What Is My Life?

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

- Oizys.

The Only Question I Have

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

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

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

- Oizys.

Do You Read Diaries?

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

How To Liberate Oneself?

Twenty-eighth day of September.

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

I Will Never Love Myself

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

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

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

 

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

 

- Oizys.

I Can't Speak Anymore – A Poem

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

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

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

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

- Oizys.

The August Forest – A (Prose)

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

- Oizys.

Summertime of August – A Poem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Oizys.

Yet Another August Poem? – A (Prose) Poem

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

- Oizys.