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.

Can I Teen At Twenty-Three?

The most reminiscing memory from my childhood was quietness. Non-existence of individuality. Remain similar to the crowd. Appear same as everyone. Ambiguity and questionings were a luxury. You don’t explore. You follow instructions. Once you start falling into set into instructions, you become quiet. Your mind is quiet. Because, you body just follows a set of rules. You stop thinking. No noise at all. No movements. 

I used to wonder, as I slowly shifted from a child into a something I couldn’t quite define, when did quietness become a state of being? When did silence move from being something external, something that belonged to the world around me, to something internal, something I had learned to carry with me like an old coat that I forgot was once too big, but now fits too snugly? Was this growth? Or just another rule added to the ever-growing list of instructions?

Somewhere along the line, the novelty of questions turned into an inconvenience. Curiosity was frowned upon because it didn’t fit the model. Why ask when you can just follow? The quietness seeped deeper, turning the mind into a kind of blank canvas, but without any paint, without any color. It wasn’t freedom. It was a vacuum. A stillness that meant you weren’t bothering anyone or, more honestly, yourself.

But then I turned twenty-three. And nothing changed. I was still a kind of ghost walking through life, only the noises I made didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. The whispers of uncertainty I had in childhood had somehow become the only thing I could hear. How strange, how bitterly odd it was to realize that the noise I had avoided all those years wasn’t some unwelcome disturbance. It was a part of me. The questions I had once ignored in favor of calm were now the only things left that felt real. And yet, no one seemed to want to answer them.

Am I supposed to “know” by now? Or am I just allowed to drift, be like the others, blend in, because nobody really expects much of twenty-three? Is this the time to find the perfect voice, the perfect job, the perfect relationship—because that’s what everyone says? The older I get, the less I’m sure. And yet, I still follow the rules. The noise still rings, but it’s not clear whether it’s my own or just the static of the world around me.

What does it mean to find yourself when you’ve been told for so long to stay quiet and still? Is the search for “individuality” just another set of instructions in disguise? The irony hits me sometimes: I spend so much time trying to figure out who I am, but perhaps I’m not supposed to figure it out at all. Maybe it's all just meant to be a constant question, without a neat, satisfying conclusion.

The funny thing is, I can see the outlines of others, living their lives in such defined ways, yet still, I feel... not like them. But, do I really feel? Or am I just playing another role, as I've been taught, just playing quiet like everyone else? The “how-to” manuals seem so appealing at first—until you realize they don’t actually tell you anything. They just offer illusions. Do I really believe them? Or do I just want to?

So here I am, twenty-three, still tangled in the same threads I was at ten. The same whispers. The same questions. Maybe I was meant to make peace with not knowing. But can you truly be at peace with a question you’re afraid to ask? I don’t know. I don’t even know if the asking will make a difference anymore. But maybe that’s the answer.

Or maybe not.

Maybe I’ll figure it out by twenty-four. Or maybe I’ll still be just as silent, just as confused, like a piece of quiet in a loud room, wondering if it’ll ever matter.

So, here I am, approaching twenty-four, and still trapped in the same perpetual spin of confusion. It’s almost like I’m stuck in an infinite loop of trying to “get it,” trying to feel like I’m doing life correctly, yet no matter how many times I rerun the script, I end up in the same place: wondering if I’m even supposed to have it figured out.

I hear all these stories from people around me—about their careers, their relationships, their plans—and it sounds so... certain. They talk like they know, and maybe they do. Maybe they’ve cracked it. Maybe they have it all neatly packaged in a box that says “THIS IS YOUR LIFE, AND IT MAKES SENSE.” I think that's the dream. A life that feels like a straight line, instead of this perpetual zigzag I seem to be caught in. There’s this pressure to be ‘on the way’ somewhere, anywhere, but every time I try to follow that invisible arrow pointing me forward, I end up on some detour I didn’t sign up for. Not bad, not good, just... not where I thought I would be. And then I wonder: am I the only one on the detour? Or are we all just pretending we’ve found the main road?

