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.

April 30, 2023 to May 17, 2024: Stream of Regurgitation

An update? How long has it been? Do I remember what to write? Do I even remember writing anymore? From where should I start? I cannot think of words or phrases. I am fighting the urge to scratch my keyboard in order to just write something, just something. Oh, how I long for words to just flow. Let's see.

April 30, 2023. I abandoned my friends after going shopping with them the day before farewell and shut myself down for a long time. I tried NaPoWriMo and started well but could not finish. I did not get into university. Got a meagre job. I miserably started it. I tried my best. Failed. Perfomed poorly. I cried while working and thanked the universe; it is a work-from-home job, and nobody can see me. I did not attend graduation. I left all group chats and deleted everyone's number. Cried more. I stayed in the room. I rotted on my bed. I watched people pass by, move on, and succeed. Shamefully went back to college to get degrees. Ran back home. My sister came. I stepped out after many months with her. I came back and stayed in my room. I rotted some more. Sister left. I got my probation period extended. I did not eat. I did not drink water. I did not bathe. I did not brush. I just woke up, logged on, worked, logged out, and lied in bed. Got hospitalized.  I got three enemas, and then my excreta was manually removed on a Sunday night in the second hospital. Logged on next morning because no leaves on probation period. Kept rotting. I got off probation. I thought of starting fresh on a random day in March. But I just stayed in my room. Decided to rejoin social media. Rotted while scrolling. I thought of applying for more jobs but didn't get anywhere. Stopped. I tried NaPoWriMo again. Failed miserably. I waited for an increment. The sister came back. I went out again after a long time. I got poked for not stepping out more. I made it through with closed fists and pretention. I tried eating something, but they put eggs in it. The drink was nice. Minty Melon. I tried clicking pictures. It came out ugly. Deleted. I just posted a photo of my shoes on Instagram. Never going out again. I thought of starting to read again. Read nine pages of White Oleander, posted on Instagram. Couldn't continue. Stopped. Weighed myself. 62 kgs. The father called me fat. I thought of writing research papers again. I tried starting, but I don't know whether I will go along. I got promoted and a meagre, blurry increment, but my team lead asked for me to fill in for her. I got triggered while opening the curtains, lost myself, and screamed again after a super long time. Cried. I thought of applying for entrance tests again. Memories of incompetence and mediocrity rushed back. I cried my rot out. But it still feels the same. I ordered a pizza. I ate for two days. Belly feels heavy with burden and melted regret. May 17, 2024. A friend reached out to me on Instagram. Asking about where I work. How can she get in? I fought every single fibre of my remaining rot. Responded with some kind words and helped. I saw the Instagram story of another collegemate. She chose not to join the job she got in college. For which I was waitlisted. Rather, passed entrance exams. Studied further. I might lose myself again. Tried screaming. Nothing came out. I finally sat down to write.

Still in my room. Randomly breaking down. In my corner. There is no one to hold onto. There was no one to hug. There is no one to rely on. There is no one to sit silently with. Just rotting while rotating different balls of gathered wool. Trying to break free but keep falling into quicksand of delusions, sinking deeper and farther away from reality with every slap from it. Trying to sit straight and drink enough water while there is a constant tug-of-war between chasing a chimaera and the harsh reality bringing me back to my rock-bottom worth. This is getting too pathetic. Maybe I should just stop. What have I become? Just a pot of jealousy and misery. For what? Why? Was it because of the lack of love in my mother's eyes or the lack of recognition in my father's? Or is it because my mother's words turned out to be true that I will forever be a burden to my sister? Or is it my father's belief that furthered my incompetence and I just smalled myself? Or, is it because I have a second father now? I try to concoct all these reasons, thinking this might change things. But I know for a fact they won't. I will fall and try to get up while fantasising again about starting over again just to forget how much it hurt to fall than the last time. Even though I know I will remain in this endless cycle, I will never be able to make peace with it. I think I will forever remain here and try to start reading again, but I am actually building castles in Spain while people watch my second mother. I should stop writing now, or should I call it a stream of regurgitation?

- Oizys.

April Twenty First: NaPoWriMo: Mellows of a Palette Veiled

And now for our (optional) prompt! Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that repeats or focuses on a single color. Some examples for you – Diane Wakoski’s “Blue Monday,” Walter de la Mare’s “Silver,” and Dorothea Lasky’s “Red Rum.”

