing by. Just happening. Just breaking down. I would love to take control and do things. But, I am so scared. Of what, if you ask? I do not know. Of people? Of circumstances? I do not know. I just feel so burdened. Like, I have withdrawn from something. I have no say in something that's entirely mine. I am observing but not functioning. I am in the spotlight but the background is the focus. It is been so long since I have been in focus, I have forgotten how reality feels like. It is a strange, hallucinating sensation when I am jolted back into reality after zoning out for a very long time. I can touch my life but not life. Like there is some disconnection. Like when you hold a hot cup of tea but the hotness doesn't affect you anymore. I just sit here and watch the small parts of my life unfold with very mild curiosity. And, once in a while, there is a lockdown. I am unable to think or speak. My brain gets thoughts but I am unable to decipher them. Or I am unable to construct sentences or think of words to express them. It feels as if, my life is passing by yet I am sitting in the same spot. On the same rock. On the sideline. Silently watching it just... go.

- Oizys.

Scared To Desire

I am so scared right now. This is one of those typical times that determines what will happen with my life, if not in its entirety, for the next ten years. And this is the first time I have wanted something so badly in my life. It has nothing to do with other people. No one decided it for me. No one influenced it or directed me toward it. I did not have to ask my sister if it was right for me. I did not have to ask my parents if I could have this. You know, it was one of those things that sparked something special in you. Something you did not know you were looking for. And, when you find it, you feel like you have found everything you have ever prayed for. There is a very brief, soft moment of happiness. That one-minute of sweet calmness until the stinging starts. Then you just burn. I was so happy. Then I got scared. Because if I don't get it, I will feel a lot worse than the happiness I have now. With the weak heart and low self-confidence I have, I will probably give up everything. But I do not want to give this up. And that's why I am scared. This could define one. I'd like to take a course at a university. It could help me achieve my dreams and goals. I know, after learning what it is, it might all sound very dramatic, but it is what it is. It is important to me because of my circumstances and situation. This is what I want. But, at the same time, I am so hyperaware of my mediocrity that I am just scared—if I do not get it, what will I do? Where will I go? It has conquered my entire mind so that I can't plan any other things in case I do not get into that university, which makes me anxious. Because, now if I do not get it, I have no other safety net or plan B. You know, one of those things where you get so strangely possessive that this is all you want and you can't see anything else but that? I may sound like a geek or a nerd or a dork or whatever the word is for talking like this about an university, but... it is the first time I am deciding what I want to study. Previously, in school, it was either my parents or, in college, it was my sister. But, for the first time, I know what I want. I have even connected with loads of people from there and started learning the language of the country in which the university is located. I told almost everyone about it. It is oddly settling. It just feels right. And I don't know what I would do if I didn't get in. It would get so difficult to get in the next year because it would require coming all the way back to ask for letters, to ask for documents, and to stop paying loans. It is a weird and difficult situation, which I cannot fully explain to someone but which I wish I could. I wish I could explain to someone how much this means to me and how difficult it is.

- Oizys.

A New Year Entry For Myself

A new year acknowledgement to me. '23.

-  Oizys.

Do You Think I Can Also Make It?

First of all, I donot know why I put the title in second person as if I am talking to a person. But, do you think I can make it? Fulfil my dream? Live my passion? Do what I like?

- Oizys.

How Do I Give Up?

How do I give everything up and escape? No single thing seems to be fruitful or meaningful to the very least. It all seems vague and hollow. No single thing piques me anymore. I have been dragging myself like a dead soul for god knows how long. It keeps getting worse and worse if not just the same. My knuckles and knees, scraped to the bones from all the dragging. I don't know for how much longer I can keep dragging this. I am desperate to leave it. Drop it. But, I don't know how. I'm unable to leave it. No matter how hard I try, it is just too mazey. Stuck in my hands. No matter how hard I try to wash it off, it just doesn't stop. How do I give up.

But, all I know is. I need to leave. I can feel myself at the edge of insanity. One little nudge and I will lose it. I need to escape. Run away to somewhere else far away or to non-existence. Anywhere but here. I need to go. My left foot itches. The left side of my back twitches. My body rotting every passing second in anxiety and jittery. I need to escape and I need to run away.  

- Oizys.

Kafkaesqued In Life

"Suffered much in my thoughts." (Franz Kafka. From a diary entry written c. November 1919.)

"Dreams flooded over me; I lay weary and hopeless in my bed." (Franz Kafka. The Blue Octavo Notebooks, 1917-1919.)

"I'll shut myself off from everyone to the point of insensibility. Make an enemy of everyone, speak no one." (Franz Kafka. Diaries.)

"I've spent all my life resisting the desire to end it." (Franz Kafka.)

"How many days have again gone silently by?" (Franz Kafka. Diaries.)

"I feel so lost among these entirely strange people." (Franz Kafka. Diaries.)

"The relief of giving in to destruction." (Franz Kafka. Diaries, 190-1923.)

A few years ago, I came across an YouTube video about Kafkaesque. I discovered Franz Kafka. And then I discovered his diaries. Since then, I have been wondering how do I stop relating to his excerpts. When I started reading his diaries, I found a part of me wandering in between those parts. A part of me I have been searching. A part of me I have been looking. A part of me that was sick of life. That was tired of existing. And when I read Kafka's words. I realised my desire to meet the end of my existence. I realised an innate need in me to just stop. The word "Kafkaesque" deeply resonates in me now. Even if you wish to escape with causing absolutely no harm to anyone, there will a labyrinthine like sprial staircase waiting for you to cross. When you stare at it angirly while people whisper "calm down", your body starts to feel the hopelessness, the annoyance towards of absolute absurdity in life, bottomless pit of nothing but failures and disappointment. Every day, every night, the words from the copy of the Metamorphosis appears infront of your eyes, "Why don’t I keep sleeping for a little while longer and forget all this foolishness."

The Aesthetic Cottagecore Fantasy (A Comforting Lie)

Green garden, handpicked berries, her company, her soft white cotton dress, pouring orthodox tea, with freshly baked bread and sweet butter, some wine in a cup, in the backyard of our cottage, the soil and herbs growing and their earthy scents, humming sapphic poetries to each other, collecting flowers for each other in a woven basket, whipping cream to bake yet another strawberry cake.

Ah, the view from the kitchen. When you peel oranges. When you brew tea. When you wake up, groggy eyes and walk into the kitchen for a cup of soothing coffee and a warm stream of sunlight hugs you a good morning. The kitchen window. When you stare outside at the sunset painting your kitchen orange, while you stir your vegetable soup. Or toast your bread and cheese. Or bake your bread. Stare at the empty street at night, bees and insects humming near the streetlight bulb. The kitchen window. The window to the core of a content and well-fed soul.

Is this a dream? Are we in a dream? Or, are we living the dream? And, whatever it is, hope we never escape it.

- Oizys.

 

I'm Done

I can't even drag myself anymore. I'm so done. I'm no goal to look forward to. I have no options to choose from. I don't know what I want. I don't know what I like. I don't know why or for what I am moving forward. Each day, it is just the same chores and sleep. Hollow. Empty. Nothing to wake up to. And just heaviness to sleep on. All these parched parts of my life are desperately squeezing for water out of me. But, I have nothing to give them. Nothing to quench the dryness of this soul. 

- Oizys.

