New Haircut, Same Rot; New Year, Same Plot

On December 31st, I started writing this at 11 p.m. I have procrastinated writing things for so long that there have been feelings covered with tarps of dust, time, and rust. What's happening? Well, a war. For days, weeks, and months, I have been yearning for the tips of my fingers to rebel and push out these emotions for the world to see (or just this creepy little corner of the worldwideweb). And all it took was a calendar change. A partition of lines between two numbers to make me sit and crap a few words. Let me give you some highlights of this so-called war machinery:

- The Battle of Self-Doubt: The soldiers of my inner child and adult critic march on the streets, declaring war. The trenches of self-doubt ran deep, and the fear of continuing to live became a formidable opponent.

- The Skirmishes with Time: Time, my relentless adversary, seemed to slip away unnoticed. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and my aspirations to write became casualties of an ever-advancing clock. Procrastination, it seemed, was winning the temporal battles.

- The Confrontation with Limitations: The demand for perfection in every sentence and every paragraph paralyzed my creative spirit. The war cry of "You are not good enough" echoed louder than the call to simply be and create. The battlefield was littered with unfinished drafts and stangant blood of dead dreams, casualties of an unyielding pursuit of flawlessness.

- The Negotiations with Inspiration: The teasing muse, the inspiration, a fickle ally, played hard to get. There were moments when ideas tried to flow effortlessly, and then there were barren stretches where the well of creativity seemed to run dry. Negotiating with this unpredictable force became a constant struggle.

- The Siege of the External World: The onslaught of modern temptations from the external world, with its sirens of social media, the clamor of daily responsibilities, and the allure of mindless entertainment, besieged my creative fortress. Distractions were like invaders breaching the walls, diverting my focus from the writing battleground.

But here I am, at the eleventh hour, facing the final skirmish of the year. The pen is indeed mightier than the procrastination that held me captive. As the clock ticks away, I'm daydreaming of emerging victorious in this personal war. The arsenal of words is my weapon, and the battlefield is the blank page. Perhaps, in this late-night scrawl, there's a ceasefire. A truce between the excuses and the act of creation. The war is not over, but at this moment, I've claimed a small piece of peace. So, here's to the war of words, fought in the quiet hours of the night, and to the hope that the coming year brings more bits and pieces.

In this very moment, we sit and ponder. Try to go as far back as possible, wondering where it all went wrong. Trying to pinpoint the exact moment we could have stopped, the exact action that could have been omitted. The battlefield of retrospection is strewn with the debris of missed opportunities and the echoes of decisions that led us to this late-night confrontation.

The ink on the pages of the past is smeared with the stains of hesitation and indecision. Each missed deadline, every postponed commitment, is a marker on the timeline of this ongoing struggle. The war drums of regret beat in rhythm with the ticking clock, amplifying the urgency of the present moment.

As the night wears on, the shadows of doubt lengthen. The pen, poised and resolute, faces the impending dawn with determination. It knows that tomorrow morning, the war will resume. The battlefield will once again witness the clash between creation and procrastination. We sit in contemplation, we feel time slipping, and we hear the clock ticking. As the night gives way to the approaching light, I gather my thoughts and prepare for the final chapter in this ongoing saga. The war between pen and procrastination will continue tomorrow morning, but for now, in the quietude of the night, I find solace(?) in the knowledge that the battle is not lost (over..?). The ink flows, and with it, the promise of (sigh...) living:

- This is never, ever a do-or-die situation. Always do or sit and wonder why, and be forced to do so by the consequences. I was in the same position when I wrote my last chapter. Nothing changed. Well, from an outsider's perspective, the insides have been rotting. Soft mass, all liquified in a bottled body. I don't talk anymore. I have stopped saying things to people. I wake up, I work, and I go to sleep. I daydream in the background to stop outside stimulation. I have erased all previous memories. Deleted all photographs. I have successfully butchered all the relationships (not that I had many to begin with...). I have not replied to a single person in months, not even the ones who live with me. I have made my life as thin as possible. She is an old, anorexic, malnourished crone. Who exudes fragility. Holding the knife pointed towards her stomach, waiting for someone to accidentally give a push, and she can part reluctantly, the way she was born. Full of wretchedness. Like a disgusting fruit with a rotting smell and dark spots on her skin. Head full of white fungus. Mouth full of blisters. Reduced into nothing but an embodiment of decay and despair. Her seeds cry, carrying the burden of a life that withered away, a lament for the potential that never had the ability to bloom.

- There is a child who lives in a house behind mine. He cries. Alot. I have never seen him. I have only heard him. His cries. Oh, the painful cries. The ones where each wail comes from the depths of the stomach and pierces into the world but hits no one. Today, it felt as if his tears were silent echoes, seeking refuge in my vast silence. But I have no place and no refuge to offer. I wonder about the burdens he carries. His voice, raw and unfiltered, makes me sick. It is almost like the wail is trying to reach my own dormant pain, stirring the echoes of my past. Invading the house of memories. Angry that it finds nothing, enraged that everything is erased. Searching further, all there is is an inner child. They exchanged looks. A look when a failed prodigal daughter sees a forefather from her ancestry. Like a disgusting tale of fractured heritage and unresolved pain that fuels a rage at the erasure of histories, at the silent screams echoing through generations. I stand near my window searching to catch a glimpse of that poor boy at the intersection of two realms, where the child behind me seeks refuge in his cries, and the child within me responds with a silent acknowledgment—a subtle nod to the vulnerability of unresolved pain. The prodigal daughter fails (falls...?) at the feet of history standing infront of her, and the forefather smites her with a suppressing gaze, a poignant narrative unfolds—an intricate tapestry of sadness and anger woven through the threads of forgotten histories.

- There is some talk about building a house. My parents talk. There is another person, I hear. Their creative discussion turns into an argument. I hear my father begin to raise his voice while the other person backs my mother's argument with reason. Soon, the voices stop talking once the father puts an end to the discussion, and there's silence. I wonder. What do we do with more rooms? I have been effectively decreasing myself to take up less and less space. The clash of opinions in the adjacent room mirrors the internal conflict, a tug-of-war between the desire for expansion and the impulse to retreat further into the shadows. What would it mean to occupy more space in the physical realm when the instinct is to shrink into the margins? The dilemma is softly interrupted with a muffled cry. I think it is my mother. I recognize the cry. It is the same cry she cries after every discussion ends. As the cry permeates the silence, it's as if the walls themselves absorb the emotional residue of the unresolved debate. The dilemma deepens, intertwining the practical consideration of additional rooms with the emotional complexity of familial dynamics. The cry becomes a melancholic punctuation mark, underscoring the emotional toll of the ongoing struggle for space, both physical and emotional.

Oh, look, we have crossed the blurry lines of 11:59 p.m. and 12:00 a.m. We have (dis?)successfully stepped into January 1st, 2024. Did something change in the physical world at the stroke of midnight? Nothing. We wrap up our day and go to sleep. Knowing fully well, tomorrow we will wake up the same way, brush the same teeth in the same mouth full of age-old blisters, pick up the same weapons of lowly daydreaming and incapability to unlevel the will to live, and fight the same war. The clock may reset, but the essence of our existence remains tethered to the unyielding grip of the status quo and the cruel leader who always wins.

- Oizys.