Dreaming of golden-green fields,
And, watching amber-orange sunsets.
The senstional journalism, headlines hued.
The lily-livered heart, timid and pale.
The xanthous tumor in my soul, a subtle pain.
The icteric tint in my cerebellum, a shadowed stain.
The bronze repellent in my skin, an armor worn thin.
The soft ochre in my memories, where to even begin?
The goldenrod grin on my face, radiant and true
The tetartanopia of emotions in my vision, a bluish view
The dandelion-gathering in my thoughts, a dream grounded.
The citrine caress in my yearnings, a soft light.
The brass ancience in my resolve, a bold past.
The sickly peeling wallpaper, a solitary spell.

Guess the colour?

- Oizys.

April Fourteenth: NaPoWriMo: Suspended In

Today’s (optional) prompt asks you to write a poem of at least ten lines in which each line begins with the same word (e.g., “Because,” “Forget,” “Not,” “If”). This technique of beginning multiple lines with the same word or phrase is called anaphora, and has long been used to give poems a driving rhythm and/or a sense of puzzlebox mystery. To give you more context, here’s an essay by Rebecca Hazelton on her students’ “adventures in anaphora,” and a contemporary poem that uses anaphora to great effect: Layli Long Soldier’s “Whereas.”

Suspended in time, a moment escaped,
Suspended in space, a dream folded,
Suspended in thoughts, a journey concluded,
Suspended in whispers, secrets concealed,
Suspended in laughter, echoes hushed,
Suspended in tears, emotions retained,
Suspended in silence, truths recoiled,
Suspended in hope, a future ignored,
Suspended in love, hearts disentangled,
Suspended in grace, a universe forgotten.

- Oizys.

April Thirteenth: NaPoWriMo: World of Wonder

Finally, our optional prompt for the day asks you to play with rhyme. Start by creating a “word bank” of ten simple words. They should only have one or two syllables apiece. Five should correspond to each of the five senses (i.e., one word that is a thing you can see, one word that is a type of sound, one word that is a thing you can taste, etc). Three more should be concrete nouns of whatever character you choose (i.e., “bridge,” “sun,” “airplane,” “cat”), and the last two should be verbs. Now, come up with rhymes for each of your ten words. (If you’re having trouble coming up with rhymes, the wonderful Rhymezone is at your service). Use your expanded word-bank, with rhymes, as the seeds for your poem. Your effort doesn’t actually have to rhyme in the sense of having each line end with a rhymed word, but try to use as much soundplay in your poem as possible.

1. Word Bank:

See: hole (in flour)
Sound: creak (slow heavy footsteps on cracking wood)
Taste: luscious (figs)
Touch: bed
Smell: acrid (burning dust)
Noun: book
Noun: ticker
Noun: chair
Verb: peel
Verb: sniff

2. Rhymes:

Hole: pole, stroll (pole in shower, stroll in bower)
Creak: peak, leek
Luscious: piceous,
Bed: bread, red
Acrid: kid, vivid
Book: look, hook
Ticker: liquor, bicker
Chair: bear, mare
Peel: conceal, reveal
Sniff: cliff, adrift

3. Seed Poem:

In a quaint old cottage nestled in the woods,
A hole in the flour, a sight for the scullery absurd,
The sound of slow heavy footsteps creaking on cracking wood,
understood, undeterred?

The taste of luscious figs, a delight to savor,
The touch of a soft bed, inviting and warm,
The acrid smell of burning dust, no favor
But still, in this place, there’s a certain flavour.

A book on the shelf, waiting to be read,
A ticker that ticks with a steady beat,
A chair by the fire, where thoughts are fed,
Peeling away layers, revealing something dread.

I sit and I sniff the air so unclear,
Wisting place of peace, with nothing to fear.

As I stroll through the bower, with a pole in hand,
I hear the creak of the trees, like a grind band,
The earthy scent of pine, like piceous and truth,
I reach for a moment, and gaseous, a muse come to.

On a bed of soft red, I rest my weary head,
The acrid smell of the fire, like a mare's comfort in dread,
I pick up the book, to escape from the din,
And lose myself in words, a world within.

