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

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

- Oizys.

Somebody Stop The Clock

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

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

- Oizys.