Echolocation of the Caged Tongue

A failed writer and a caged bird.
Wings emasculated and legs tied.
Fingers stuck in my ears.
Tapping the voice in my brain shut.
Forcefed ink and forced to puke poetry.
I try to regurgitate meals of ponder.
Thoughts gnaw the metal as a relentless hunger.
They pluck a feather.
Dip it in the inkwell of my mouth.
To make it a quill.
Days become decades.
Bits and pieces of reality evaporate.
Ink congeals at the tip of my tongue.
The inferior umbilicus is trapped.
I close my mouth as I widen my eyes.
I gulp the blob of ink.
I chew the quill.
The mind hopes for a clot of words to release.

No one comes near my bars.
They say, a stench lingers.
No one comes to open the cage.
They say, it is my asylum.
Why?
Is it fear of my wild heart?
Or, is it repulsion of my rotten belly?

~ Oizys.

The Unweaving

Tonight, I sit on the precipice of my own undoing, on the verge of a cataclysmic event I can only describe as "The Unweaving." The world around me has morphed into a grotesque and nightmarish tableau, where the colours have bled into a sickly, bruised palette as if the very essence of life had drained from the world. As if someone has squeezed it to make it devoid of any emotion. Once-vibrant reds, symbolising passion and vitality, have faded to a feeble, pallid pink, a feeble echo of their former fervour. The verdant greens, once representing growth and renewal, now appear jaundiced and tainted, reminiscent of decay rather than life. Once serene and calming, the blues have transformed into a murky, ashen grey, reflecting the weight of a world burdened by sorrow. These desolate hues now intermingle, painting a grim tapestry of a world beset by malaise. It is a place where hope has withered like a dying flower, where the vibrancy of existence has succumbed to the relentless march of despair. In the shadow of this bruised palette, the air is thick with the stench of decay. It clings to every breath, a noxious reminder of a world unravelling at its seams. The once-fresh scent of earth and nature has given way to a putrid miasma as if the very essence of life itself had curdled. The aroma of decay is a relentless spectre, seeping into every corner, every crevice, and every memory. It haunts the alleys where laughter once echoed and lingers in the halls that once resonated with joy. Now, it pervades every nook and cranny, an inescapable presence, a testament to the relentless passage of time and the erosion of all things vibrant.

The morning sun, once a symbol of hope, now casts long, gnarled shadows that writhe and contort like serpents. My footsteps echo through the barren chambers of my soul, empty rooms in my broken mind, reverberating with a mournful, discordant symphony of despair. Each step feels like a rusty blade carving into my fractured psyche. Each leaf, once young and soft, is getting crunched and crushed underneath my feet and getting stuffed in the cuts and bruises, their tender innocence sacrificed to the brutal landscape of my existence, each bruise and cut now holding the remnants of a world that once held promise but has since crumbled into desolation.

The mundane rituals of existence have become rituals of self-flagellation. I scrub and scrape my skin until it's raw and red, hoping to wash away the stains of regret that cling to me like a malevolent parasite. Each moment etched in my skin feels like an open wound, a relentless reminder of choices made and opportunities lost as if the past were a relentless predator gnawing at the edges of my body. The mirror reflects a visage distorted by torment, a visage I can scarcely recognize as my own. The eyes that once held a glimmer of hope now stare back, haunted and hollow, as if they have witnessed the darkest depths of the human soul. It's a reflection of a self fractured by the weight of regrets, a face worn and weathered by the storms of anguish, a portrait of a soul adrift in a sea of remorse.

My thoughts are a swarm of locusts, devouring every vestige of serenity within me. Doubts, regrets, and self-loathing spiral into an abyss that threatens to consume my very essence. It is a descent into madness, a grotesque carnival of self-destruction. I see the voices in my head as they deplume me of my vision, like someone pinching the wick to snuff out a candle in the cavern. Each whispered thought is a deathly squeeze, extinguishing the fragile flame of clarity that once flickered within. In this cavernous silence, I'm left in the inky blackness of my thoughts, groping through the labyrinthine passages of my mind, searching for a glimmer of understanding that has been cruelly slaughtered with forced subservience and indoctrination.

As I scrawl these words with ink as dark as my cavernous eyes, I am both the executioner and the sacrificial lamb. This unweaving feels like a gruesome dance with the demons that reside within, a waltz of self-annihilation and freedom. With each stroke of the pen, I unravel a piece of my own tapestry, shedding the weight of the past like tattered rags, and in this act of self-deconstruction, I discover an odd liberation, as if dismantling the old self paves the way for something rawer, unburdened, and authentically broken.

Tomorrow, I may wake to a world no less distorted, but I will be reborn from this same wreckage. This same chasm. This unweaving is not an end but a metamorphosis, a baptism in the blood of my own suffering, and a testament to the yield of the human spirit. It is the relentless yet foolish resilience to rise from the ashes, to unearth some worth in the fragments, and to precariously juggle the duality of existence—the darkness and the blindsight, the broken and the each scattered pieces—as the raw, undeniable core part of being. It is in this ongoing battle that the haunting truth of my humanity reveals itself—a truth woven from the threads of vulnerability and resignation, despair and exhaustion, and the ceaseless floundering between the fragments of my soul and the sad, stubborn life that still manages to find its way in.

- Oizys.

"My Liberation Notes" - Yeom Mi-jeong

I vividly remember the day when I first stumbled upon this drama, My Liberation Notes, on Netflix. I was instantly drawn to its raw and unfiltered portrayal of human emotions and mundane life. I shared it with my circle of friends back then, hoping they would share my enthusiasm. To my dismay, they found it strangely off-putting. They could be right, you know? But...

I sought solace in the words of Mi Jung, the complex protagonist of the drama. I remember writing the dialouges in my diary, transcribing her monologues with an almost desperate urgency. Little did I know that within a year, my world would drastically change but not so much. The friends I once held dear drifted away. I managed to graduate, albeit with great difficulty, and landed a remote job that offered little fulfillment. But, I am isolated and alone. Despite my dreams of escape, I found myself trapped in the confines of my room, where hours blurred into days and monotony reigned supreme. Back then, I used to sit in my room and study all day, desiring and thinking, "One day, I will get a job and leave this place and everyone here." And, now it seems like a distant echo lost in the abyss of my reality. I am still sitting in room. Stuck in my room.

 

In the midst of this suffocating existence, I decided to revisit that drama, hoping to recapture the reassuring emotions it once evoked within me. Night after night, I completed my work, eagerly immersing myself in the familiar scenes, only to find tears streaming down my face as Mi Jung's words struck a chord deep within my soul. It became a ritual, an emotional release that accompanied me into the lonely nights, where I surrendered myself to the overwhelming sadness and emptiness that enveloped me.

 

There has always been an ache in my heart, an unfulfilled longing for freedom and liberation that has haunted me since the beginning. It's a feeling I've tried to suppress, burying it beneath the weight of responsibilities and unspoken dreams. Desperate to find an outlet, I turned to writing, pouring my thoughts into a blog that remains unseen and untouched by others. Its existence, like a hidden secret, offers me a sliver of solace—a place where I can lay my soul bare open without fear of judgment.

 

This drama might not resonate with everyone, and it may not possess the power to break the chains of my mundane reality, but it is undeniably real. It has become my anchor, a source of validation for the strange and unsettling experiences that have colored my life. It doesn't necessarily make everything better or worse; rather, it justifies the complexity of my emotions, offering a source of understanding and assurance in a world that often feels indifferent.