Descending Into The Dichotomy of Ignorance & Apathy

People in my life have been telling me something in me has changed. Something integral.
I lost interest in getting up in the morning all of a sudden.
I did not care about the mess or the clothes strewn around.
I did not want to look at the marks dropping or opportunities passing by.
I stopped caring about patches of dandruff and pimples.
I stopped taking pictures and capturing moments. Stopping altogether from making moments
I stopped listening to music. I stopped dancing to music.
I stopped talking. No thoughts came to mind anymore.
My creative ability waned. Words were no longer a constant companion.
Blank papers became a regular occurrence. I stopped penning.
A few pages of reading became a chore.
Friends moved on.
Cousins and siblings moved away.
Life walked away.
I descended into the dichotomy of ignorance and apathy.  

- Oizys.

I'm Tired Of The Constant Expectation To Be Happy, To Have Fun

I am unspeakably tired and burnt. I love my friends but there is a huge portion of my existence that they do not understand or if they understand, they do not feel the need to acknowledge it. It is that I get socially tired. I run on a battery while interacting with people. And, it runs out. Further, it takes time to get charged again like some unrenewable resource. I get tired of the constant need to have fun, the constant demand to take pictures, and the constant clinginess to have fun all the time. They need to be perfect and to look good with an artificial smile plastered on all the time so all the pictures come out really well. They need to be available and free and have the money to go around and eat and drink. They need to have fun all the time and constantly plan for the next outing without even having some time to recover from the previous one. I am tired. I am exhausted from the constant requirement to be happy. I am not essentially sad but I am just lacking the energy to be happy. I just want to be. Again, I love my friends and they are the best anyone could have. But, I fear. With my weak social energy, I might be pushing myself away from them. It is, at times, too much for me. Just so much more than what my mind can take. I just need some time to be me. Just to be. The constant need to be aesthetic is making me sick in my soul. Because it also is a constant reminder of how I am not perfect and of how I am a just misfit trying really hard to fit in a little bit. And, this is exactly what I need a break from. I want to just exist in my routine without this tiresome expectation to be perfect, all ready for the camera. My veins are dry from the extended efforts to be hip with them. My mind has become barren. I need to sleep without the lingering thought of how should I escape from the next plan. I need to read, write and work without the hurriedness of having to go somewhere. I need to laze around without the need to dress up, look good and travel all the way to take Pinterest-aesthetic pictures for the socials I don't have or use. I am tired of constantly thinking of ideas to give as excuses. I am tired of lying. I am tired of faking excitement and enthusiasm. I am tired of trying to be perfect for the camera all the time. I am tired of being someone else all the time. I am tired of looking for reasons to push away my friends all the time. I am tired of complaining about this and not being heard too. I am just tired of running away from people who once used to be my comfort zone.

- Oizys.

Do You Sing?

Do you sing? Do you dance? Do you paint? Do you read? Do you play? Do you travel? Do you run? Do you count stars? Do you do something to feel alive, to feel human when you get some time amidst your routine? To fill the break. 

- Oizys.

An Embarassing Entry Of Hope & Praying Of A Not-A-Believer

 I am not a believer anymore. And no, I am not a non-believer who has the opinions of the non-existence of any superior one. I am somewhere in between where I have stopped believing because I don't feel it from within in who or what to believe. Yet, this entry is a secret one. A manifestation. A pray. A call. Because, even though I have stopped believing, I have not stopped being desperate. I saw these posts where people have been writing the same sentence numerous times in which they say what they want in order to achieve it. In this entry, I will lay myself bare open and do the same. Because I am desperate and hopeless. And, I want something to happen. I want to be somewhere. I want to achieve something. And, I have no idea how to. I have no means to. I feel weak. I feel low. But, I want it.

- Oizys.

The Process Of Getting Comfortable Is Uncomfortable

I am not a social person, in general. I am pretty awkward. With my enhanced overthinking skills, I make it further edgy. I have to go through a huge process of getting comfortable. Be it with a person, or at a place. Even the process is so physically and psychologically uncomfortable for me. The tumbling, the stumbling, the picking up, the embarrassment, the picking up, the process of getting familiar, the hiding, the confrontation, the speaking up, the syncing and everything.

It's not that I don't want to be social, it's just that it takes so much energy and effort for me to feel comfortable in social situations. I envy those who can effortlessly walk into a room and strike up a conversation with anyone. For me, it's a constant battle between my desire for connection and my fear of being judged or rejected.

- Oizys.

What Brings Me Happiness?

I was rubbing ice on my pimples. And staring at my blemishes in the mirror. And, I started thinking. What brings me happiness? What brings me pleasure? What do I 'want'? What are my desires? I seeked answers within but the jarring silence pierced my mental peace. The pin drop silence within me in response to these questions made my soul wail.

I thought about all other people I know and moments when they were happy. My families, friends. How did they know what brought them happiness? How did they know what they wanted? How do people recognise their needs? How do people decide on what they desire? Do they also seek these answers from within? Or, in other people?

Is there someone else who has faces the same silence as me? As you know, misery loves company. 

- Oizys.

Do You Worry About What Other People Think About You?

Do you worry about what other people think about you?
Do I? Oh, yes, I do. I worry. A lot.

A Rare Entry of Cribbing About Someone Else

You know, normally I don't crib much about other people in my diary. I restrict it to my own thoughts and pieces. But, today. Oh, today. Some people have an amazing talent to boil your blood with their disgustingly cold and pompous attitude. You know, those specific kind of people who lace their words with extreme sweetness to cover their repugnant personality yet, the odium leaks from the break lines of the cream coating. You can feel the stink and your souls shudders as soon as they open their mouth to spew dark clouds of unpleasant effluents.

It just gets you. So hard they make their way into your precious things. Like here in my diary, in my case. And whatever you do or don't do, they leave a mark on your brains forever. The ickiness, stickiness from their negativity lingers. And sometimes, it successfully dissolves to become a part of you as well. It is, indeed, horrid.

Shame & Inadequacy Are My Constant Companions

Shame and inadequacy are my constant companions.
I am never left alone.
My mind crowded with overthinking and blurring emotions.
Consistently shameful of every action.
Unwaveringly inadequate in every manner.
I sometimes wonder:
Am I just like any other person or is this what it feels to be an invalid?
People always say, be you. Be yourself.
But, who am I? What am I?
Who even am I other than the constant need to know what to do? What to think? What to eat? What to wear?
And obviously, all these questions are always unanswered.
It's been so long they have remained unanswered like an age-old riddle.
Whenever I seek for them, it feels as if someone is haunting me from within.

A Tumultuous Day

Inside the meaning of time the seasons' whisper,
Memories of longing emotions like a dancer alone on the stage,
Followspot chasing behind her twirling legs like months unwrapping season after season,
Her hands dancing to the tune of music like flowers blooming with colors.

Stealing moments from here and there to take a glance at her own reflection,
To taking moments to check for her beauty in the others' eyes,
Thoughts keep dwindling between self-confidence and self-doubt,
But the legs and hands overshadow the sounds of the dark thoughts.

- Oizys.

Will You Forget Me?

I always wonder. If I leave today, will you forget me? Who will remember me? I look at people around me. People I'm related to. People I work with. People I have studied with. And, I think, will they remember me? Will they think about me when I am gone someday?