The ticker on the wall, keeping time steady,
As I sit in my chair, thoughts running ready,
I peel back the layers, and reveal what’s inside,
A world of wonder, where hearts can confide.

I sniff the air, so sweet and divine,
In this place of solace, where all is fine.

The peak of the mountain, so high and steep,
A creak from the branches, where secrets keep,
The juicy dream of victory, so vivid and psyche,
I reach for the stars, in the dead of the night.

On a bread of today, I lay my tired soul,
The acrid smell of success, making me toll,
I look to the future, with hope and with sneer,
And relent the unknown, even with so fear.

The liquor in the glass, a taste of good plight,
As I sit in my chair, surrounded by piceous light,
I bicker and banter, with figments so dear,
As we laugh and we love, with nothing to fear.

I peel back the layers, and reveal what’s within,
A heart full of love, a soul free from sin.

In some world of wonder, where dreams take flight,
I sit by the cliff, staring into the night,
The sweet scent of freedom, so clear and adrift,
I close my eyes, and let my spirits lift.

So let me go on with all that's pure and right,
While dreams fall from sight, in the dead of night.

- Oizys.

April Twelfth: NaPoWriMo: The Tall Tale Teller

And last but not least, our optional prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that plays with the idea of a “tall tale.” American tall tales feature larger-than-life characters like Paul Bunyan (who is literally larger than life), Bulltop Stormalong (also gigantic), and Pecos Bill (apparently normal-sized, but he doesn’t let it slow him down). If you’d like to see a modern poetic take on the tall tale, try Jennifer L. Knox’s hilarious poem, “Burt Reynolds FAQ.” Your poem can revolve around a mythical character, one you make up entirely, or add fantastical elements into a real person’s biography.

In the cusp of a forgotten woods,
Where the shadows leered ancient secrets,
There lived a man of colossal stature,
Known far and wide as the Tall Tale Teller.

His origins shrouded in mystery,
Some said he was born from the murmurs of the wind,
Others claimed he was a lost prince turned hermit,
But all agreed he was a figure of wonder and wrath.

His limbs stretched like ancient trees,
His voice a deep rumble like thunder in the night,
And his eyes, oh his eyes, held the wisdom of ages past,
Glistening like ancient treasurebox in the darkness.

The Tall Tale Teller wandered the land,
Spreading his stories like seeds in fertile soil,
Each tale more fantastical than the last,
Each word a spell that captivated the listener's soul.

He spoke of dragons that danced in the sky,
Of mermaids who sang siren songs to lost sailors,
Of forests that whispered secrets to those who dared listen,
And of a world beyond our own, where magic and wonder reign supreme.

But beneath the grandeur of his tales,
Lurked a sadness that clung like mist to his every word,
For the Tall Tale Teller knew the weight of solitude,
The burden of being a myth in a world of cold reality.

He longed for connection, for a kindred spirit,
Someone who would listen not just to his stories,
But to the cries of his heart that whispered in the night,
A companion to share the burden of his loneliness.

And so he wandered, ever searching,
Through valleys and mountains, forests and seas,
Hoping to find that elusive soul who would see beyond the tall tales,
And into the heart of the man who spun them.

But as the years passed and the seasons changed,
The Tall Tale Teller's steps grew weary,
His voice grew hoarse from the weight of his stories,
And his eyes dimmed with the sorrow of unfulfilled longing.

Yet still he wandered, for to stop would be to lose himself,
To forget the magic that danced in his words,
To silence the stories that were his only solace,
And so he walked, a solitary figure in a world of noise and chaos.

And though his heart may ache with the weight of his solitude,
The Tall Tale Teller never gave in to despair,
For in his stories he found an affirmation to survive,
A connection to something greater than himself.

And so he roamed the land until the end of days,
A living legend, a myth made flesh,
A reminder that even in the darkest of nights,
A single voice can light the way to a brighter tomorrow.

- Oizys.

April Eleventh: NaPoWriMo: One-Liners

Finally, our optional prompt for the day honors the “ones” in the number 11. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write either a monostich, which is a one-line poem, or a poem made up of one-liner style jokes/sentiments. Need inspiration? Take a look at Joe Brainard’s poem “30 One-Liners” or Frank O’Hara’s “Lines for the Fortune Cookies.”