 

Every time Mi Jung's monologues resonate in my ears, I can feel a slow burn in my throat, a tightening in my chest as tears well up in my eyes. It's a visceral reaction that etches itself into my memory, a reminder of the profound impact this drama has had on me. I know deep down that this connection will linger, that I will find myself drawn back to it time and time again.

 

In a bittersweet way, it's both comforting and disheartening. Comforting because it reminds me that I'm not alone in my struggles, that someone out there understands the depths of my emotions. Disheartening because it serves as a constant reminder of my longing for something more, something beyond the confines of this suffocating room.

 

- Oizys.

That English Family

Tea, Dreams, and Bittersweet Realities: An Envy-Fueled Odyssey Of That English Family

While doing my research on the postgraduate college I wanted to attend, I stumbled upon a piece written by one person with a sketch drawn by his brother. When I read a bit more about them, I came across a blog by their mother. Her blog, her words, and her pictures of her sons, grandchildren, and relatives became a soothing balm for wounds I didn't know I had. Her little stories of faith, her memories of her mother, her entries about her elder son getting into university, her videos of playing with her younger son's kids She had lived a difficult life yet managed to make the most of it. She and her family look very, very happy. Not the Instagram happy where they morph their differences into lies to get coins and likes. Genuinely happy. Smiles. Guitar. No lies. Their eyes sparkle. Their moments attest to genuineness. The comment section is a giant,  soft quilt of compliments showered by her friends and extended family. I do not know how they are related to each other or what kind of relationship they maintain. But she seems like a genuinely good person. Just humans and goodness mixed like sugar and butter. She reads and writes beautifully, and her words have turned me into some sort of "fan".

I recently saw her update about visiting her elder son, who is studying in a different country, in a beautiful city in Europe. He glowed. He exhibited luminosity. His face just sparkles. He makes music in his free time. He had multiple bands. He uploads them on YouTube and sells them as well. He is studying hard to build a career as well. I watched some of his music. There's freedom. There's passion. There's love. There's acceptance. I imagine them to be a family of love, freedom, and acceptance. Living in a home filled with warmth and good tea I imagine them meeting on holidays and celebrating with their friends and family, exchanging gifts. I imagine them saying goodbye before the elder son leaves for university and sharing tears. I imagine them having video calls where they try to match their timezones. I imagine her elder son taking her mother around the city, showing her the museums, parks, and famous eateries. She is writing another book, and I have yet to buy her first one. I am saving money for that. I imagine her meeting her son's friends as they show her around. I imagine her going back home and reminiscing about her time with her son, which is reflected in her blog.

After glancing a bit more at the photographs she had uploaded with tiny notes about each of them tucked underneath, a train of reality hit me. It is the same university that rejected me. I looked at her son, standing outside the university. Reality—my grusomely bland reality—pulls me back to my cold room, to my cold cot. And I think about my interview with the professor from that university, which was flailing and embarrassing. I think about the non-existent photographs of me with my family. I think about the screams and angry silences around my house. I think about the last time I spoke to my sister, who is from a completely different country. I think about the last time I spoke to my father, who had just moved in downstairs. I think about my friends who have left to pursue their dreams in different cities. I think about my mother, who is sleeping next to me. I think about last evening, when we all made our teas separately and drank them separately.

I check flights for cities in Europe. One leaves tonight. Should I go? Should I pack my bags and just leave? Should I visit the university, talk to the students and professors there, and talk to her elder son about his experience there and his music? Should I visit her as well? Tell her I am saving money to buy her book. That would be ridiculous. I don't even have the money to buy her book, and yet I am visiting her from a shabby little town in a shabby little country. She doesn't even know who I am. I decide against it and go to sleep. Try to sleep. With fantasy and reality fighting over my head. I lie there while they both rip me into pieces. I think about tomorrow morning and how I have to pick up these pieces and face life in this room. I imagine what she must be telling her son about how much she enjoyed her trip to visit him. And I imagine her son reading her mother's happiness while walking to the university while passing a park where she shared a cup of tea with her while telling her all about his studies. I think about the last time I took a trip and shared it with anyone and glance over my empty gallery. I close her blog and try to forget her URL so as to match my fantasy with my empty reality. So, it can be a fair fight.

- Oizys.

Diary of a Whiny Goddess

Should I give an introduction to myself? Well, if I had to... I would not call myself a diarist. But, if I were to be one, that would be my label, A Whiny Diarist. Just a sad person whining about the cheesy combo offer of Shitty Luck + Shittier Intuition. A whiny diarist who uses a thesaurus to hide her disgusting stagnancy behind curated phrases and words. Do you think the following sounds like a good landing page:

Welcome, dear (literally non-existent, I guess?) readers, to the confessions of my oh-not-so-delightfully mundane existence. If life were a symphony, mine would be a melancholic melody peppered with whimsical outbursts and a touch of existential pondering. Consider me your guide through the labyrinth of my ordinary days, where I navigate the treacherous maze of questionable decisions and an uncanny knack for attracting bizarre misadventures.

Now, don't mistake me for a professional complainer or a seasoned moaner. No, no, no. I prefer to embrace my unofficial title as 'A Whiny Diarist' with a hint of pride. Picture a weathered, vintage sign hanging above a shop of paraphernalia that reads, 'Whines and Whimsies.' That's where I'd belong—a sanctuary for the lamentations of a perpetually perplexed soul.

You see, life has gifted me with a mesmerizing whine-cheese combo platter: 'Shitty Luck + Shittier Intuition.' It's like the universe thought, 'Hmm, let's see how many curveballs we can throw at this poor soul,' and then decided to crank up the difficulty level for good measure. But fear not, for I am armed with a thesaurus—a secret weapon I wield to veil my deplorable stagnancy behind carefully curated phrases and words that might just make you think, 'Ah, she's got it together.'

So, dear (actual and potential) readers, fasten your seatbelt and prepare for a rollercoaster ride through the depths of my mind, where I'll share (s)tales of routs that taste bittersweet, heartaches that leave an exquisite ache, and moments of vulnerability that will make you laugh, cry, doubt my existence and question my life choices and.

Join me as I navigate this messy maze called life, armed with zero humor, wit, and a flailing touch of sarcasm. Let's embark on this wild journey together, where my mundane becomes extraordinarily eerie, my whining transforms into subjugated art, and my tears eventually merge with hysterical laughter.

Grab a cup of tea, find a cozy nook that may or may not have a suspicious-looking stain, and let's dive headfirst into the unsightly, rotting chaos of my everyday existence. Trust me, it's anything but (un)interesting.

- Oizys.

Lethargy or Lottery?

A while ago, there were small yet some regular goalposts in life. Maybe assignments, internals, internships or exams. But, college is over. Now, I am free to climb as high as possible or just fall. Obviously, for me, it is the latter.