Because the truth is, when I look around, I don’t see a lot of people walking with that clarity of purpose. Sure, they talk about it—loudly, confidently, as if they know the map. But isn’t it strange how so many people still feel off in their own ways? Some are just better at keeping the facade up. Isn’t that what life is, though? A masquerade ball of people with well-rehearsed routines, dancing to some invisible beat? And then I wonder if I’m the only one without rhythm. Am I missing something everyone else already figured out? Or maybe I’ve just been listening to the wrong song.

It feels like you’re supposed to have this idea of what the future holds, but every time I try to grab it, it slips right through my fingers, like smoke. All these “answers” are supposed to be coming at me, right? But they’re more like sparks of light in the distance—glimmering but too far to touch. What’s the deal with everyone else being so sure about what comes next? It’s like I missed a memo. Was I supposed to be set at twenty-three? Was I supposed to wake up one morning with this magical sense of direction, this wild confidence in who I am and where I’m going? The truth is, I feel more like I’m just sort of there, wandering through the days, listening to the sound of my own footsteps and wondering if they even matter.

There’s always this background hum, a low drone of pressure, whether it’s from friends, family, or society, telling me to get it together, to become someone. They say “You’re in your prime,” but is that just another way of saying “You should be living your best life right now, and anything less than that is failure”? They call it the “defining years,” as if twenty-three is some magical threshold where everything clicks into place. So why does it feel like I’m not even close to figuring out the basics?

I try not to let it get to me, the way everyone talks about their successes and their carefully curated “perfect” moments. It’s hard to keep up with the illusion when all I feel is the disconnect between what I’m supposed to feel and what I actually feel. And it’s not like I’m unhappy. It’s just that the whole “find yourself” thing seems so... stale. Like a bad perfume that’s been lingering in the air for too long. Everyone keeps talking about being “authentic,” but when you try to be authentic, it’s almost like you’re stepping on someone else’s toes. Is authenticity just another trend now? Is being true to yourself the latest thing that’s been packaged and sold to the masses?

So, I walk around with these questions, quietly asking them to myself, and they feel so personal, but at the same time, they feel so universal. Maybe we’re all supposed to be asking these questions. Maybe that’s the key. To always be in search of some truth that doesn’t exist, or at least, that we don’t get to find neatly packaged with a bow. I think there’s freedom in that—freedom in the question itself. It’s just hard sometimes, you know? To live in the question without trying to demand an answer.

And so I linger, in this perpetual in-between, where the clock ticks, but the hours seem irrelevant. It's funny how everyone around me moves forward—marching with the beat of some invisible drum, their steps measured and sure. They talk in a language of “plans,” of “achievements,” of “next steps,” and I’m left translating, wondering if I even speak the same dialect. They tell me I’m still young, that I have time, but the ticking feels louder now. Not like a countdown, but like a reminder. A reminder that time is always moving, even if I feel stuck, suspended in this weird, uncomfortable pause.

Sometimes, I think about those stories we tell ourselves about how life is supposed to unfold. The ones where the heroes know exactly who they are, and their journey is a straight line, a path to follow with milestones clearly marked. The kind of life we see on Instagram, in movies, in those “dreams” we’re sold. But the reality is... that path doesn’t exist. There are no clear markers, no definite signs. Just a lot of wandering, a lot of guesswork, a lot of seeing something on the horizon and chasing it, only to find it’s not what you thought it was.

Maybe that’s the trick, though. Maybe the journey isn’t about finding the destination but about figuring out that there is no destination. The funny part is, I don’t know if I actually believe that. I want to, but it feels too abstract. Too... unsatisfying, almost. To think there’s no finish line, no neat bow to tie it all up. But still, there’s a part of me that wonders—what if that’s where the freedom lies? In the nothingness? In the acceptance that we’re always going to be unsure? I can hear the voices of everyone around me telling me to get my act together, to stop wandering, to “settle down,” to make decisions. But every time I try to latch onto something, I feel it slip away. Every decision feels like a gamble, and I’m getting tired of playing games I didn’t even sign up for.