One-liners and poetry. Wow. Normally, I am an extremist when it comes to words. It's either throttling silence or a logorrheic dumpyard. I will use this ricocheting behavior to further this prompt.

Finding the balance between silence and speech,
A tightrope walk on the edge of expression's reach.

- Oizys.

I think I will use this post as a junkyard to post all one-liners that crosses my mind or I come across. I feel like it's a fun idea! A digital scrapyard of wit and whimsy.

April Ninth: NaPoWriMo: An Ode to My Kitchen Knife: The Blunted Blade

Our prompt for today (optional, as always) takes its inspiration from Pablo Neruda, the Chilean-born poet and Nobel Prize Winner. While he is most famous in the English-speaking world for his collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, he also wrote more than two hundred odes, and had a penchant for writing sometimes-long poems of appreciation for very common or mundane things. You can read English translations of “Ode to the Dictionary” at the bottom of this page, “Ode to My Socks” here, and “Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market” here.

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own ode celebrating an everyday object.

I pick: Kitchen Knife.

In the quiet hum of everyday life's refrain,
We find solace in the mundane's gentle reign,
A kitchen knife, once sharp and keen,
Now dulled by time, yet steadfast, serene.

Within my kitchen's heart, it resides,
A loyal companion, where memories abide.
Each day it dances, slicing with grace,
An unspoken artist in its sacred space.

But as the years weave their silent song,
Its edge, once sharp, starts to belong
To a realm of weariness, a journey trod,
Like a traveler weathered by time's façade.

Oh, kitchen knife, bearer of tales untold,
Your bluntness echoes life's stories, bold.
With every cut, a piece of edge lost,
A reflection of the paths we've crossed.

Your worn handle, a testament true,
To the hands that wield, the tasks they pursue.
Each scar on your blade, a narrative unfurled,
Of flavors savored, of a world twirled.

Let's raise a toast to this humble guide,
Nurturer of flavors, in you we confide.
Though your edge may wane, your spirit's song,
Like poetry, timeless, forever strong.

O kitchen knife, dulled yet bright,
A symbol of resilience in fading light,
Your bluntness mirrors life's refrain,
A reminder of strength amidst the mundane.

In your sheath, you rest, serene and still,
Awaiting the touch that ignites the thrill,
Of slicing through doubts, fears, and woe,
To find solace in the ebb and flow.

So here's to you, companion dear,
In your bluntness, life's echoes clear.
For in your dulled edge, we find our own,
A testament to how we've grown.

- Oizys.

April Eight: NaPoWriMo: Forbidden Encounter — Lovemoth

Finally, our (optional) prompt for the day takes its inspiration from Laura Foley’s poem “Year End.” Today, we challenge you to write a poem that centers around an encounter or relationship between two people (or things) that shouldn’t really have ever met – whether due to time, space, age, the differences in their nature, or for any other reason.

In the tapestry of fate’s cruel design,
A love story shrouded in darkness and dread,
In the depths of a forsaken land,
Where shadows dance in wicked delight,
Two souls entwined where none should align,
A tragic tale that Fatewrathius had silently led,
An impossible union in the dead of night.

Through hatred's veil and heartache's coughs,
They journeyed together on paths mostly known to woe,
Their worlds collide with a deafening clash,
Adulthood facing off against innocence pure,
In a world where love was forbidden to grow,
Their essence intertwined in a cruel, dark flash,
Their bond tested by Chaosmorpher's icy throne.

But even amidst the darkness deep,
A flicker of hope began to ignite,
One bore the mark of chaos and despair,
Other radiated shiny cun untouched by time,
In their arms, secrets found their keep,
As they embraced in defiance of night.

So let them whisper tales untold,
Of a love that defied all laws set by man,
One pair eyes held the depth of human pain,
While the other sparkled with untold mare's nest bright,
In a realm where darkness controlled,
Their forbidden encounter forever began.

The air crackled with tension as they drew near,
A collision of desires echoing through the void,
In this twisted waltz, where danger was clear,
Their hearts intertwined but forever annoyed.

- Oizys.