It's only been a week I have started working. Menial and underpaid. All I do is wake up. Log in. Click. Click. Click. Type some. Click some more. Update your lead. Click some more. Log out. Lie on bed dreading about tomorrow's clicking. Sleep. Wake up and repeat. I feel as life I'm going to spend the rest of my life sitting at a desk alternating my day dreams between traveling and writing about the world and killing myself. Though, I can only daydream about them since I do not have the guts to do either. It's only been a week I have started working and I can't do this anymore. The moment I start working, I am reminded of my failures and inability to achieve what I had dreamt. All the dreams, hopes, desires and goals I had built for this year, all just shattered. And, I don't think I can take this failure. My bdy is ready to pop off. There is a ball of guilt in my throat which doesn't let me eat. Every moment I just wish I hadn't dreamt about all of that, so the failure and rejection wouldn't hurt so much. I had a life crafted in my head, my wings spread, flying around the world. But, nothing of the sort happened. I am stuck here, between this wobbly table and my side of the bed. With my mother, on the other side of the bed, breathing down my neck. With my father, near the door, keeping me chained. I wish I could leave everything behind and run away and breathe some fresh air. But, it's been months I have seen the sun. Every day, I sit and think. What was so wrong with me? Why did I get rejected? Is there something so repulsive about me?

God, I feel so stuck. Stickily stuck. So stuck that I cannot even get up and walk out of this room. Just stuck here in this sticky liquid of fear and lethargy. I just coddle and comfort myself by thinking this is the waiting room. Something is waiting for me outside this and when the time comes, my life will become a land of beautiful fields. Deep down, I know it is not real. Rather, it is a waiting room for death. And, not a very great waiting room, I must say.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 31st May 2023

Waitlist Expires Today; No Offer - Feeling Low

I was waitlisted in late March, and I waited for a response. But, I didn't receive any. But today's the day; the waitlist expires, and no offers will be given anymore after this. Although, by the beginning of March, I knew I had no hope and had given up and accepted it as a rejection. I have already made up my mind to apply again next year and have accepted a job. I still feel very low and sad. After I was interviewed, I really felt like I had a chance. Anyway, it's just today, and then officially, the portal will close, and I will just have to wait and improve myself until the next session's application portal opens. I just thought people here would understand this emotion because my family and friends are not very receptive or enthusiastic about my grad applications. Just a vent. Thanks.

 

- Oizys.

Peeling Rusty Layers: Trying To Unveiling the Uncharted Realities Within

I would like to begin by mentioning my credentials as a fellow dissosiate. I have been dissociating for as long as I can remember. I would play with toys to show my parents, but underneath, I would be pretending to live some other life. At first, I felt enigmatic. I felt like I had the magical power to take myself on a journey wherever I could. I was building this labyrinth-like maze around me. I found a refuge deep within the walls of this intricate labyrinth and lost myself in the complicated maze from the chaos and confusion around me. It became my sanctuary, a place where I could retreat and find solace in the midst of overwhelming emotions or external pressures. The more I dissociated, the more elaborate and intricate my labyrinth grew. Each twist and turn represented a coping mechanism, a defence mechanism that shielded me from the harsh realities I struggled to comprehend.

But as I grow older, I realise that my labyrinth, while once a source of comfort, has become a barrier that isolates me from genuine connections and authentic experiences. It was as if I had built an impenetrable fortress around myself, preventing others from truly seeing me and, in turn, impeding my ability to fully engage with the world around me. I touch my knee, and I feel a jolt within myself. Whose is it? I cannot recognise my face in the pictures. Who is she? Every time I wake up for sleep, I feel like I have been teleported into a completely different world. I feel as if I have forgotten my mother tongue. In the labyrinth of my mind, fragments of melodies linger, wisps of forgotten conversations that evoke a longing for a language I can no longer grasp. It is as if a veil has been cast, obscuring the words that once flowed effortlessly from my lips. The food feels foreign in my mouth. The taste of my mother's comforting meals, once a symphony of love and nourishment, now feels like a distant memory slipping through my fingers. The once-beloved dishes now seem distant, their flavours veiled in a thin shroud of unfamiliarity. I chew chilli peppers after chilli peppers and cry my eyes out, yet I feel no spice.

Now, I try to navigate my way out. It is not easy, as every wall and corridor has memories, emotions, and fears carved deep into them that I have tucked away. But, I think, the real hindrance is confronting the underlying causes of my dissociation—the wounds that led me to seek refuge in the labyrinth. It is hurtful. The core reason is hidden somewhere deep. And it is wrapped with layers and layers of woolgathering. It is painful as I try to navigate and unwrap. It feels like I am scraping off the rusty layers of derealized lives to give birth to my reality. Ever pulled out a dry tampon? Yeah, that's what this feels like. So uncomfortable. So difficult. Skin-wrenching. A completely unused life. But the conundrum is that even if I successfully pull it out, I can never reuse it, right? Think about it. I will spend months and years peeling off all these fake identities to embark upon a realisation pilgrimage—a quest to reconnect with the actualities that formed the foundation of my identity—only to find out I have no countable experiences in my real life as a contrast to my fantasies, where I have lived a wide range of characters, lives, and universes in my own metaverse. With each layer shed, I am forced to reckon with the profound absence of tangible experiences, genuine relationships, and a solid sense of self. The time spent lost in my dissociative metaverse has left me with a fragmented timeline, where the milestones of childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood slip through my grasp like sand through clenched fists. While I find out this new fact, I will have lost time as well. With my childhood, teenhood, and half of the twentyhood already eschewed by psycheclipse, I will be left with an infant in an adult body who has lost a chunk of sentience.

I fall back into bed. Tired and wounded. I scrape off the rust and chip away at this oxidised facade, leaving reality in my palms. It looks like a weak, crying baby—red-faced, marked with spots of uncertainty and fragility. And I am a tired mother who is suddenly thrust into this duty to nurture and care for this fragile and broken soul, offering solace and comfort as she navigates the path of self-discovery and healing.

Random Diary Entry - 18th May 2023

Officially rejected from every uni this year!

Well. Done and dusted. Rejected from every university this cycle. I have no energy, no patience, and no hope left. I'm tired of people around me packing their bags and updating their lives. I hate that I can't be happy for them because all these rejections have filled me up with self- hatred. Every time someone gives me sympathy or a positive message, I feel enraged. Feels like platitudes. Then I feel guilty about feeling enraged because deep down a part of me knows, they mean well. I need to find a job. Job rejections are kicking me when I am already down. Shit hell. I wish I could disappear.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 23 April 2023

Successfully completed one month on the waitlist

I waited for three months for an interview. Then I waited a month for a result. Got waitlisted. Today marks the completion of one month on the waitlist. Life in the waiting room is weird. I feel so stuck. As if I cannot move forward. It is like restless patience.

 

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 23: Echoes of the Abandoned Library

Prompt: Write a poem of your own that has multiple numbered sections. Attempt to have each section be in dialogue with the others, like a song where a different person sings each verse, giving a different point of view. Set the poem in a specific place that you used to spend a lot of time in, but don’t spend time in anymore.

1: Lost Pages

In the Reticence Library, a sanctuary of books,
Where pages whispered with knowledge's looks,
I wandered, lost in the words' embrace,
In a haven of wisdom, a sacred place.

2: Dusty Shelves

But now, the shelves are dusty and bare,
The silence echoes, a poignant affair,
The books once cherished, now forgotten,
Gather dust, their stories begotten.

3: Echoes of Youth

I hear the echoes of my youthful mind,
As I roamed the aisles, curious and kind,
Immersed in stories, in worlds unknown,
The library, my refuge, a place to own.