Then, I remember those moments I stayed back and didn't go out with them. Those moments I ran into my room when they visited me. Those moments I stayed asleep while they waited for me. Those moments I said no to take a picture. And my moments of solitude, that I took by snatching from them and enjoyed thoroughly and guiltily, scares me now. 

It's scary to think that those moments of solitude that I cherished might have come at a cost. Did I miss out on building connections and memories with the people around me? Will they remember me for who I truly am, or will they only remember the times I turned down their invitations or retreated into myself?

- Oizys.

My Wistful Fantasy

We all fantasize. We all have some comfort fantasy stories to run to when we are done dealing with the day or when we are in an uncomfortable social situation where we are surrounded by aunts and uncles we know but we don't actually know. I have a thousand of them. A labyrinthine of daydreams and scenarios that I can escape into whenever I need a mental break or a pick-me-up. Some of them are simple, like imagining myself lounging on a tropical beach with a cold drink in my hand. Others are more complex, involving intricate plotlines and characters that I've created in my mind.

- Oizys.

Curse of Banality - A Poem

I have realised there's a curse laid upon me.
A curse of being banal.
A curse of turning anything I touch banal.
A curse of banality.
It took me a lot to come to my own.
And when I did.
I was disappointed.
But, I was not astonished.
Because the journey itself was also cursed.
A path of unaesthetic and unoriginal struggles.
A fight of idleness and illogic.
A yearn for nothingness and a sudden end.
A race between ignorance and apathy.
A curse of banality inked with prosaic language on my forehead.
Reminds me of a quote I had saved recently,
"...an unbearably tense and disorienting paradox that underscores everyday life in a working-class environment—on the one hand it’s an abrasive and in-your-face world, yet, at the same time, much of it seems extrinsic and is perpetually uninvolving. One is relentlessly overwhelmed and understimulated all at the same time.
~ Claire-Louise Bennett, Checkout 19"

- Oizys.

You, Who Reads Me

People who read me. Who read my diary. I want to share something with you. I am mostly on that side of this situation where I read diaries and letters. I am a huge fan of this genre. I love reading books which are in form of diaries, journals and letters. As you all must have seen from one of my previous entries, I had quoted one such letter.

A question for you all:-

I used to have an account before as well. I have some entries backed up and some other manual diary entries too. Do you want me to upload those old entries here? They are mostly diary excerpts, prose poetry, and a bit too much broken poems.

- Oizys.

Unspeakably Lonely

There are days I feel so much that I want to write. Yet, I can't find the right words. In search of those words, I read. I read other people's feelings. Sometimes, I end up getting distracted from my feelings and some days, I find words so appropriate, so accurate to what I feel.

"I feel unspeakably lonely. And I feel - drained. It is a blank state of mind and soul I cannot describe to you as I think it would not make any difference. Also it is a very private feeling I have - that of melting into a perpetual nervous breakdown. I am often questioning myself what I further want to do, who I further wish to be; which parts of me, exactly, are still functioning properly. No answers, darling. At all." - Anne Sexton. 

- Oizys.

Tucking Myself Under Lies

I come to bed every night knowing everything is messed up and wrong. Yet, I come here because it is my only escape. After an entire day of being exposed to just life and anxiety, I come here to run away. I tuck myself under this heavy blanket to feel the warmth. A blanket made up of fantasy-woven stories and an unrealistically soft world. Lying underneath these layers of pies in the sky, a part of me keeps reassuring the others that we still have a few more hours of warmth until we go out to the cold again. I have built this castle so high in the air with pillars of angelic fables and myths. I sometimes move around out in the cold with my bubble of reverie around me. A very small part of me, aware of this hoax, sad about this lie, whimpers in hopelessness. She knows it is all a fabrication of dreams and yet she also knows except for this wool-gathering quilt, I am nothing but dust.

- Oizys. 

Ricocheting In Between

It's oddly unsettling, this body. It contains an urge to be happy yet an ingrained characteristic to remain sad. I prolong my depressed thoughts while I also try to look for reasons to feel pleasure. When I do find something that could bring me pleasure, I ruin it with my need to be dead inside. It's almost as if the feeling of sadness is the one that is pleasurable to me.

Sylvia Plath was right, "I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between."

I have lost it while bouncing between the two. I have stopped feeling either. I desire nothing anymore. I have absolutely nothing to look forward to. I have lost the shine. I have lost the thunder. Just a worn out ball lying in a corner.

- Oizys.

Do You Think I Have A Problem?

Do you think I have a problem? I am very annoyed right now. I am unable to get anything right. I couldn't get two tasks done assigned to me. I couldn't finalize structures of my other tasks that I had to. I don't know how am I going to ask for references from people. I am so uncomfortable right now. I am in my most secured place yet somehow I feel nauseated and abhorrent. I feel like escaping this skin. I am getting frustrated at everyone and everything as if I am looking for a reason, for someone, for something to pour out my anger into. I hate being like this. I hate feeling like this. I hate what or who I am turning into and I hate it. I never want to be like that who is just a vessel filled with anger and negativity. But, I don't know what else to do. I just wait for this pass. But, it is so painful to lie here waiting for these feelings to go away after they are finished mutilating every inch of my sanity, every fibre of my peace. This is just too much. 

- Oizys.

Unseen and Unbothered

Days like these. Where I can sit and work from home and do everything else from this weird zone of mine. Where I have a bit of control on things. Where I move. Where I don't feel over concious. Where I don't have to think what they think. Where I am not worried if a few strands of my hair are strewn. Where I am not worried if I am wearing a short trouser and my hairy legs are exposed. Where I think out loud. Where I don't have to constantly beat myself to shape me into small that is fittable out there. Where I can eat with a bit of sauce on the corner of my lips. Where I can read, act and play without constantly thinking about how they would do it or what they would think. Where I can be nothing. Where I can be anything. Where I am relaxed. Where no one can see me. Where no one can know me. Where no one can bother me. Where I can bother no one. Where I can just be easily. Where I don't have to alter or repress myself just to be exist. Completely under myself and my control. 

- Oizys.

What Is My Life?

I often wonder. When I am passing shops or waiting for the bus. I often think. What is my life like? Whatever am I doing? Is it all okay? Is there an end result to everything I am doing? Am I doing all of these to achieve anything? What are my goals? Do I have any light burning towards anything? Do I have a path in my mind to carve? Is this bland life of mine has any story worth telling? Why am I growing older and older if I have no story? What would I say, if one day in future, someone asks me to narrate a story of mine? What would I say? I sit here, in this scrunched up half of this room, between half of my bed and this wobbly table. I sit here, and I wonder. What would I say if I meet someone and they ask me about my desires. If they ask me, what brings me pleasure or what pains me. What do I like? Is there anything that I feel excited about? Is there anything that disgusts me? I often look often answers as well. In other people's likes and dislikes. In strangers. In books. But, no answer from these satisfies me. Because, deep down, I know it didn't originate from within me. 

- Oizys.

The Only Question I Have

It's been like that since I was little. when I looked at the kids running around happily, I was upset even at that young age. "What are they so happy about?" or "Why am I not happy like them?" or "I eat and sleep. Eat and sleep." "Why do I have to waste such a long amount of time?" I'd be perfectly okay if I only get to live 8 years instead of 80. I don't do anything but I'm already exhausted. Still, I drag myself along, like driven cattle. "Let's keep going." "I don't know why I have to live, but let's have a decent life while I'm alive." That's how I barely manage to drag myself every day. Whenever we were asked to pray as children in schools or at temples, the kids would share what they prayed for. They would say things like, "grades", "schools", "friends", and "love". I never understood that. I always thought why are they praying to God about that? I only had but one question, "What am I? Why am I here?"