After writing this, I remembered this quote I had saved long time ago:   

I write about love like I know it so well, but to be honest, love and I have never officially met. (source: secretlywanderlust)

April 8, 2024 - Cringosity and the Chasm

April 6th and 7th went by seamlessly, according to the standards I had set to my life and yet there was a hole drilled in my middle. I woke up this morning and fell into that hole of desolation with the gravitational force of my existence. Anyway here is a poem I wrote when I was 13 (or, I was already 14...? I don't remember well but all I know is, it was Valentine's Day and my grandmother was dying). and had just discovered my "boyfriend" was not exactly my "boyfriend". Don't proceed if you do not wish to get slapped by a bag of cringe coins that will devolve the entire human race by a smidgen.

"We are a collision that was never meant to occur.
I despise your temples, they are too seductive.
I don't need to work, I just need someone to worship.
I want you to see me right now, but you are kilometers, kilometers away.
I took the steps hoping for you at the door waiting for me with a jug of tea.
You used to be my favourite sample, you used to be the place I went home to.
One last touch was never enough, every street becomes a past polaroid of us together.
I trace our steps lingering mist, while you have dissipated the cobblestones of our time.
You are the only one who knows, I am not okay without you.
I'd write all my time to you, I'd rename all my past for you.
Your memories will return to dust, when my bones rebuild themselves.
Did you know? Abraham left Isaac for God?
We'll soar to lavender fields, where life's more than toil and fray.
Mr. Postman knocked today; room service for one, a solitary stay.
He is the one I long to be, because he has all the letters to your reach your doorstep.

We are a story that was never meant to be.
Poets are pretenders but I am a nostalgic devotee.
Is this thing on yet? Does this thing rhyme yet?
This is the line I'd delete if there was a button for that.
Romance is not a race, yet we are all the rats who are left behind.
Will you cancel your plans for me, to eat lotus seeds by the beach?
I feel spinning planets around my head while all your messages go to my junkmail folder.
You are the white dwarf I have molded into a diamond in the sky, disdainful yet luminous.
I recall your heartbeats with the memory of your wrists while all your visits went unmanned.
I'd like to see you at my fashion show, etch a smile on your face even when your grief pours onto your shoes.
One strike won't keep me away for life, we live in glass houses afraid they'll break.
Wear your sunday best for the shrine hopping, this is the memory I will never bury.
Nobody sees the trouble I've been through, the brown box on the highest shelf.
We shared a drink over my patterned grandma quilt, lies shrivel up when it comes to you.
Mr. Postman stopped by today; front row seats to the disaster show, eagerly awaited.
He is the one I long to be, because he has all the letters to your reach your doorstep."

Reading back on that poem from my 13-year-old self feels like stumbling upon a buried treasure chest filled with embarrassing relics that was meant to dissipate with time. The cringe-inducing journey down memory lane, but there's a strange comfort in revisiting the melodramatic musings of my teenage years. In retrospect, it's chucklingly sad how I thought my world was ending over what now seems like trivial teenage drama. And, I kept going on. I still wrote in my diary, miserably passed my exams, and half-leggedly finished my sleep. But in that moment, every word felt like a dagger to the heart. Amidst the cringe, there's an underscoring of innocence and intensity of teendom. It's a reminder of how deeply we can feel things at that age, even if those feelings may seem exaggerated or misplaced in hindsight. And, this sad monster named Nostalgrox comforts the adult me. Pats my head, runs its fingers through my crony hair and tells me to keep going. It chokes my body in its arms, under its foaming mouth while it regurgitates my past to forcefeed me the wisdom of this hole. The rock-bottom is an absolute, pants-on-fire mirage. It's hard, cold and unyielding. I prefer this chasm, it has a soft ground and I have absolutely all the time in the world to dig, let the dirt bathe me, let the roots choke my wrists to spasm my heatbeats. And, I am sure, somewhere in the quiet trenches, I will find solace in altering my pasts by sowing seeds of delusion and pies where possibilities stretch out like endless constellations in the night sky.

As I close the pages of my teenage diary, I can't help but feel comfortable at the absurdity of it all. Life moves on, and so do we, leaving behind a trail of embarrassing poems and awkward memories. And maybe, just maybe, that's part of what makes it all so grotesquely human. Finding comfort from past's rot to escape present's turmoil.

- Oizys.