4: Vanished Librarian

The librarian, with a smile so warm,
Guiding me through each literary norm,
Now a memory, a faint recollection,
Of a time when books were my connection.

5: Treasured Memories

Oh, how I miss those hours spent in awe,
Flipping pages, without a flaw,
The smell of old paper, the touch of ink,
A treasure trove of stories, a gateway to think.

6: Empty Chairs

The chairs and tables, where I used to sit,
Lost in words, bit by bit,
Now lie empty, a nostalgic sight,
A reminder of a time so bright.

7: Legacy of the Library

The library, once my second home,
Now stands abandoned, a memory to roam,
But the lessons learned, the stories told,
Still linger, as my mind unfolds.

8: Guiding Light

The knowledge gained, the dreams inspired,
In that library, where my heart aspired,
A legacy left, a beacon of light,
Guiding me, even in the darkest night.

9: Farewell

So, I bid farewell to that cherished place,
With gratitude, love, and a solemn grace,
For the memories made, the lessons learned,
In that abandoned library, forever yearned.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 22: "A Thought went up my mind today —"

Prompt: Find an Emily Dickinson poem – preferably one you’ve never previously read – and take out all the dashes and line breaks. Make it just one big block of prose. Now, rebreak the lines. Add words where you want. Take out some words. Make your own poem out of it! I have chosen A Thought went up my mind today —.

A Thought went up my mind today –
That I have had before –
But did not finish – some way back –
I could not fix the Year –

Nor where it went – nor why it came
The second time to me –
Nor definitely, what it was –
Have I the Art to say –

But somewhere – in my Soul – I know –
I’ve met the Thing before –
It just reminded me – ‘twas all –
And came my way no more –

c. 1863

Emily Dickinson Poems, Edited by Brenda Hillman
Shambhala Pocket Classics, Shambhala 1995

Big Block of Prose

A Thought went up my mind today That I have had before But did not finish some way back I could not fix the Year Nor where it went nor why it came The second time to me Nor definitely, what it was Have I the Art to say But somewhere in my Soul, I know I've met the Thing before It just reminded me 'twas all And came my way no more.

Rebroken Lines:

A Thought went up my mind today
That I have had before
But did not finish - some way back
I could not fix the Year -
Nor where it went - nor why it came
The second time to me
Nor definitely, what it was
Have I the Art to say -
But somewhere in my Soul, I know
I've met the Thing before
It just reminded me - 'twas all
And came my way no more.

New Poem:
A thought went up my mind today
That I have had before
But did not finish - some way back
I could not fix the year
Nor where it went - nor why it came
The second time to me
Nor definitely, what it was
Have I the art to say

But somewhere in my soul, I know
I've met the thing before
It just reminded me - 'twas all
And came my way no more

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 21: Anxiety

Prompt: Choose an abstract noun from the list below, and then use that as the title for a poem that contains very short lines, and at least one invented word.

You could never
scare me
with predictions
or prophecies

Of looming darkness
that lurks beyond
in the unknown
deep in the shadowy pond

For I, the goddess of misery
and goddess of anxiety
hold fear by neck, my pet
in a dance so tight
that whispers echo
through the endless night

My blindness
is my own curse
oh so bitter

As worries wrap
around my wrists
like a stubborn creeper
that's hard to unwind

My silence
is my biggest scream
oh so desperate

A plea for solace
in a world so loud
where thoughts collide
and intrusivity enshroud

Sitting here
in my cot
a lonely Goddess
with no worshippers
but victims

Longing for respite
from the endless weight
of my anxious blessings
that never abate

A temple
so unholy
due to its emptiness

Where once was light
now shadows coup
in this temple of worry
anxiety's legion

For, I am
the begger and the giver
both, in this religion
that has wired us

A paradoxical deity
with conflicting creed
bestowing fears and doubts
yet seeking solace in need

For, in this realm of anxiosity
I am both
the tormentor and the solacifier
a divine enigma,
a goddess of worries,
a hopefier's stigma,
a goddess of contradictions
forever shrouded in mysterious fearfur

I continue to
dance with my pet, fear
piercing the deep darkness
whispering wails in the nights
a goddess called Oizys,
misery's own
who cleaves to anxiety,
on her rightful throne.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 20th April 2023

Deep in obsession - Unable to give up

I feel as if I am too deep in obsession with my dream school, and I am unable to give up. unable to accept reality. It's been almost a month I am in waitlist. People who had received offers after I got waitlisted rejected them and got second offers. I am still in waitlist. I feel practically like I don't have a chance. I know that. But I am unable to give up. But I know. That means that even if I get an offer now, there won't be much financial aid. So, I won't be able to attend. I feel deluded that some kind of magic will happen. As if they will suddenly send an amazing offer and ask me to join the programme. I am scared and sad. I feel helpless and hopeless.

How do I give up and recover from this?

 

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 19: Little Girl and Big Hands

Prompt: Cast your mind back to your own childhood and write a poem about something that scared you – or was used to scare you – and which still haunts you (if only a little bit) today.

As I cast my mind back to my childhood days,
I recall a fear that left me in a daze.
The monster that taunted me in the dark of night,
With grazing hands and grotesque bites.

Under my bedcovers, he would silently lurk,
With sharp pointy teeth and a growling smirk.
I'd freeze under my covers and silently pray,
Hoping he wouldn't break me and carry me away.

My parents would tell me it was all in my head,
That monsters weren't real and I should go back to bed.
But the bed is were the monster waited for me to touch,
And every creak and groan made me jump and clutch.

Now, as an adult, I have deluded they weren't real,
But the fear of the night still makes me feel,
Like a child once again, with a vivid consternation,
Hoping that the monster won't bring me damnation.

So, even now, I keep a light on at night,
Just to keep those hands at bay and in sight.
For the fear may be small, but it still lingers on,
From those childhood nights when the monster had won.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 18: April Slips Away

Prompt: Write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet.

April slips away, I weep in the night,
Bereft of hope, consumed by fright,
Crushed by sorrow, drowning in tears,
Despair engulfs, magnifies my fears,
Every day is a burden to bear,
Futile efforts, leading to despair,
Grief and pain, my constant companions,
Heart heavy with anguish, no respite to find,
In the darkness, I wander, lost and blind,
Just a broken soul, trying to mend,
Kept afloat by memories, unable to pretend,
Lingering ache, an unending ache,
My shattered heart, no longer opaque,
Numbness settles, a hollow void,
Overwhelmed by sorrow, I am destroyed,
Painful reminders, haunting my mind,
Questions unanswered, solace hard to find,
Regret seeps in, a venom,
Xeric thoughts, I try to override,
Yearning for peace, a calm to reside,
Zero solace found, nowhere to confide.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 14: How Heavy Is the Little Stone

Prompt: Write a parody or satire based on a famous poem. I choose Emily Dickinson's "How Happy Is the Little Stone".

How heavy is the little stone
That sits upon my chest alone,
That crushes me with all its might,
And makes it hard to breathe at night.

It weighs me down with every step,
And fills my heart with deep regret,
For all the things that I have done,
And all the battles I have shun.

Oh little stone, you hold me fast,
And make me feel like I won't last,
But still I carry you around,
And hope that one day you'll be unbound.

For though you weigh me down so much,
You also keep me in touch,
With all the pain that I have known,
And all the seeds of growth that's sown.