You can’t talk about uncertainty without talking about the constant pressure to have it figured out, though. That’s the real weight. It’s not the quietness, not the questions. It’s the way everyone’s asking when you’re going to get serious, when you’re going to have that “aha” moment. Like there's this expectation that twenty-three should be the year of clarity. And I keep asking myself, why? Why twenty-three? What’s so magical about that number? Maybe it’s the number that feels just old enough to be mature, but still young enough to be forgiven for not knowing. But the truth is, I don’t feel older. I don’t feel more “mature.” I feel like I’m in some kind of paradoxical state where I’m both too old and not old enough to make sense of it all.

And then there’s the idea of “success.” Everyone seems to have it mapped out—family, career, house, relationship. And I’m just here, sitting on the sidelines, wondering if I missed a class. I didn’t get the memo about how to tie all the pieces together. They’re all talking about their “accomplishments,” their “plans,” their “next big move,” and I can’t help but wonder, do they really have it all together? Or are we all just playing a game of pretend, wearing these masks of certainty, when beneath it all, we’re all still fumbling, still wondering, still waiting for the real moment to come, the one where we suddenly know what we’re doing?

There’s comfort in the thought that maybe we’re all in the same boat, though. But maybe that’s a little too hopeful, too naïve. Maybe some people really do know exactly where they’re headed, and I’m just the one sitting here in the waiting room, looking at everyone else’s tickets and wondering why mine doesn’t match. Maybe it’s not about not knowing. Maybe it’s about the way we talk about not knowing. Like there’s something wrong with it. Like you’re supposed to have a roadmap by now, a “vision,” a “dream.” What happens if you don’t? Do you just keep walking in circles? Or do you embrace the randomness? The chaos? I don’t know.

I wish I could say there’s peace in the not knowing. Maybe there is, but it feels too... fleeting. Like you’re almost there, almost at the edge of something, but it keeps retreating. The questions, the uncertainty—they swirl around me like smoke. Sometimes, I think they’re the only thing that’s really real. Maybe that’s the trick. Maybe we’ve all been looking for answers when we should have been looking for the questions themselves.

Maybe we’ve all been told too many times that we need to find our “purpose,” our “calling.” Maybe it’s not about finding anything at all. Maybe it’s just about being. Being here. But even that doesn’t feel enough sometimes, does it? Because then you’re left with the nagging thought that maybe you’re missing something, something everyone else is on the verge of discovering. But maybe they’re not either. Maybe we’re all just a bunch of wanderers pretending we know where we’re going, pretending we’re on the path when all we really have is a moment, and that’s all.

So, here I am—twenty-three—and still wondering. Still trying to make sense of the noise and the quiet, the questions and the answers, the direction and the detours. But I wonder—can I truly be okay with this? Or is there just too much pressure to find something? To arrive somewhere? Maybe the trick isn’t to find the answers, but to stay in the question. To let it be the thing that keeps you moving. Not in a straight line, but in spirals, in loops, in circles that never quite close but always keep you on the move.

And so, I keep walking. Quietly. Maybe that’s enough?

Moving through this strange intersection of life, caught between a past that still whispers, and a future that feels perpetually out of reach. It's like standing in the doorway of a room, wondering whether to step in, but somehow frozen in the threshold. What is it about that threshold that holds us there, in the limbo, in the in-between? Is it fear? Or is it just that, deep down, we’ve all been conditioned to believe that we should know what comes next?

The odd part is, the world doesn’t really ask for clarity, does it? Not from anyone. We assume that everyone else is walking with purpose, that they’ve got their paths laid out like a string of pearls, each one perfectly spaced. But the more I look, the more I realize: no one has it figured out. Not really. They’re just walking along, carrying their own whispers of doubt in their pockets, pretending that they don’t hear them, maybe even convincing themselves that they don’t exist. Everyone's just trying to keep up with the illusion. Some people just happen to be better at it than others. I can hear them sometimes, the ones who make it look easy. Their voices are full of certainty, full of the right answers, the right moves. And then there's me, sitting here with a question mark hanging over my head, wondering if I missed the lesson on how to sound that confident.