The most painful and complex thing. You feel heavy. Your soul feels nauseous. But, you don't know the reason. And, things get worse when you realize it is so difficult for you to explain to your near ones why you feel so sad for no reason. There is no justification whatsoever behind your feeling of heaviness. I don't even feel justified in being sad because when I look around, I see people in much worse conditions and I feel... guilty for feeling sad. Franz Kafka's words resonate within me "I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself."

And, then something even worse follows. You go down fighting but at one point you give up. You give in. You stop eating. You stop going out. You stop talking, you stop listening. you fantasize about nothingness. You play it by lying on the floor just to run away from reality and get a taste of it. A taste of what it would be like to be nothing. A taste of what it would be like to... not be. A taste of what it would be like to not be you. 

- Oizys.

Do You Read Diaries?

Thirtieth day of September in the year 2022. Do you read diaries? What is it about diaries that makes you read them? How do you feel after reading someone's personal pages here? Do you feel relativity or wrong? Do you think about other people reading your diary entries while you pen them down here? What do you get from that, by making your diary public here? What is it that you are looking for here? Do you just read someone's entries and that's it? Or, do you interact with them as well? Have you made any journal-pals here? Is sharing diaries a form of connection?

How To Liberate Oneself?

Twenty-eighth day of September.

"I’m exhausted. I don’t know when it all started to go wrong but I’m exhausted. Every relationship feels like work. Every moment that I’m awake feels like work." - My Liberation Notes (2022).

I Will Never Love Myself

Twenty seventh day of September. Year is 2022. I will never love myself. I wish I could skip this journey of loving myself and being myself and fall asleep and wake up when it's all over.

Why Did I Think I Could Be A Part Of Something?

Twenty-fifth of September. The year is 2022. Times are scary. The world is a perpetual whirlwind. You never know if that person asking for directions is ready to snatch your purse. Or, that another person asking to make a phone call will steal your identity. After years of university, in my final year, I chose to be a part of a group. And, I ended up stepping on my toes. It is horrid and on the edge. Why did I think I could be part of something? Something where people gather and organize something. Walking around a sticky web. My foot getting stuck. Head lost in a knot of anxiety and fear. And, despite all of this, my dire desperation to be a part of something. To feel like I am contributing to something. To feel like I am a social animal. Led me to a vain path of unwanted troubles and unwished-for emotions. Cries I would have never shed or struggles I would have never picked instead.

 

I come back to my cot. I think about these things. And, ruminate. How do people function so well? Mesh beautifully with each other. Even if, they don't like each other. When I enter their mesh, I feel like I disrupt the entire network. And, I feel tedious and I feel the need, the need to flee. I get irritable or jittery whenever I’m in places with a lot of people. Even someone sitting alone at a table next to mine in a cafe irritates me. I don’t want to have friends anymore. I don’t need them. I feel uneasy in bed, I feel uneasy around people. "Why can’t I laugh happily like other people? Why am I sad all the time? Why am I always nervous? Why is everything so boring?" are my only constant thoughts. No matter where I live, I think I would have been the same. I’d be living the same mundane life and no one would ever be interested in me. I felt like if I lived like this for too long, I’d shrivel up and die. “Why am I feeling sad? Why am I sad?” I’ve never felt real joy, pleasure, or excitement in my life. I’m hungry but there’s nothing I want to eat. Every time I leave my cot, it feels as if I am walking out of my own grave. Hopeless and grey. I don’t know where I’m trapped but I feel trapped. There’s nothing in my life that relaxes me. I feel cramped and stifled. I’ve been so impatient lately. I just want to die already. After years and years, my life is the same, the meetings are the same, and the people are the same. I curse and get mad the same way. It’s all the same endless repetition. This comes and goes in cycles. Three days of the week are so tiring, the other three are just barely manageable, and I don’t even know how the last day goes. It feels like I’m stuck but I don’t know how to get out. That’s probably why I hope everything ends all at once. I didn’t exist before a few years ago and I won’t exist in the next many years, but I feel like I existed before that and will still exist after that. The feeling that I’ll exist forever. I’ve been frustrated by that feeling and I’ve never, in my heart, ever, felt settled. Out of the 24 hours in a day, I only feel okay for about a couple. And it’s not like I even feel good, I just feel okay. I just try to get through the rest. I wish I was genuinely happy and able to say things like ‘Yes, this is life,’ ‘This is what life is all about. I’m not unhappy but I’m not happy either. I am tired of pretending to be happy. I am tired of pretending to be unhappy. I just want to be honest. Everyone is on their way to their graves, so why is everyone so happy and excited? Does anyone live without pretending? Can, anyone? Please do not give any advice. Please do not try to comfort me. But, do you think I will be a different person once the winter comes?

 

- Oizys.

I Can't Speak Anymore – A Poem

I don't speak anymore.
I can't speak anymore.
I don't want to speak anymore.
I can't want to speak anymore.

Seems as if my lips love each other too much get separated.
I feel so quiet and faint.
While typing, I sometimes decrease the size of the font.
When I read my words,
My mind even asks a few times,
To wrap itself around me.

I wonder if people look at me,
And see this mutilating silence?
Or, is it too surreal for anyone to recognize?
I wonder if they see the rock on my throat,
Under which my voice is trapped.
The heavy weight,
Erasing my voice to entirety.

Too tired to even lift it up,
I have completely given up,
And, I don't mind anymore.
The sadness of being used to it is shattering,
The peace has become defeaning.

- Oizys.

The August Forest – A (Prose)

As I walk through a dry forest, leaves and twigs crunch under my feet. Coarse and prickly feet with blemishes and blotches. Tired from carrying around a body full of hollow cries and heavy nothingness. I walk and walk to find nothing and then I run towards green moss path. I slip and fall and get up to go again. I see a door. A wooden door broken here and there, probably leading to nought. Desperate and scared as I am, I ramble my knuckles against the door. It creeks open to a home cramped up together in a room of a wooden box out in nowhere in the forest. A cot in a corner with a baby tucked in it like a jewel in a locked chest. The mother sits on the other side of the room, nearby a stove with bubbling spinach soup. The perfect camouflage. You never know if it is a crazy week-night supper or last wish borrowed from death’s warrant. I step into the warm nest of housekeeping. I touch the cheeks of the baby with my pale fingertips. She curls and coos in peace. The mother stirs in a fog. Walls covered with dilapidated paintings and desperate stories to tell. I try to feel the homeliness. I beg the mother to spare me a cup of warmness from the stew in the potjie as old as my iron mark. The mother says, “It is not yours to remove, nor yours bear.” I scream into oblivion. I scream to get rid of this brandished arm. I scream to absorb the pain stained through the ink of the hot iron. I scream and scream to find out the baby to be in the dark of my voice. Like my fate seemed to be in the dark of my suffering. 

- Oizys.

Summertime of August – A Poem

As the beaches are, the sun beams felt rarely.
Sandals drove bikinis like calloused flowers triumph.
Count the days, and remember the peace.
Fireflies shine and before them, heat runs!
Yet there's July before the Augusts and the jewels.
Though it's now muskier and less brisk.
They never pick the pals nor the breezes, with grass.
Peace is an azure pal about grass and August.

