Demon of Delay & Burden of Slowness - Regrets

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

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

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

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

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

"Hamesha Der Kar Deta Hoon Main"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Munir Ahmed Niazi. (Translation by me.)

Extension of the poem by me:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Oizys. (Translation by me.)

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Graduating Into Unemployment

It is that time of the year. I am graduating and, at the same time, entering the unemployment pool. Like a false promise for a bright future. Like a dinghy in a treacherous ocean. At the mercy of lightnings and currents.

I feel as if I spent my years studying without preparing for what would come after the studies. I look back and I feel proud that I made it out alive, but then a huge block of guilt mounts over my pride. The guilt of not having a path paved to go after this. Every time someone comes up to congratulate me, I feel their questions of "what's next?" hit me like a meteor. So hollow yet so heavy.

For months, I protected myself with a sheath of lies. I did not care about the future. More like, I pretended to not care about the future, so I won't have to do anything about it. I submitted myself to delusion. I let delusion dominate me. It made me kneel and told me everything would be fine. Pieces will fall together and there will be a picture; do not worry. And I just... foolishly listened, whereas deep down my own conscience kept screaming, "Do not fall for it." I guess I was swooned by the idea of a picture forming itself without actually working for it.

I keep applying every day. I keep spreading your resumes. Like those people giving out flyers. I hawk my skills. I peddle my counterfeit experiences. I shamelessly hope someone will see some potential in me. Someone willing to dig through my lies and pretentiousness and recognize my need to work. Someone who will not just brush me off because of my tramp trail and put a name to my sincerity.

Yes, yes, we all get through it eventually. Some make it with flying colors and polished faces, some with scraped knees and gratitude for two meals a day. But we all make it eventually. I know. But...

As I continue on this journey of job searching, I can't help but feel like I'm wandering in the dark with no clear destination in sight. It's a daunting feeling, knowing that I have no idea where I'll end up or what I'll be doing. The uncertainty is suffocating, and sometimes it feels like I'm stuck in a never-ending cycle of rejection and disappointment. Rejection mail piles up. I print them all and bury myself beneath the disappointment. I take each of the "We regret to inform you" sentences and pin them on myself. And I wish someone would just come and see my pinboard of defeat and maybe, just pity me. Help me compensate for a lack in me. I scream into the void, "What do I do?" All I get is silence. Maybe a picture of a sea of graduates hurdling around towards the island of jobs. And someone nudges me to find my face in the picture. All I can answer is silence.

But, as far as I know, there is no one who will come and hold my hand, roll open my palm, and give me a job. Hence, I keep rolling. I let the cycle of sending out a resume and them reflexing with a rejection continue. In a hope that I will be successful in snapping up something, or at least trap someone into thinking I am worthy and suitable for some position. Talk about reverse imposter syndrome, eh?

- Oizys.

"Ye Olde Tactic" - Uncovering the Deception: The Ugliness of Pointing

The father points at the maid and tells his daughter, "At least you are educated," while forcing her to marry upon graduation. The maid goes home and complains to her mother about how her husband comes home drunk every night. The mother points at the neighbor woman and says, "At least your husband doesn't beat you like hers." When you point at the broken offices and dirty roads of your country, they shove the neighboring country's economic failure down your throat, forcing you to kneel in gratitude to your country, which cannot even let you marry your own sex.

You know, that tactic when they point at something a bit uglier than themselves to cover up their own hideousness? It is almost as if they met and sat down together to solve the problems of the world. And decided to choose this chain, this pattern, to control. To manipulate. To remain on the throne. To protect the system. This system caters to their waving hands. because acknowledging the truth will break the crux of the system. It is like dismantling a house of cards. We are all just cards for them, each delicate and seemingly insignificant for them. You can see the intricate pattern of pointing towards an unluckier card all over the house. They put you together for a carnival show like puppets.