But it doesn’t stop. The questions. The questions keep coming, and I’m not even sure if they’re helping. They might just be distractions, like the static on an old radio, fuzzing up everything around me. Sometimes, I get tired of listening to them, but then I remember that the questions are all I’ve got. If I let go of them, what would be left? An empty space? A void? I think it’s easier to live in the question than to try to find an answer that doesn't quite fit. Maybe that's why I'm still here—still questioning, still wondering, still walking, though not in a straight line. More like a zigzag that never fully gets anywhere.

And yet, the weight of expectation is never far behind. The invisible pressure from everyone around me—family, friends, society—always reminds me that there’s a timeline, a schedule I’m supposed to be following. It’s a quiet hum in the background, urging me to “hurry up,” to “catch up,” to “figure it out.” But what does it even mean to "figure it out"? It’s not like there’s a finish line, a finish line that guarantees satisfaction or contentment. It's like someone handed me a map, but it's so worn, so faded, that I can't even read it anymore. Maybe that’s the trick, though: maybe I’m not supposed to read it. Maybe I’m not supposed to follow it at all.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that all these “milestones” everyone talks about—career, love, family—are just distractions. They’re little glittering pieces of the puzzle, but they aren’t the puzzle. They’re not the thing I’m supposed to be chasing. But what is the thing I’m supposed to be chasing? If I don’t know what’s next, how do I know if I’m moving in the right direction? And yet, I can’t seem to stop walking. Can’t seem to stop moving. Not because I know where I’m going, but because standing still feels like an impossible option. Even if I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, at least I’m doing something. At least I’m moving.

And I wonder, in the silence of my own thoughts, how many others are feeling the same? Maybe it’s not just me, stuck in this maze of uncertainty. Maybe it’s everyone. Maybe the whole world is just full of people walking around with questions in their pockets, pretending that they don’t hear the static. The questions are too loud to ignore, and yet, we all try. We try to drown them out with the noise of “success,” of “accomplishment,” of “getting it together.” But when the noise fades, all we’re left with are the questions. And it’s funny how the questions seem to get louder as I get older, like a growing chorus in the back of my mind. Is it that I’ve stopped pretending to have answers, or is it that the answers never existed in the first place?

Sometimes, I think I’m afraid of the questions because they don’t offer any comforting promises. There’s no resolution in them, no neat bow at the end. They just hang there, suspended in the air like a cloud, dark and heavy, but never quite dissipating. There’s no roadmap. No clear-cut directions. Just the haze of possibility. The terrifying, beautiful chaos of not knowing.

It’s strange, though—there’s a certain liberation in the confusion. It’s not the kind of liberation that comes with a sense of clarity or understanding, but the kind that lets you exist in the mess. The kind that allows you to step off the path everyone else is walking and stumble into your own. Maybe there’s no one answer, no one way. Maybe the trick is to let it all be messy, to be okay with not knowing. But I can’t help but wonder, what does it mean to be “okay” with the mess? Am I really okay, or am I just too tired to fight against it?

And so I keep walking, my steps uncertain, my thoughts just as unsteady. Maybe I’m not supposed to find the answers after all. Maybe I’m supposed to be just here, in this moment, with these questions, letting them swirl around me without trying to contain them. Maybe there’s beauty in that. But it’s hard to feel the beauty when everyone else seems to have found their way, when they talk about their plans, their futures, their lives that look so beautifully scripted. It’s hard to not wonder if I missed the page where everything made sense.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not about finding the answers or making sense of it all. Maybe it’s just about staying in the middle of it. In the mess, in the noise, in the questions. Maybe that’s where the real living happens. Not in the conclusion, but in the question itself.

So here I am, still wondering, still questioning. Still not quite fitting into the picture that everyone else seems to have drawn for me. Still walking through this world of noise and quiet, trying to find a place where I can make sense of it all—or at least make peace with the fact that maybe I’m not supposed to.

It wasn’t the silence that scared me, it was the thought that maybe, I was the silence. And, in that silence, I thought I was hearing my own thoughts, but what if they weren’t mine at all? And then it hit me: maybe the real question is whether I’ll ever stop asking, or if one day, the questions will start asking me instead.

- Oizys.

P.S. Started this piece in April 2023, and here I am, wrapping it up in April 2025—guess some questions really do take their time.

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.

Random 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.