Though it's now more full and less buttery.
We swim, but only for a while,
Poems heard mint juleps like obscured suns rise.
We wave, but only for a while,
Rainbows sit and under them, expanse radiates!
Only the daffodil triumphs as a paired poem.
Peace, eternity, and ever eternity.
They never give the fields nor the poems, with ice.
Behold picnics…

Malevolently, voraciously, wondrously.
Count the jewels, call the wind.
They never drive the mint juleps nor the mosquitos, with sunlight.
Love is a searing daisy between lightning and light.
Suns fought lemons like hot hours shimmer.
The muddy beach silently paints a tank top.
Where was the brisk wind then?
Nights loved parties like magenta beaches wander.
July, August, and every water.

Grass, lightning, and ever grass.
Time is an obscured sun within July and love.
Where was the stormy expanse then?
Gently, devotedly, wondrously.
What is peace after all…
Yet there's sand on the times and the tank tops.
Clouds picked the sun between the sandy peace, barely but temporarily.
Distance, time, and ever eternity.
Sometimes calloused and always sweet.

Why did the minute love it, to fight the love?
What is sunlight after all…
Shine devotedly like a muddy beach upon peace.
Suns stumble and above them, sunlight breathes!
Why did the fan call it, to hear the July?
They never see the hours nor the sandals, with heat.
They never drive the picnics or the days, with insomnia.
We breathe, but only for a while,
Storm and convertible, o, hey! storms like the love.
Only the convertible breathes like a sandy bikini.
Sometimes brisk and always unique.

What is ice after all…
Sometimes scary and always brisk.
What is the veiled time to silently pick the lemon?
Yet there's sand under the winds and the tank tops.
Hello! We felt the poem and the love, why not stand?
Fireflies explode and within them light shimmers!
What is the rejuvenated water to gently find the rainbow?
Please hours…
We fall, but only for a while,

We fall, but only for a while,
Partys wander and in them, sand radiates!
Count the beaches, hear the expanse.
Where is the gritty sandal, the sunny lethargy now?
Sand is a scary time between June and time.
Only the field hikes as a calloused cricket.
How does the party not bleed?
Only the hour winks as an ephemeral convertible.
Poems -- hot storms!
How does the beach not live?
Between or about, how wind explodes on.

Behold beers…
Hello! We picked the mint julep and the distance, why not live?
Lawn chairs live and in them expanse hikes!
Why did the poem feel it, to make the distance?
Lawn chair and lawn chair, yes, alas! fields like the beauty.
Sometimes sandy and always azure.
Before or above, how lightning stumbles on.
What is the scary heat to transparently befriend the lawn chair?

As the photos are, the lemons drove wondrously.
How does the photo not wander?
Bikinis revealed fields like searing patios glow.
Why did the night feel it, to paint the June?
Ever to seek a mint julep, it imitated a patio.
Though it's now more unique and less magenta.
Malevolently sweet, jewels transparently remember a magenta mint julep.
Oranges hike and on them light lives!

Eternity is a clear flower upon sunlight and love.
Though it's now more faded and less scary.
Hours drove crickets like magenta oranges wink.
What is August after all…
Transparently, silently, marvellously.
As the clouds are, the mint juleps pulled marvellously.
O! beauty, the searing eternity.
Damn convertibles…
Days swim and before them, time stands!

Why did the daffodil call it, to find eternity?
To remember, we discovered. To make, we called.
We triumph, but only for a while,
Why did the rainbow pick it, to hear the beauty?
June, ice, and every July.
Shimmer benignly like a scary patio within July.
Hello! eternity, the empty expanse.
Uncertainty is a buttery tank top about July and insomnia.
Distance is a paired daisy in love and grass.
Though it's now more blistering and less hot.
Violently azure, lemons benignly remember a unique tank top.

As the flowers are, the rainbows are called devotedly.
Sleep is an azure storm of love and wind.
Behold! We felt the lawn chair and the love, why not rise?
Storms saw the jewel under the sweet July, gently but benignly.
Glow marvellously like a searing mosquito in sunlight.
They never reveal the parties nor the sunbeams, with water.
Why did the beach remember it, to find the ice?
In or after, how sand grows on.
Only the patio waves like a magenta sandal.

They never seek the mosquitos or the clouds, with lightning.
We run, but only for a while,
About or before, how June waves on.
Beware! beauty, the luminous grass.
Days -- musky sunbeams!
Within or upon, how heat shimmers on.
Beware! love, the musky love.
What is love after all…
What is the sweet distance to hardly see the clothier?

Lemons -- searing lemons!
We breathe, but only for a while,
Beaches -- unique bikinis!
Mosquitos sit and upon them heat hikes!
Lawn chair and bikini, alas, please! breezes like the light.
Count the sandals, and seek sleep.
Where is the luminous daffodil, the calloused heat now?
Picnics remembered the sunbeam between the sunny uncertainty, violently but nonchalantly.
Benignly, gamely, gently.

Hello! We pulled the beach and the light, why not live?
How does the minute not triumph?
What is the sweet grass to malevolently discover the photo?
Crickets -- scary crickets!
How does time not die?
Count the crickets, remember the lightning.
Suns heard parties like clear suns breathing.
Behold mosquitos…
To drive, we loved. To reveal, we forgot.

- Oizys.

Yet Another August Poem? – A (Prose) Poem

August is making me oscillate between soft glints of sunlight and dark pits of consternation. I sit in class and try to jot down words, but I feel myself descend into a labyrinth of little and grotesque forests in my mind. Heavy trees, whose seeds were sown long before I was born. The green is dark and brown. Barefoot, I walk and let the sharp grass cut my toes and then let the wetness soothe the wound. I pluck some leaves to read my sower's prophecy, and all I see is patterns. Pathless and meaningless patterns. I look up and the sky is getting eaten by all the green. The thick veins of trees erupt from the depths of the soil to stem around my feet. I keep dragging my body across the muddy and damp floor. The air is laden with age-old trauma and archaic affinity. I sit up and wipe some mud to discover a brand on the back of my palm. Skin is seared to mark the bloodline. I lay on the ground and let the soil swamp over me. I struggled with my breathing and, unlike a common human instinct to throw my hands and legs up in the air, my fingers traced the iron mark, my fingertips trying to decipher the fate of its body. Is it a besmirched death or a glory depart to meet my sower?

- Oizys.

August – A Poem

A nauseating wind hits my face.
Followed by an ill-omened cloudburst
I sit clutching the fingers of one hand.
Strangling my toes with twitches
Trees turning a deep green.
Also, potholes with mud
I take out my phone only to flood the screen.
And blot it on my jeans.
And I imagine myself in someone else's life.
As someone else's rider
As the lane approached
A wave of bile bestired in my mind.
Anxiety erupted like this.
I look at the date.
The first day of August
And I lament the past few months.
I see myself approaching my dwelling.
And I imagine myself in someone else's life.
As someone else's pupil
I knock on the gates and the door to misfortune hails me.
Takes my baggage
She lovingly strokes the bad luck as she wipes the raindrops.
Only to let him lunge and bellow at me.
Shutting off my valve of defense
Barring my lips of vindication
I wail in desperation battling with my words of demurral
And I imagine myself in someone else's life.
As someone else's daughter.
I run as I scream at his profoundly deaf anger.
I separate myself from my being.
I scratch my skin and clamp my eyes shut.
Mulish tears salt my wounded mouth.
I beat myself with shuckling
As I imagine myself in someone else's death
As someone else's misfortune.