So though I wish that you would go,
And let me breathe and let me grow,
I know that you're a part of me,
And that's how it's supposed to be.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 13: God Joke or Dad Joke

Prompt: Write a poem that follows the beats of a classic joke. Emphasize the interplay between the form of the poem – such as the line breaks – and the punchline.

 

A child asks
Is God real?

The mother replies
Well, it's ideal

She further asks
Is God perfect?

The mother smirks
Not quite, I suspect

The child cries
Is God right?

The mother sighs
It's quite the oversight

She shockingly demands
Will God appear before me?

The mother tries to understand
"Maybe on Zoom, let's see"

She gets sad and thinks
Will God ever speak to me?

They hear a voice

The child asks
Is it God?

The voice says,
"Nah, it's a bird"

"It is your Dad!"
The mother says

The child squeals
"That's not so bad!"

- Oizys.

Sorry
I am
Not So
Good At
Happiness
Or Funny.
Can I
Interest You
With Some
Bad Poems?
Some Cheese?

NaPoWriMo Day 12: My Dear Poem

Prompt: Write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self (i.e., “Dear Poem,” or “what are my quatrains up to?”; “Couplet, come with me . . .”)

My dear poem,

What is it that you seek,
As you flow from my chest and leak,
Onto the keyword with wild speed,
To bring forth emotions and make me bleed.

My dear poem,

What is your purpose here,
To bring chaos, to awaken fear,
To challenge, to make one think,
Or simply to push the limits of the brink.

My dear poem,

You pry pain and loss,
Of shattered dreams and the cost,
You scream voice of the forgotten,
The ones who left me to be rotten.

My dear poem,

What do you hope to convey,
A message, a warning, or a way,
To stir the soul and heart of all,
Or simply to make the reader appall.

My dear poem,

Who do you speak to,
The young, the old, the wise, the new,
To all who seek to understand,
Or those who are just damned.

My dear poem,

How do you come to life,
From the depths of my mind so rife,
With secrets and stories to tell,
Or just a feeling I cannot quell.

My dear poem,

I am blursed at your raw power,
For breaking my castles in the air,
In a world that abhors ugliness,
You unfurl my misery and darkness.

My dear poem,

You are not very kind,
But you translate my mind,
In a world that silences me as meek,
You let me riot and keep.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 11: Smell of Escapism

Prompt: Write a poem that takes as its starting point something overheard that made you laugh, or something someone told you once that struck you as funny.

You smell like you want to be alone.

Your eyes, so distant and unknown.

Your essence, lost in search of character.

But your heart, oh how it glimmers.

With hope, to find a foreign home.

Where dreams can roam and freely roam.

And, living will become a norm.

With joy and peace, and love reborn.

To create and poet and yarn.

A life fulfilled, a soul re-born.

Laying in your dingy cot, you dream.

Of a life that's more than it may seem.

With a fear in the back of your mind.

That this hope may be just a bind.

And, you will forever remain stuck.

Trapped in a cycle, out of luck.

Always smelling like flying away, but.

Bound to the earth, come what may.

And, suffocated in this smell of escapism.

You long for freedom, a sense of prism.

But, deep down it is just a flimsy dream.

And reality is much harder it seems.

It hits like a giant truck.

The weight of life, that runs amuck.

You slap away smell of being alone, because.

You realize that in this world, you are not on your own.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 11th April 2023

Reject me...

 

I know you gonna reject me in the end. Just do it. So I can start my wallowing in the self-pity phase with absolutely zero affirmation and support around me. Reject me, just click send.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 10 April 2023

How To Give Up?

Maybe I am being dramatic, but I have nowhere else to vent this. I just cannot go on like this. I am in a constant state of pressure and urgency. And I feel as if this is making me an annoyed and mean person towards everyone. I feel like slipping into a black hole.

But the thing is, my parents are not at all supportive of me going abroad to study, and they are constantly trying to sabotage my plans with demotivating talks and taunts. And even my friends keep telling me not to move away like that. I am not even selected anywhere yet...

I really thought graduate school would be my way out to leave. To leave the country and go far, far away. At least for a year. I really love studying. But, here I am, struggling to even find jobs.

And to top it all off, this application process is so, so, so... draining. Part of it is my fault because I overestimated myself, I guess. I thought I was qualified, but I don't feel very qualified anymore. My LOR process for the applications and scholarships was a complete mess, starting from looking for LOR writers to technical glitches in LOR submission to professors not uploading references in time, resulting in application expiration. I could not even take one of those English tests, because first, they cost a lot (I spent most of my money on application fees), and there is no test centre in my town, so I'd have had to go to another city to appear the same, hence the added cost. Some universities did consider waiving English proficiency proof, but some didn't. At first, my parents said if I got a partial scholarship, they would assist me with the remaining funds. Now that I am on the waitlist, they have outright denied that they won't help me at all. And there are so many things that one can't even write down to share.

I feel like I am just cribbing a lot, and I know that this is something everyone is going through in the application process. But I am just in a perpetual state of anxiety with no affirmation around me. I feel very lonely and scared all the time even though I read all of your posts here and so many people are having it worse than me I guess. I do nothing but wait all day for what I do not know, and yet I get tired as if I have done some hard labour.

The question is, is it even worth it? Should I just give up and look for jobs instead? Is mentally and emotionally overpaying so much worth it? If I don't get selected, would it all be worth it? Because I don't think I will be able to apply again next year. Maybe a few years later, if the situation permits. So, is giving up my present time, peace, and sanity for this worth it? What if I get rejected? What if I get selected but don't get enough funds? I won't be able to go. I wish there was a way to escape, and I wish I hadn't gotten so obsessed with my top-choice universities. I wish I hadn't dreamt. I fantasised so much, and now that the reality truck is hitting me, it hurts much more than it should.

I'm just so tired. How do I give up?

 

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 10: Melody of Legacy

Prompt: Write a sea shanty.

Quietly we sailed across the sea,
A band of sailors, strong and free,
Our ship was small, our spirits too,
But now we're lost, with naught to do.

Our shanty's soft, a mournful sound,
For we are lost, and can't be found,
Our ship is small, our crew is few,
And now we bid our last adieu.

We sailed the seas with hearts of fire,
Our will to live, our one desire,
But now the winds have turned on us,
And left us stranded, without a fuss.

Our shanty's soft, a mournful sound,
For we are lost, and can't be found,
Our ship is small, our crew is few,
And now we bid our last adieu.

We fought for freedom, we fought with pride,
But now we're lost, and can't abide,
The thought of never seeing home,
Our hearts are heavy, we're all alone.

Our shanty's soft, a mournful sound,
For we are lost, and can't be found,
Our ship is small, our crew is few,
And now we bid our last adieu.

So here we are, a subtle end,
A band of yatch, lost friends,
Our legacy will live on though,
In the hearts of those who know.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 9: Odennet to Oizys

Prompt: Write a sonnet.

Oizys, goddess of misery and woe,
Whose shadow darkens every troubled mind,
With every step we take, your presence grows,
And every pain and sorrow we must find.

You whisper doubts and fears into our ears,
And make our hearts heavy with despair,
You fill our eyes with tears, our souls with fears,
And make us feel as if life is unfair.

Yet, in your melancholic embrace,
There is a truth that we cannot ignore,
That joy and sorrow, in life's endless race,
Are both necessary to our very core.