But the truth is, this house is not that weak; it is a deeply rooted tree. The roots are shackling us from moving forward. Entrenched in expired understandings. Embedded in our minds. So much so that even if your logical parlance knows it is not wrong to enter the kitchen when you are menstruating, your foot becomes heavy when you try to step in. Guilt kidnaps you and takes you on a trip to the graveyard of traditions and ancestral souls. It wraps its chain around your wrists and drags you through the graveyards, past the headstones etched with the names of your forefathers and mothers. It plunges the ghosts of honor and the whispers of modesty, and then you start feeling disappointed eyes on your body that were only half draped.

If you are a card somewhere hearing about the example of another, here is a message from the other card. Do not listen to them. It is a tactic to trap you and show you off as a dolled-up house. Instead, unlayer their ploy of pointing. Peel back the layers of deception and uncover the truth. The truth is that we are not just showcards in their house of power but human beings. Individual human beings with feelings, emotions, thoughts, and struggles are chock-full of poetry. Uproot their lies about the ugliness of others and make them uncomfortable with your truth about humanness.

- Oizys.

The Hunger Within: A Journey Through Depression and Loss of Appetite

Today, I realised that I'm not hungry anymore. But it's not because I've lost my appetite, it's because I've lost my zest for life. Food used to be my solace, my comfort, my friend. But now, even my favourite dishes taste like ashes in my mouth.

I feel like I've lost my way, like I'm drifting in a sea of uncertainty. I used to have a clear sense of purpose, a set of goals, and a vision for my future. But now, everything feels muddled, confusing, and bleak. I can't seem to find the light at the end of the tunnel, or the silver lining in the clouds.

I used to love to cook, to experiment with new recipes, and to share my creations with my loved ones. But now, I can barely bring myself to open the fridge, let alone whip up a gourmet meal. Cooking feels like a chore, a burden, a waste of time.

I don't know where to turn, who to talk to, or how to get out of this rut. I feel like I'm stuck in a bad dream, or a black hole. I keep trying to claw my way out, but the harder I try, the deeper I sink.

Maybe it's just a phase, a passing mood, a temporary setback. Or maybe it's something deeper, more profound, and more elusive. Maybe I need to face my fears, confront my doubts, and embrace my true self. Maybe I need to find a new passion, a new purpose, a new reason to live.

But for now, all I can say is that "I'm not hungry anymore". Not for food, not for life, not for anything. I just feel empty, numb, and lost.

I don't know what the future holds, or what the next chapter of my life will bring. But I do know that I need to keep moving forward, one step at a time. I need to keep searching for answers, for meaning, for hope.

So, I'll end this entry with a quote from a wise woman I once knew: "Hunger is the language of the soul. When we stop being hungry, we stop being alive." I may not be hungry right now, but I know deep down that my soul is still hungry for something. And I won't stop searching until I find it.

- Oizys.

The Fantasy Of Oblivion

I feel heavy.

I gave a presentation on the paper I am writing. and got a poor grade. The evaluator didn't say anything, didn't ask anything, graded the paper poorly, and didn't even give any feedback. It looks like they don't support my stance on the topic of SSR&PIL. 
I received another grade today. Poor too, this one. But, this one is on me. I didn't work hard enough. I deserve it. I don't even remember working hard for anything now in life. 

Last night, I wrote for the first time in a long time. I felt a bit lighter. I had forgotten how light it feels when I put my feelings on paper in the form of words. But, I also felt something else, a bit emptier. Some more space in my head. People say it is generally a good thing. When you write to relieve stress, you feel lighter because you have space in that head of yours for more important things going on in life.