- Oizys.

{A structurally inconsistent and irregular ode to my wistful thinking. A woebegone August, lamenting the end of my life's summer at the lack of lambency. I wish I could write down the address of this snakebit's origin. But, I am scared. I am scared that if I write it, I will be banished. My heart will be vagrant. And, as a result of my fugitivity from his tumult, I will forever bear the label of scapegoat. Oh August, the new beginning of an old wound. The new branch from rotten fruit. I stew in this rumination as I imagine myself in someone else's perception, as someone else's loved one.}

The Evil Crevasse – A Poem

"The immanence is not unworldly!" It cried.
The immanence is exceptionally terrestrial.
Deep into the chasm of the immanence,
Swiftly they cascade - the sophisticated, the terrestrial, the mercenary.

These humans,
However hard they try,
Will always be evil.
"Do humans make you shiver? Do they?"
It asks me.
Makes me think...
Think of the eschaton,
Confused is just the thing,
It get me wondering if the eschaton is woolly.
Muddled with misdeed and malice.

Makes me think...
Think of a human,
However hard one tries,
Will always be yellow,
Yellow-bellied and eering,
It shakes before stampeding away,
Says, "Pay attention to the divine Nature",
For the divine is the most ordinary reverend of all.
Deep into the gorge of the divine,
Swiftly it goes - the mundane, the characterless, the mediocre.

- Oizys.

I Am Scared To Write Here - A Poem

I am so scared to write here.
What if they find me?
What if they look into this pile of words?
A heap of rotten emotions,
Nothing but stale angst,
Useless anger,
Faceless rebellion.
What if they chop my words into pieces?
Throw away my putrid seed vessels,
Take away my good flesh,
Sell and eat them.
What if they dump it in the mass of kaput?
Sticker me as noisome,
Dispose me as unculled,
Ending up as manure
Manure full of weedy seeds,
Corrupting the arabilis.

I am scared to write because,
I am scared to blather my noisome concoction,
Dole out my unsavory portions,
Unlade my tanks of insipid versions,
Dangle my flesh blotted with too many horrid snippets,
With no morsel of structure or rhythm,
Because, a bad apple spoils the entire barrel.

- Oizys.

18 July 2022 - "nothing to write home about"

Hello, I received that extra protective jab today.

No matter how protective and secretive I am, a small part of the writer (I hope I can call myself that) in me, has always wanted to reach out to a reader, hand out my words, break open my salted poems, and show my phrases. But, there is something very banal, very vacuous about my opus of writings with shame stitched in its backcloth that becomes prominent when "seen". I see books bounded by soft covers or hardbacks, beautiful art spread over it, engirdled with rates and crits. I see profiles on social platforms, sapid and tactfully stacked pictures and videos that ensnares fingertips, and beneath it is a brick of words with emotions and notions sun-dried together. So ambriosal and so moreish. So potent and so chewy. Such sweetness and hydrating power. Bedewing tears on fresh graves of catastrophes and contretemps. Leaving a considerably bittersweet yearning for more in your head.

Then, I open this site. Search my notes. I scramble with the passlock and I look over my words. Not even a grey wraith of grace or ingenuity. The flow is so sluggish like how I wake up in the morning and rummage through my day to find a trace of my will to live. The meanings are so staggering like how I walk after I unsuccessfully overcome any situation. The blueprint, patched up like how I cover my gaping anxiety with my ego and fear of embarrassment. The ideas are so incoherent like how I speak in front of an audience even with hundred hours of practice and a lucid script in plain sight. And the words, oh the words. Shambolic and draggle-tailed like when I am out in wind and try to fix my hair by running my fingers in them but end up further dishevelling it. Stolen and pinched from here and there, from posters stuck on trams in an unknown city to ancient taglines in broken and forsaken repositories, like a debt-as souvenir.

- Oizys.

17 July 2022

"June, July, August. Every day, we hear their laughter.
I think of the painting by van Gogh, the man in the chair.
Everything wrong, and nowhere to go. His hands over
his eyes." - Mary Oliver.

16 July 2022

Hello!

Lately, I have been struggling with what to write about. There have been a few fleeting ideas, but I am unable to catch one to nurture it further in my brain.

11:40 PM

It is raining. Heavy raindrops fall freely. Not so urgently, but rolling against the window. The room is closed and cold. Windows are shut and curtains are drawn. I am sleeping under a soft, thin old coverlet. You know, the ones that are overused and have reached the level of cozy comfort that rubs against your skin and makes your eyelids heavy. Scrolling through my phone, I came across some words by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. "You sensed that you should be following a different path, a more ambitious one. You felt that you were destined for other things, but you had no idea how to achieve them, and in your misery, you began to hate everything around you." 

I eventually settled on a thought to write about. A thought from a not-so-pleasing reverie. Some time ago, I had no path to choose from. Every interest is desensitized. Every skill is debilitated. Every choice is disentitled. I was craving an abrupt and quick end. Confusion and emptiness are strangling my sanity me. Then, I discovered a postgraduate program I got interested in. I suddenly forgot the aches and pains in my mind; the scars of strenuous pondering began to move away from my vision. I started reading. I started talking. I started living... a bit, maybe. I delved deeper into the matter of planning a future that would align with this program. I analyzed and came across some problems. I ticked off some to-dos and what-hows. The more I plumbed into it, the more I got interested. But, sometimes, when you are the most excited, you are the weakest. When you are the happiest, you are also the most unshielded. You are on your knees, looking up to the sky, with tears in your eyes and some self-possession finally in your mind. That's when the rain starts roaring. Then lightning strikes. The drops are no longer lingering around your skin. They are falling knives and blades. Cut through your sweetbreads, steal your voice. Rip open your offals and reduce yourself to a carcass waiting to be scavenged. A disappointingly good carrion for the sleek and well-fed vulture of death.

The clouds won't stop tonight, I guess. But, my heart has been cut too close, the spareribs obtained by trimming too nearly. It hurts. My eyes have started to wrinkle again. No vital ichor and no vim root. This is where you stop writing. It is your body's reflex. Shut it. More like a crying call. To fortify your endangered reservoir of the last vestiges of verve and vigor.

- Oizys.

 

13 July 2022 - Thoughtless

I am lying here awake. Alone today as well, in the room.
I am lying and thinking. I was watching some videos and listening to songs yet I was thinking. Thinking about what to write here. I am just speechless. Thoughts have gone away for a long walk. Leaving me all alone with an empty page and a house full of people to deal with.

Apparently, wearing shorts is a crime. I need to wear longer pants so that I can preserve my culture. Marking this day so I do not repeat it, in God's name.

- Oizys.

12 July 2022 - Private or Peril?

The twelfth day of July.

I do not remember how the entire day went. I guess there was a bit of heavy rain, some spilling of tea on the staircase, and, of course, a huge amount of wool-gathering.