So though we dread your touch and your embrace,
We know that you are a part of the human race.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 8: Aurora's Analogy

Prompt: “Twenty Little Poetry Projects”
 

A heart of stone, she said, was all she had
Yet she claimed it beat like a hummingbird's wing

The hummingbird heart, a paradox that lives
Fluttering with love, despite the weight of stone

The scent of burnt sugar filled the air
While she tasted the sound of a symphony

The symphony's notes, a feast for the tounge
And the scent of burnt sugar, a feast for the skin

The touch of ash against her skin
Felt like a whisper in her attic

The whisper of yarn, a touch so light
It lingers on the nose like a memory of love

Colors tasted like placebos
And the name "Aurora" smelled like mist of iridescent bubbles

Pills of color, an illusory of love
And Aurora's name, a scent of stardust and soot

Kaleidoscopic beetles whirled in her stomach
As she gulped the happiness of her laughter

The laughter's melody, a nocebo of joy
And the beetles, a jubilee of love

The brittle softness of her love was the seed of her pomegranate
A sudden thought took hold and sprouted wings in her belly

The rose's thorn, a symbol of redemption
And the sudden thought, a challenge to get grip on

As she spoke Láadan, a language unknown
"The planets align, the path is dark
But the future is on the make"

Láadan's words, a language of unsung
And the future, a discovery of the unknown

The flickering candle was sanguine
But darkness chewed the wick

The candle's light, a symbol of hope's fire
And the darkness, a reminder of god's gluttony for fire

And as the night sauntered into the chalet
The moon shone as a mirror of her own heart
Whispering secrets to the stillness of the night

Until she finally let go of her own fight
And the stone shattered into a million stars

The heart of stone, a symbol of love's edge
And the shattered stars, a hope of love's transmigration

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 7: The Hooded Tapestry

Prompt: By NaPoWriMo, write a poem that plays with the idea of a list. Try to write a such a non-list, but a couple of other ideas would be to create a list of ingredients, or a list of entries in an index. Another way into this prompt might be a list of instructions.

The Hooded Tapestry

Girlhood

Womanhood

Ancestresshood

Godhood

Personhood

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 6: Seller of Muse

Prompt: Today’s prompt is also from NaPoWriMo. Take a look around Poetry International for a poem in a language you don’t know. Now, read the poem to yourself, thinking about the sound and shape of the words, and the degree to which they remind you of words in your own language. Use those correspondences as the basis for a new poem.

I chose the poem “Poem Without an End” by Yehuda Amichai. It is one of my favourites and I hold it close to my heart. As I had mentioned in the triolet post, I rarely have a sense of sound and rhythm. So, I have tried my best here (and maybe, miserably failed) to encapsulate my emotions and thoughts of the chosen poem in my own crafted poem.

Barefoot muse and passion
Bait, fate or reflect,
any?
Bitterly?
Or, lively?
Or, bitterly and lively?
Muse!
Echo harmonious
Beats of mystics
Betoken
any?
Bitterly?
Or, lively?
Or, bitterly and lively?
Muse!

- Oizys.

For reference, following is Hebrew transliteration of Yehuda Amichai's poem, Poem Without an End that I used for sounds:

Betoch muz'aon chadash, beit knesset yashan.
Betoch beit haknesset
Ani.
Betochi
Libi.
Betoch libi
Muzaeon.
Betoch hamuzaeon
Beit knesset,
Betochan
Ani,
Betochi
Libi.
Betoch libi
Muzaeon.

P.S. - I really like the choice the words in my poem and it gives a very poetic feel. So, one day, I might enlarge and polish my poem to give it more structure and concrete.

NaPoWriMo Day 5: Grief's Unexpected Guest

Prompt: Juxtaposition by NaPoWriMo

In a quiet range, suffused accompanying tears,
A gathering assembled to announce their last goodbyes,
For dignitary dear had abandoned this existence,
And the air was weighty accompanying upsetting sighs.

The range was understood, except for a whimper or two,
As lamenters rewarded their conclusive devoirs,
The air was difficult, the character controlled,
As the experience about bureaucracy appeared to indicate.

The unhappiness in their hearts,
But therefore a sound destitute through the silence,
A guffaw, limited and clean,
A snicker, so filled of disobedience.

The lamenters retired surprise,
Wondering what take care of cause specific levity,
But therefore they proverb a parent accompanying her teenager,
A teeny baby, so new to this soil.

It was the baby's first snicker,
A sound that caused a laugh,
A sound that illuminated the weighty attitude,
And fashioned the lamenters ignore their while.

For on account of importance, they evoked,
That growth continues, even following in position or time obliteration,
That skilled is still pleasure expected raise,
Even when we draw our definitive break.

So allow the baby's amusement ring,
And fill the range accompanying clean delight,
For because importance, they earned,
That love can overcome even the the most evil midnight.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 4: Trying A Triolet

Prompt: Triolet format by NaPoWriMo. So, for years, I would never call myself a poet (I still don't sometimes!) because I was never able to write poetry in structure, rhythm or rhyming words. I would try hard but I succeeded. Sometimes, the form would be right but the poem would not make sense or vice versa.

So, for this prompt, I tried to write two triolet about trying to write a triolet. Please tell me, even if the poem is ish, the form and rhythm is correct.

Triolet 1:

I sat down with pen and paper in hand,
My mind set on trying a triolet.
I wrote the first line, my heart did expand,
I sat down with pen and paper in hand.

I searched for rhymes that were grand,
My creativity I couldn't forget.
I sat down with pen and paper in hand,
My mind set on trying a triolet.

Triolet 2:

Trying a Triolet, a form to explore,
Eight simple lines, but so much in store,
First, fourth, and seventh, the same as before,
Trying a Triolet, a form to explore.

Rhyming and repeating, what could be more,
A structure to follow, a challenge to adore,
Trying a Triolet, a form to explore,
Eight simple lines, but so much in store.

I Wish To Just Be But I Am Doom

 

Oh. My. God. It feels like someone is making me vomit and then forcing me to swallow it. The constant nagging. I am on the verge of exploding. But, I guess, I do not even have the privilege to even poof a little bit. All day long, my brain keeps yelling at my eyes, "Do not cry; they are around." "Do not freaking tear up even!"

I wish I had the resources, the courage, and the ability to just break away and survive somewhere else. Every morning I wake up to survive this unstable lab where every aspect of my livelihood is tested dangerously. Every moment I break down a little more in the hope some angel would appear out of nowhere to take me away to somewhere heavenly. I wish I could just pack some things and exit. I wish I could. But I cannot. I am nothing but a body chock-full of fears. Nothing but a hole of anxiety. I know nothing of the real world. I would drop dead if I picked up a bag and left. I have no means of survival. No job. No money. No skills. No connection. No friends. There is no will to live, even. What do I do? Day by day, I feel myself deteriorating. I feel myself chopping up my parts of sanity to exchange for an unstable shelter and some food made up of taunts and mockery.

It is as if the system is built that way for us. They subjugate you in such a way that you can only survive when you follow their marked goalposts. Even if you choose to have your own thoughts, emotions, opinions, and individuality, you are shown the door. They tell you, "The door is wide open; leave if you don't like it!" But here's the catch: It is not a statement they are making. Rather a taunting remark. Because the door may be open for you to escape, but your legs are tied. They completely emasculate you from the beginning. They keep you grounded. They keep you sheltered. And when you show a hint of resistance, they mock you with sentences like that. The open door is a mockery of your helplessness. They ask you to leave because, deep down, they know you won't be able to. Your legs are chained by codependency and financial constraints.