It made me think. It scared me a bit because I have no other important things to put in that empty space. It made me a question...
What's important to me? What is the worth of my existence? What do I want? Do I aspire to be rich? Or, famous? Or, intelligent? Do I love? Do I want to love? Do I want to be loved? Do I desire? Do I want to be desired? Do I want someone or something in my life? Do I even deserve to? Do I even have the capacity to want or to aspire or to love or be loved or desire? What's the shape of my future?
I do not know. I do not understand where other people get answers to these questions. Do they even get these questions or do these things come to them, naturally?
I feel empty. I just realized this emptiness is heavier. Because it's noisy. The questions echo. They have that scary devil's voice with little air whooshing around, the devil's tail strapped around my neck, choking me tighter as I skip every one of those questions unanswered. Grh...

How do people do this? How do they function? I see people planning, and building, each block filled with meaning, each brick shaped with hard work and perspiration. I wait for myself to feel the kick to do the same. But, I don't feel the kick. And now, I don't even want to feel it. Because I can't even see myself in my own future anymore or with people. When I peek into the idea of the future in my mind, I see myself as absent. Non-existent. I see myself as nothingness. Blended into the atmosphere? Or buried deep under that rock bottom after being sucked by the quicksand pit? 

No desire. No want. No hope. No success. No failure. No love. No war. Just nothing. Oblivion. Nothingness — is probably my only fantasy.

- Oizys.

An Empty Soda Can

"How is it going?" Someone asked me.

I don't know...? A lot, maybe? To be honest, I haven't "talked" to anyone since the pandemic. But when I think about it, I don't think I have ever even talked to anyone in the pre-pandemic era. Most of the time, I am blank about what to say. I have a few stuff going on in my mind, what doesn't come out? It's so obscure.

I have also realized I don't have an ambition or goal or hobby-like thing to keep me going. I keep going on because I have to. Because I don't have any other way. I submit my assignments and get fair marks. But, I am not special or good at anything. Hence, wasn't able to secure an internship for this summer. Which has created and has been feeding a fear in the back of my mind, that I would struggle to get a good-paying job. Then, I won't be able to clear my student loans. Adding to it, I also don't enjoy the field I am studying in, but I can manage it so I am doing it. If I had a chance, I wouldn't study in this field, for sure. But then again, I don't know what else to do as my ability to explore was chopped off because I had to fit in to meet my parents' expectations. Now, I don't even have the energy to explore anymore which makes me... sad.

I don't hate my friends. They are amazing people. Great human beings. But, I don't think they are my friends, anymore. Rather, we text each other when we need something college-related and are just 4-5 in number. I feel like even my friendships, through the course of this pandemic, have weakened to a point that if I try to water them, they will just decay. We are just together because it's convenient and help each other with college stuff. Due to this scrolling addiction, I even exited all forms of social media platforms and we just text each other WA in a group. I don't even text any one of them personally. And, I am not that close to my family, they think I am having the time of my life, in my early 20s, being rebellious to their justified-controlling-and-super-toxic-behavior whereas I have just fallen apart and don't care anymore. Holding my pieces and existing. I don't have a person in my life I am close to. And, this pandemic has wiped out all my leftover and poor abilities to socialize or even "want" someone. Now, I just sit in front of my laptop, do some classes, and write some pages for some marks. And, sit in my corner.

Back then, before the pandemic, I liked to read and sometimes, maybe write (and fail miserably). Books had a soothing effect on me. Being constantly judged for my skin color and appearance by my relatives, cousins, and kids around the school, I had shut myself from socializing and let my dark skin color be a filter for whosoever wanted to approach me or not and I resorted to reading and libraries. Now, I don't even have the energy to read...? One thing that I liked? I don't feel like doing it anymore. One thing in life that didn't feel like a chore? Rather, felt "me"? One thing that was spiritual in my mundane life?

I think I have become non-receptive to emotions or feelings. Having never been dated or romantically involved in even the least possible way and now restricted in this pandemic which has butchered almost all future possibilities of mine to find someone (not even a romantic partner but just like, even a person in life), has made me think and plan about living alone. Now, I just wanna graduate, get a job that will get me through, get away from my family, and exist by myself. Even texting or talking or getting to know someone is exhausting. Not that I want to hurt anyone's feelings but, I don't want to text or hang out, I feel tired.