I spent the day browsing through stuff here and there. I came across this bunch of writing inspirations, two of them being, "Will you please leave me alone now so that I can continue to wallow in self-pity." and "Please be quiet, I can't even hear myself losing the will to live." I have a boutade for writing right now. Reminds me of the days when I was a teenager and loved writing in my journals, but unfortunately lived in a house where the concept of privacy never existed. Members of my family would read them and then proceed to use them to make fun of me or against me while arguing. I've never been able to trust them again since that happened. Not even with good news about my life. There is a tick in the back of my mind that the news will be tainted. I have a fear that they will snatch away that feeling of success from me. People will say, "Now you can keep an online diary." It is safe and secure. But, what's done is done. It remains with you, and you have the unduly duty to carry that scar forever. I remember trying to keep a journal after that when I had some space for myself but was never able to. I would end up throwing it away in the garbage dump from the rear balcony. And so I stopped being myself. Around them, and sometimes in the pages too. All I do is pretend, filter, mask, and fake.

I can't remember the last time I felt or was myself around them. They do not know at all. It is a level of discomfort that will make you want to take off your own skin. The agonizing moments of being around them. Always on the edge, walking around on eggshells. There is a block of acute small talks with no space for actual discussions consisting of nuances, understandings, or (dis)agreements, no matter what I do or how hard I try. When I think about it, the act of dismissing whatever I say is what has broken the thread between us. They keep pestering me to share it with them. But those horrific moments of being dismissed keep playing on loop. The fear is there and it's thriving. Sometimes, growing up, they would get annoyed or upset by me very easily and for reasons that were never revealed to me. I can still feel the silent scream "Leave" towards me from them whenever I say or do something. The close-mouthed condemnatory looks shut me up now. And, the fact that I have zero knowledge of what would tick them off pioneered the sack of anxiety, distancing, and over-sensitivity that only sucks the energy out of you. The only possible and accessible way out is to escape. The irony, I know, but it's comparable to being stranded in a foreign country where no one speaks your native tongue while you learn the local traditions. Every social interaction and discussion turns into a menacing maze to be solved. And every time I act authentic and am a little open, it feels like I'm "doing too much" and alienating people. I recently attended a family function. I secretly hope that whenever I am present at a family event or even at the dinner table with them, I do a good job of concealing the enormous feeling of unwantedness. I am always under the distinct feeling that I am a hermit crab doing my best to pass for a human while speaking to them. I have been trying to avoid such functions nowadays. Sometimes I don't even mind them; I simply can't handle the atmosphere of hanging out and conversing with them. I have never been able to be myself in those circumstances. There are too many hurdles for me to be seamless with them.

I don't know how to end this entry. I don't know if anyone is reading this. This is just the unloading of that sack of overthought emotions and unnecessary feelings that many labels as "teeny angst." Here I sit, on a rare day of having this room entirely to myself for a few hours. I try to split open this labyrinth-like drama of grief and solitude.

- Oizys.

11 July 2022 - Discovering Writers: Or, Mourning My Own?

The eleventh day of July.

When I last wrote here on the sixth, I wrote an elaborate entry about a few things, and then my phone died, resulting in the entry getting deleted. I have been in mourning for those words since and have not been able to write anything since. Yesterday, I finished and submitted an article for a competition. And, today... I feel like writing again.

Rarely, does the advice of "Do the thing" work when someone is demotivated and cannot commit to an action. And that rarity is writing. This is probably one of the few scenarios where the advice "just write" actually works! 

I know I will never be able to revive or resurrect those words we all lost on the sixth of July, and hence, I will not try. But, that doesn't mean I will stop writing about that or writing in general. I have come across two writers and have been reading their works, mostly columns and newsletters. One thing I am always envious of and love is capturing the essence of the mundane. Phases like these where I discover such writers are what make me both happy and sad. I am happy because I love reading them. Sad, because... I miss those days when at least I was able to dream of becoming a writer. I just miss being able to plan for a career in writing. Now, it has been reduced to a hobby that disappears when I am too busy with academics or too tired to pick up the pen. It sometimes sits in the background, waiting to be done, and I keep delaying it. I postpone my thoughts and words. When my back rests on the bed, I am exhausted and a realization hits me. I keep taking writing for granted and keep procrastinating. It makes me so sad that once there was a time when I considered this act to be my entire life, and now it is not even properly yoked to my daily life activities. It makes me so, so sad. The idea of starting a newsletter has been running in my mind. But... what do I write? Will anyone read, let alone pay me for these words? I am now constricted to shifting between my side of the bed and this table. Restricted to half of a room shared with another member. Just wandering through life with no desire to experience anything. Settled comfortably into a Pyrrhic life, delusive contentment. I don't feel competent to even write anymore. Words feel empty. A bundle of lies stitched together. An attempt to choke the hollowness. How long do you fake it? Even when you see death approaching, you can only smile until it holds your hands. At one point, you have to give in to the end.

- Oizys.

6th July 2022

The cake tastes good. Fairly well. I never made the icing. Maybe next time.

Cooking is a basic life skill when you are in a one-human family. It is a necessity. However, when there is a plus one or plus n in the family, there is an acceptance, a level of expectation that must be met while cooking. It becomes a burden. That's why I refrain from cooking for other people. As weak as I am, both emotionally and mentally, I don't think I could go through disappointment, let alone criticism.

5 July 2022 - Let Them Eat Cake

Making a cake.
Hope it turns out to be good!
I am also thinking of making honey icing for it. But, it's still up for debate.

Something in German: det Kuchen ist lecker und schön!
[English Translation: The cake is delicious and beautiful!]

- Oizys.

4 July 2022

The fourth day of July.
It rained cats and dogs. The entire outside seemed to be painted with the color white. I woke up a bit late in the morning, so I could not sleep. My family had a good sleep during the rain. One of the few things I like about rain is that I can get all cozy up in my blanket and sleep.
After the rain subsided, I went to a nearby mall. had coffee and cakes. I did a lot of window shopping and very little actual shopping.
I brought some momos, which I shared with the family.
I ended the day by improving and vetting my work.

- Oizys.

3 July 2022 - A Little Bit Deutsch

 Welcome to July.

I have started learning German. And, I have been doing some shopping. Went on a huge shopping spree with mother and sister the day before yesterday. Brought some stuff for around the house. And, I was supposed to go and buy some dresses yesterday with my sister but we had a spite hence, dropped the plan.

Anyway, let me share my introduction in German which I learned:

"Hallo, schön dich kennen zu lernen.

Mein Name ist O.
Ich komme aus einer Stadt.
Ich lerne Deutsch.
Ich bin student.
Eines meiner Hobbys ist Lesen.
Ich schreibe gerne Gedichte und liebe es, Tagebuch zu führen.

Prost! Auf Wiedersehen!"

The translation in English:

"Hello, nice to meet you.

My name is O.
I am from a town.
I'm learning German.
I am a student.
One of my hobbies is reading.
I enjoy writing poems and love journalling.

Cheers! Goodbye!"

If any of you know German, please let me know how I am doing. And, if I have made any gross mistakes, I profusely and sincerely apologize to all. Feel free to make any corrections. Criticism and feedback are welcome and appreciated! Thanks!

- Oizys.

30 June 2022 - Rain Bowing On Our Parade

To them,

I have discovered a thing⁠—no, not a thing⁠—a living part of myself. It has been thriving ever since that time. But I was blinded from feeling by the social script of humans. This part of me is me. For⁠—through this part I love. I desire. I cry. I laugh. I live. They say love is life. But, my love is a crime. My love is unnatural. My love is abnormal. My love is impure.

