Will You Forget Me?

I always wonder. If I leave today, will you forget me? Who will remember me? I look at people around me. People I'm related to. People I work with. People I have studied with. And, I think, will they remember me? Will they think about me when I am gone someday?

Then, I remember those moments I stayed back and didn't go out with them. Those moments I ran into my room when they visited me. Those moments I stayed asleep while they waited for me. Those moments I said no to take a picture. And my moments of solitude, that I took by snatching from them and enjoyed thoroughly and guiltily, scares me now. 

It's scary to think that those moments of solitude that I cherished might have come at a cost. Did I miss out on building connections and memories with the people around me? Will they remember me for who I truly am, or will they only remember the times I turned down their invitations or retreated into myself?

- Oizys.

My Wistful Fantasy

We all fantasize. We all have some comfort fantasy stories to run to when we are done dealing with the day or when we are in an uncomfortable social situation where we are surrounded by aunts and uncles we know but we don't actually know. I have a thousand of them. A labyrinthine of daydreams and scenarios that I can escape into whenever I need a mental break or a pick-me-up. Some of them are simple, like imagining myself lounging on a tropical beach with a cold drink in my hand. Others are more complex, involving intricate plotlines and characters that I've created in my mind.

- Oizys.

Curse of Banality - A Poem

I have realised there's a curse laid upon me.
A curse of being banal.
A curse of turning anything I touch banal.
A curse of banality.
It took me a lot to come to my own.
And when I did.
I was disappointed.
But, I was not astonished.
Because the journey itself was also cursed.
A path of unaesthetic and unoriginal struggles.
A fight of idleness and illogic.
A yearn for nothingness and a sudden end.
A race between ignorance and apathy.
A curse of banality inked with prosaic language on my forehead.
Reminds me of a quote I had saved recently,
"...an unbearably tense and disorienting paradox that underscores everyday life in a working-class environment—on the one hand it’s an abrasive and in-your-face world, yet, at the same time, much of it seems extrinsic and is perpetually uninvolving. One is relentlessly overwhelmed and understimulated all at the same time.
~ Claire-Louise Bennett, Checkout 19"

- Oizys.

You, Who Reads Me

People who read me. Who read my diary. I want to share something with you. I am mostly on that side of this situation where I read diaries and letters. I am a huge fan of this genre. I love reading books which are in form of diaries, journals and letters. As you all must have seen from one of my previous entries, I had quoted one such letter.

A question for you all:-

I used to have an account before as well. I have some entries backed up and some other manual diary entries too. Do you want me to upload those old entries here? They are mostly diary excerpts, prose poetry, and a bit too much broken poems.

- Oizys.

Unspeakably Lonely

There are days I feel so much that I want to write. Yet, I can't find the right words. In search of those words, I read. I read other people's feelings. Sometimes, I end up getting distracted from my feelings and some days, I find words so appropriate, so accurate to what I feel.

"I feel unspeakably lonely. And I feel - drained. It is a blank state of mind and soul I cannot describe to you as I think it would not make any difference. Also it is a very private feeling I have - that of melting into a perpetual nervous breakdown. I am often questioning myself what I further want to do, who I further wish to be; which parts of me, exactly, are still functioning properly. No answers, darling. At all." - Anne Sexton. 

- Oizys.

Tucking Myself Under Lies

I come to bed every night knowing everything is messed up and wrong. Yet, I come here because it is my only escape. After an entire day of being exposed to just life and anxiety, I come here to run away. I tuck myself under this heavy blanket to feel the warmth. A blanket made up of fantasy-woven stories and an unrealistically soft world. Lying underneath these layers of pies in the sky, a part of me keeps reassuring the others that we still have a few more hours of warmth until we go out to the cold again. I have built this castle so high in the air with pillars of angelic fables and myths. I sometimes move around out in the cold with my bubble of reverie around me. A very small part of me, aware of this hoax, sad about this lie, whimpers in hopelessness. She knows it is all a fabrication of dreams and yet she also knows except for this wool-gathering quilt, I am nothing but dust.

- Oizys. 

Ricocheting In Between

It's oddly unsettling, this body. It contains an urge to be happy yet an ingrained characteristic to remain sad. I prolong my depressed thoughts while I also try to look for reasons to feel pleasure. When I do find something that could bring me pleasure, I ruin it with my need to be dead inside. It's almost as if the feeling of sadness is the one that is pleasurable to me.

Sylvia Plath was right, "I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between."

I have lost it while bouncing between the two. I have stopped feeling either. I desire nothing anymore. I have absolutely nothing to look forward to. I have lost the shine. I have lost the thunder. Just a worn out ball lying in a corner.

- Oizys.

Do You Think I Have A Problem?

Do you think I have a problem? I am very annoyed right now. I am unable to get anything right. I couldn't get two tasks done assigned to me. I couldn't finalize structures of my other tasks that I had to. I don't know how am I going to ask for references from people. I am so uncomfortable right now. I am in my most secured place yet somehow I feel nauseated and abhorrent. I feel like escaping this skin. I am getting frustrated at everyone and everything as if I am looking for a reason, for someone, for something to pour out my anger into. I hate being like this. I hate feeling like this. I hate what or who I am turning into and I hate it. I never want to be like that who is just a vessel filled with anger and negativity. But, I don't know what else to do. I just wait for this pass. But, it is so painful to lie here waiting for these feelings to go away after they are finished mutilating every inch of my sanity, every fibre of my peace. This is just too much. 

- Oizys.

Unseen and Unbothered

Days like these. Where I can sit and work from home and do everything else from this weird zone of mine. Where I have a bit of control on things. Where I move. Where I don't feel over concious. Where I don't have to think what they think. Where I am not worried if a few strands of my hair are strewn. Where I am not worried if I am wearing a short trouser and my hairy legs are exposed. Where I think out loud. Where I don't have to constantly beat myself to shape me into small that is fittable out there. Where I can eat with a bit of sauce on the corner of my lips. Where I can read, act and play without constantly thinking about how they would do it or what they would think. Where I can be nothing. Where I can be anything. Where I am relaxed. Where no one can see me. Where no one can know me. Where no one can bother me. Where I can bother no one. Where I can just be easily. Where I don't have to alter or repress myself just to be exist. Completely under myself and my control. 

- Oizys.

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.