Even though not much is "disturbing" in life, everything, this hollowness, feels so disturbed. The only thing that provides me with some ease is my blanket and bed when my eyes are closed. There's absolutely nothing I dream of, I yearn for. I am too scared to put a full stop. But, I want to escape. Who the hell put this rule that we need a full stop to leave everything? I don't even have anything in my "oh life is a beautiful gift" existence that brings anything to anyone's table or puts anything on my table that anyone would approach. Can I simply not exist and just escape in a smooth, non-dramatic manner?

I feel like that used, empty soda can. Waiting for a truck to run over and end the story once and for all.

- Oizys.

Subsisting In The Abyss

Do you ever feel so lonely around so many known people? Do you ever feel like shouting and screaming at them hoping someone would hear your voice? But when you open your mouth, your throat is blocked with a ball of fear. A fear that your voice might be lost? A fear that your voice might be ignored? A fear that your voice might be judged? Laughed at? Criticized?

Do you ever feel so many emotions at once that you want to take them out? But when you look around, you feel so lonely in your own house, feel hollow in a family, unwelcome in a friend circle? Do you feel as if they will err your emotions? Brush it off as unimportant? Do you feel uninvited and as if you hold no value whatsoever to anyone in your life? Whatever you go through, what you feel won't matter to anyone at all. Won't affect anyone. Won't panic anyone.

Do you ever feel like not talking to people because somewhere you know they are gonna tell you something that you never want to hear? That you hate it? But then you can't even deny so you just hear them out and let those words etch your soul?

Do you ever feel there is a phase in your life when you cry every night? When everything is just falling apart? When everything just seems wrong no matter what? When you hate everything yet you still have to sit in the front seat, look at your life taking all the wrong and unwanted turns?

Do you ever feel scared of human beings? Scared of their true nature? Their coldness? Their hatred? Their real feelings? Whatever are thoughts weaving inside their minds while they send a smile your way?

Do you ever forget that you are part of other people’s lives because you feel empty? So terrified that when they see you or ask of you, you run away so as not to draw attention to yourself?

Do you feel like running away when you hear someone approach near room? Your heart beats faster, your mind becomes a floor and your thoughts are a bunch of hair, messy and tangled. You hear their footsteps, listen to their noises and hope they don’t knock on your door or call your name.

Do you ever feel like you are not living but just bubbling through this life from one thing to another and watch days and nights and days pass by hoping for the ending to start soon?

If there was a word for the state of mind that is exactly the opposite of wanting something really bad, I would gladly make that the title of the book of my life. A proportionate mixture of ignorance and apathy filled with ice cubes of aches here and there. No matter whatever support or positive message I receive, they all sound like a thief stepping into a dark house full of empty vessels. Uncalled and unaffecting.

I feel myself in a quicksand; wriggling my legs. I can escape, but the effort just seems more and more taxing until I give up and just sit down and stop struggling. Wallowing feels more earthly and doable rather than fighting for life. And when the sand engulfs me, I feel like going down a black chasm that gets darker and deeper each day passing by. Because I do. And I am. I am feeling all of these together, right now. Even when I am scribbling these words down. Even writing these feelings out isn't flowing away with the ink. Even emptying the bottle isn't easing my soul. Rather making my heart and mind heavy altogether. More scared. More lonely. More unwanted. More worthless. And all of these are making me feel like disappearing from here, there, from everywhere. Feel like giving up my wings. Let the sky chop off my wings. And then let the sea swallow me. So deep that I will be so away from all these feelings. All the emptiness. All the lumps in my throat. All the worries in my heart. All the fears in my mind. And, just keep drowning. And drowning. Until I hit the depths of the dark sea. Where I would be finally free from these burdened wings. Free from... humans? Or, free from myself?

- Oizys.