Only if they got a chance is look at that part of me⁠—that very specific part of me. They will know. They will understand. How naturally my love springs out when I look at her. How pure my admiration is when I brush her hair. It's not anything I choose to be, but it is something that I am and if I ever had a chance to choose, I would choose this every time.

I will live—for how long I do not know—but until I am alive, I will never let anyone chop off that part of me that loves and desires by putting a label of "phase". Because love is not a crime. Crime is malice and disgrace and when there is a disgrace, there is no love. Love is only pure. The purest, like her unforgettable, mink brown eyes.

They cannot condemn me and my love because their script of platitude lacks the intention of acceptance and is rather full of manufacturing beings into their thraldom. And, those who claim that is script is designed by the Creator. To those—I say—I am, too, a creation of that Creator. The part that loves is also the creation of that Creator. And, I am honored to be created with this part within me that can love and hope oh-so-purely and effortlessly.

Believe I am, my dear fellow humans, yours most sincerely, a human who just wants to love.

- Oizys.

29 June 2022

It's been a while. Long time, no see.

I have been thinking a lot and guilty-chilling a lot these days. But, in the last week, I applied for a job and researched a postgraduate program that I can force myself to be interested in. I am nervous, anxious, scared, and excited as my college graduation approaches. I have no safety net or concrete plan whatsoever. No lucid dreams about my future. Even if I get a job, how am I going to work? Or, if I apply to a postgraduate program, what will I do there besides hog seats and money and deprive a true scholar of a real opportunity? Everyone keeps asking, "What do you want? What is your dream? What is your goal? What are your aspirations?" The thing is... I do not know. People will say all sorts of things if you confess that, it's okay, you are young, and you have time to figure things out. But, the same people, five years later, will look down on you and tell you that you haven't made it yet.

As for the questions, what the heck do I want? I am just so devoid of sentience toward reality. So empty of the practicality of living a life. Who, if exposed, will be reduced to a dumb person with no real knowledge. How do you do things? How do you empathize and relate with people to build connections? How do you figure out what house you want to rent? How do you know what vegetables you want to buy and what food to make out of them? How do you decide what mobile phone to buy? How do you know what you want to study? How do you know if this university or this course is appropriate for you? Or, is this the job in which you want to build your career? Or, is this the profession that will be tagged as a formal identity? How do you break down and allocate your finances? How do you know whom to live with? How do you know who is good or who doesn't want to murder the gut out of you? Are people born with this? Do they receive information regarding all this from someone? Do they sit down and discuss it? If they do, what do they say? What do they talk about? How do they talk? I can never understand what to say. I hear words and listen to conversations, but I have the impression that all of this is ingress into a part of my brain that is a mix of apathy and ignorance.

Sometimes, I am tired of it. I am exhausted from worrying so much about all of this. Some days, I am so scared that I want to run away into non-existence, take off my skin, and get rid of this actuality. I do not want this. I have figured out what I do not want. This… is what I do not want. It is mentally taxing, and for what? For this world? For families, who talk over you and disregard you because you are not earning enough yet? For siblings, who sweet-talk and extract vulnerable feelings and emotions and then use them as ammunition when they fight? For friends, who fight the urge to not delete your number or exit the group because you are the only person they remember when they need something and you are the only person they can shamelessly ask for anything, even if you have just beat a deadly disease and they haven't bothered to ask how you are doing? For love,... well, it has never happened to me, so I cannot comment on that.

Then you look around. People are doing it. Someone has a reliable bunch. Someone is blessed with a family that built a home with bricks of love and safety. Someone is tying a thread of common law with a partner to spend a life together for the rest of their lives until something goes wrong. You think, how? Do you think, does every freaking feels this way or you are just completely freaking alone out here? You sit there, staring at your laptop screen. Bunch of tabs open. Juggling through applications, trying to squeeze out a statement of purpose, fake-build a research proposal, sugarcoating why you want a job just so, you get a tag of professional life and earn a bit of coin to pay the fine for non-con-sensually coming to this world, pay the tax for unwillingly existing in this society. Amidst all this, a tab of this webpage is open for a fortnight. Followers unsubscribe each day after waiting for long nights for an update from your side, messages lying unread from beautiful people. And, is a stark reminder that you cannot even remain consistent with an e-diary, and cannot even commit to two to five unknown yet indulgent and understanding accounts here.

Are you worthy of this food you eat? That your mother cooks with sweat? That your father buys with hard work? How are you even opening your mouth to swallow this fruit that so many people strive for but die because they cannot get it? But, you cannot even leave? Since you will be bombarded with questions to which you do not have any answers and why is that? Of course, because you do not know. They criticize you by pointing out how ungrateful you are, maugre having everything served on a platter accompanied with a glass of clean water. Because let’s accept it. It is so difficult to explain or open up about being sad for no reason. A mixture of guilt and heaviness. The floor crumbles under your feet, the world falls over your shoulders, and the baggage is milling your spine but your brain is unable to comprehend why? It takes a quick scan around and sees people with real struggles and bloody knuckles from a chain of unfeigned battles and it asks you why the heck are you sad?

- Oizys.

16 June 2022

I feel rather buoyant today.

I wore a new dress. Well, my sister bought this four-to-five years ago and never wore it. She was sorting her wardrobe out and found it. It doesn't fit her anymore, so she gave it to me. It fits me perfectly. Though it is a merchandise type with a quote written on it (which I am not a fan of), I like the color and the fit. So, I am keeping it.
I applied to a few more jobs today and did some proofreading.

I have been listening to some freak folk and freak-pop songs lately. I have noticed I am more drawn toward songs with female vocalists in the freak genre. There is a wonderful richness when a tone is seeping when the true and false folds are pulled taut by a gentlewoman, and with a silhouette of psychedelia, it is hauntingly beautiful. Soft and dreamy. Mellow and pleasant. Soulful and fresh. Pure and lyrical. Infectious and vintage. Gorgeous and wistful. It makes you feel nostalgic about a time that may not have existed in your life but has surely affected you. Of a time that never happened to you but has surely made you delirious in your seasonal peaks and troughs. Such a lilting voice with piercing words, when listened to while having a feeble soul and a vulnerable chunk of heart, might lead you towards a "greater hell, or to an oddly unsettling heaven."

Current favourites are Vashti Bunyan, Broadcast.

Today's mood: settling, soft and seasonal.

- Oizys.

14 June 2022

The fourteenth day of June.

I have many thoughts but nothing to write. Nothing that I want to jot down. There is nothing that I want to write here that I would like to read in a few years to feel something.
But, since I have made it clear to myself that I will try to be consistent here, I will make sure to write something or other. 
There are no work leads available or foreseeable.
The current landscape in the folk household is improving and coming to normal standards. 
I still constantly work around eggshells and try to maintain low contact.
I have also not been able to proofread, actively apply for work, or write here properly for the past few days. I am all drained out after all the havoc. I have no imagination left, nor any creativity with words either. Back to square one. 
I also turned the diary into private mode, for what reason I do not know. I want people to read me but not analyze or judge me. I want people to see me but not recognize me. I want people to hear me but not think about me. I think I am scared of being discovered, but at the same time, I desperately want to be known.
It is so perplexing to feel empty and at the same time feel constricted, like something is stuck inside. I am tired of reminding myself that I am actually alive and breathing. I have to zone myself in by putting my hands on a firm surface and pressing the tips of my fingers to remind myself that this body of mine is working.

Today's mood: L'Ennui.

- Oizys.