And all I want is to be. Just be me. Maybe go to that park next to my house and read a book there. Without them constantly breathing down my neck. Maybe sit on that bench and talk to my friend. Without them blasting my phone every five minutes, asking where I am. I would like for it to just be. Please. I am just a run-of-the-mill fool. I am no believer in God. Yet I sit here with my bruised sentience waiting for some kind of magic. All I do is, while I wait, squeeze my pain with my bare wrists to get some drops of poetry and words for my parched soul. I sit and scribble all day in the hope that someone will listen to this muffled cry for help and rush in order to save me. This is just a mere act of cowardice. I hide behind this foolish, wistful thinking. Because, deep down, a part of me is aware that no one is coming. No one can hear me. No one can see me. I am insubstantial. I hold no sound, no reality. I am, but doom awaits. 

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 3: "Despair" is an fantasy with scales

Prompt: Find a shortish poem that you like, and rewrite each line, replacing each word (or as many words as you can) with words that mean the opposite. For example, you might turn “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” to “I won’t contrast you with a winter’s night.” From: NaPoWriMo

“Hope” is the thing with feathers
By Emily Dickinson

"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me."

Despair is an fantasy with scales
That shelters in the mind,
And silences the world with harshness,
And just stops all,

And bitterest in the stillness is heard;
And indolent must be the serene
That could never daunt the vulture
That turned so many blue.

I've never heard it in the sunny land,
And on the ordinary lake;
Yet, always, in the beginning,
It plucked a fistful of me.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 2: Surreal Mother Nature

Prompt: Fog, River, Ghost, Longing, Song.

What is fog?

The dreadful veil draped around the nature,

What is river?

The story of birth by the earth,

What is ghost?

The lingering whisper of the storm,

What is longing?

The bittersweet ache of beautiful destruction,

What is song?

The symphony of babbling brook.

What is fog?

The ghostly form,

What is river?

The melody song in its own flow,

What is ghost?

The lingering longing of love,

What is longing?

The song of sadness,

What is song?

The ache of melancholic fog.

- Oizys.

Randome Diary Entry - 2nd April 2023

Living In The Waiting Room

Is anyone else on the waitlist?

I feel so divided. So many conflicted emotions. On one hand, when I got waitlisted, I was hopeful. I thought they saw something worthwhile in my application and in the interview, so they waitlisted me. But, at the same time, I see many other applications getting offers and them accepting them, and I don't feel like I have a chance. It becomes more oblivious and annoying when you don't know your position on the waitlist. I constantly feel, what am I waiting for? Should I just give up? Even if I get selected, what if I don't get a good scholarship or stipend after elevating from the waitlist?

Just want to get this over with. Just let me know, if you want me or not!

 

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 1: Latibulating

Prompt: Latibulate

Today was my college farewell, I did not go and sat on my desk to write my poem.

Today is my college farewell.
I did not go, rather sat down at my desk to write a poem.
To write a poem about goodbyes,
Rather than saying them.

So many feelings I try to articulate,
While I latibulate from the world.
I hide from the fire of closures,
To keep my frozen heart safe.

In this veil of shelter,
I rummage through box of memories.
All I find is regrets and fears,
Maybe, a smile or two of my friends,
Underneath heaps of shame and stabs.

So, I take this moment of solitude,
And, watch the crowd from afar.
I watch them twirl and dance,
While I twist my soul,
To squeeze out some ink for this poem.

My mind makes me think,
This is best way to seal the deal,
To close a box of regrets and resentments,
By regreting about not being able to say last bye.

- Oizys.

Life of an Asian Kid: Stuck Between Rock (Ultra-Collectivist Culture) & Hard Place (Hyper-Individualistic Solutions)

The greatest challenge I am facing as a twenty-something Asian is being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

On one hand, you have been beaten into shape by this ultra-collectivist society that only values you when you are a part of the structure, an unquestioning member of the family, and a blind follower of the community. And, when you start going out into the world, you discover the concept of individuality and self-expression. You realise all the wrongdoings done to you in the name of "culture". And, when you seek a way out, a path of discovering yourself, you are bombarded with tone-deaf solutions like "Just move out", or "Cut them off". Yes, we know that. We know we need to move out. We need to cut them off. We need to get financially independent.

But, sometimes, the problem is not just moving out. Not earning your own money. It is about navigating your personhood. It is so, so lonely. No one tells you that. The transition is so lonely when you break yourself away from the "community" so you can grow your own full-fledged self. That detachment is so painful, even if you're losing an unwanted part of your body, it hurts. It is such a fragile state that we think we are not even allowed to make mistakes because God forbid if we fail, we get told how our individuality and freedom are worthless. And some of us, in our weak state, cleave back to our society, thinking failure is something we cannot afford as human beings. The journey when you realise a part of your personhood includes mistakes is normal is so difficult. The lingering guilt that stays rent-free in the back of our minds that discovering ourselves is somehow an act of betrayal. Our trained minds make us think like that because we quite literally abandon years of our manufactured lives to look for ourselves. To look for something that is inevitably ours. It is very difficult for us to leave because we feel as if we are leaving something behind, even though it was never ours but something is given to us by our parents, families, and society, from which we have to squeeze out returns and give back what we owe to them.

For years, I did not know who I was. What my likes were. What my dislikes were. What my personality is. What my opinions were. Heck, I could not even realise the reason I did not like milk: I was lactose intolerant. As I grew up and started feeling things, and my mind, my body, and my thoughts were also trying to get adjusted to those feelings, my mother would often complain that I had become disobedient, picky, or high-maintenance. She did not like the fact that she cannot "mother" me any more because I have come to know "too much". They delude you from yourself. And when you leave the culture, you are left alone with yourself. It feels like you are with a stranger. You don't know who that person is. It is scary. It is daunting. It feels as though you have to nurture yourself after being malnourished for so long. The cultural trauma inflicted upon our self-identity is so unjust and unfair to us as human beings. They never give recognition to our personal selves, and when we step out into the big world, we are overwhelmed with heavy emotions and blurred understandings. They emasculate us from surviving in any place as a separate individual other than just being an identical yet competitive "building block" in the collectivist society.

It is so much more than getting your own apartment or getting a job abroad. So many people who give such advice do not realise the amount of power such societies have on our personal lives—it is nigh infinite. To bolster in us a mindset that makes us believe we won't have any value or worth if we break away from the community. When you look into your parents' eyes, you see no respect for your education if you don't obey them. When you look into your grandparents' eyes and you see no acceptance of your love if it is not their choice. Your mental autonomy is perceived as a tool of deceit by your family. Your individuality is infantilized as an act of teeny-angst rebellion.

We seek help in that phase of transition, from chopping them off from our lives to soothing that wound. We seek help in protecting ourselves from our forefathers' haunting. We know we need to move out. We just want to take these negative emotions and intrusive thoughts out of our minds first. We seek help in unlearning all the indoctrination. We seek help in learning ourselves. And, sometimes, just sometimes, we seek a space to just vent and be understood for what we have been subjected to and not be met with blanket statements such as "Why are you still living with them if you are 18?"

- Oizys.