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.

Life In A Waiting Room

You apply for a job. You end up on a waiting list. You apply for a graduate program. You end up on their waiting list as well.

Living your life in a waiting room is like reading the prequel to my story. It just doesn't move forward. I imagine all the things you want to do once I get that job. Once I finish this college and get done with this degree. Once I get into my dream university. Once I move out of this rot. Once I meet some one nice. Once I make friends. Once I get my own room. Once I start earning money. Once I look pretty. Once I get to eat healthy. Once I find time to read those books. Once. Once. Once.

Every morning you wake to wait. Every night you fall asleep tomorrow morning will be the "once". 

And, when you are stuck in that transition period. You are nothing but hodge-podge. If you get accepted, life becomes different for you. If you wake up to a rejection mail, you won't know what to turn to. 

All those ultra-positive suggestions of people like, "learn a new skill", "do a course" do not take into consideration about the fact that waiting is also an actual act that we actively do. It consumes our mind, exhausts our energy, demands our time.

Stagnant pond.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 23rd March 2023

Got waitlisted!

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.

Hear Me Rant, Please

Living or dead. Flesh or mannequin. She is doomed. Nothing but a field with resources that men have the right to extract sex from. The tactic used to protect these horrendous excavators is separation of these events from society. Society is a pure safety net; men are not these perpetrators, and these events are legends happening in the outskirts of society, perpetrated by monsters who cannot be given the identification of a man. No, it is happening here. In this frame of reference, we suffer, reality. In your frame of reference of hypothesis, you blindly argue an accusation or two to be as bad as the act of violence itself. But it is not, in actuality. Where so many heinous perpetrators roam free, lead common, simple lives with their sanity and status intact. And contribute to this bedrock of rape culture. Uphold it, like a loyal descendant. Father it, like a tradition. And perpetrate such crimes, who orchestrate such environments. Build constraints so ingrained.

The straw that makes it all so myopically unhinged and humorous is when she speaks, they fail to de-centre themselves and take her muffled screams as jabs at their self-worth [read: offended like the buckled shoe almost fit]. They limit the world of hers down to themselves and subject her to horrid lives. And, when she speaks of what she is subjected to in this little world, it is taken as an accusation of generalisation of the entire class. That is followed by weirdly formed statements with the make-up of sensitivity and the undertone of threat. If such generalisations, no matter how justified they are based on the acts, are kept up, she soon won't have backing from them in the future. Loss of belief, they say. But did she ever have that belief of yours in her pain? Did you ever, for once, believe the chambers that throttle her? Most of her had to be killed, bled, and destroyed to save the future. And it is still flailing, still struggling. The chains are rooted. They believe they are entitled to stifling our fears and defences so they won't be met with the discomfort of their own actions. They believe we owe this to the good counterparts. They believe it's her duty to dig and dig through layers of pins and filth because somewhere there is good. They believe all are do-gooders, and since time immemorial, one shapely humanoid disguised as them has been committing all the zemblanious acts. They believe this because it helps them sleep at night. They believe this because it keeps the revolting taste of their own extremism at bay.

But, the day you recognise this dismissal. The level of apathy she is perpetually slapped with. When she is in need. When she is in pain. When she is out there in your world seeking help. Please, excavate the lives of all women and let the realisation hit you that this is not some one-time rarity with its own Wiki page. It is the bedrock of the civilisation that you oh-so-proudly say you've built with your manpower. A woman would never hate you, because she cannot. Because you will never allow her to. A woman will only leave you. Because that is the setting you have made default for her.

Removing women, exempting them from societal influences. If she is not the perfect victim, then she has to be the perfect human. Any straying is held as dilution of the struggles of women. The final act. That completes the dehumanisation of women in a society.

- Oizys.

The Prison of Identity Or The Land of Freedom

Today, I feel trapped in my own skin, like a bird in a cage or a fish in a bowl. I want to escape to a land where I can be not myself, where I can shed my old identity and start anew. I want to find a place where I can breathe freely, think clearly, and feel deeply. But such a place doesn't exist, at least not in this world.

I feel like I'm living in a dream, or a nightmare, where I can't control my own destiny. I feel like I'm suffocating, drowning, losing my grip on reality. I want to break free from the chains that bind me, to fly away on the wings of imagination.

But where would I go? What kind of land would welcome me with open arms, without judgement or prejudice? What kind of place would allow me to be not myself, to be whoever or whatever I want to be?

Maybe it's just a fantasy, a childish dream, a foolish wish. Maybe I need to accept who I am, embrace my flaws, and make peace with my past. Maybe I need to find a way to be happy in the here and now, without relying on a faraway land or a different persona.

But for now, all I can do is yearn, crave, and dream. I want to escape to a land where I can be not myself, where I can explore new horizons, meet new people, and experience new things. I want to break free from the monotony of everyday life, from the expectations of society, and from the limitations of my own mind.

I don't know if such a land exists, or if I'll ever find it. But I do know that the longing within me is real, deep, and persistent. I can't ignore it, suppress it, or deny it. I need to listen to it, honour it, and find a way to channel it into something positive.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 28 February 2023

Gave my interview yesterday...

I had my master's interview yesterday. And I keep replaying my interview in my head and feel mortified.

I joined early, waited nervously in the waiting room, and tried to calm my nerves by taking deep breaths. When I was allowed into the meeting, I put on my best smile and tried to appear confident. But, inside, I was a bundle of nerves. The interview went by in a blur. I only remember stumbling over my words, losing my train of thought, and feeling like I wasn't making a good impression. As the interview ended, I couldn't help but feel like I had blown it.

Now, I'm constantly thinking about the interview and the fact that the results will be declared at the end of March. The waiting is driving me crazy, and I can't stop thinking about what I could have done differently.

I know that I need to try and forget about it and move on, but I can't help but feel like this interview was my one shot. I can only hope that my nerves didn't get the best of me and that I made a good impression on the interviewer, who happens to be the chair of the program. It is the only programme I have applied for, partly because it specifically fits my interests with its generous funding. I came across another programme to apply for, but my LOR writers have not responded to me yet.

I will have to wait for the results and see what the future holds for me.


- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 21st February 2023

Got an Interview Invitation -- Too Scared -- Intrusive Thoughts to Withdraw

So, I had posted here a few days ago about being overly obsessed with my top-choice university. I just received an email a while ago for an interview. It's a Master's program. I was really excited about the university. Now that I have been selected for the interview, I am so anxious.

I feel like I am mediocre, and I'm just obsessed with the university, but I never really prepared myself. I am really freaking out. I always dreamed of going to this university. Now that I am one step closer, knowing that the next step will determine whether I am able to join the programme or not, I am really freaking out. It's not just normal nervousness. I am really chickening out. I am having intrusive thoughts about withdrawing my application. I constantly feel like I am not prepared. that I am not eligible for this.

Nobody else knows I applied for this because my parents won't allow me to study at a foreign university. That's why I was applying to a foreign university in order to get out of here. But, at the same time, I didn't want to just go away and do something I hated. So, when I found this university, I got excited and very interested.

Now, I am freaking out. I also feel like I have impersonated someone on my CV. I am unable to focus on the academic essay that I wrote for this application. I love the subject I am applying for. It is my major, and I am at the top of my class, not only in marks but also because my current professors have encouraged me to take up academia and research in this subject. But I don't feel like I deserve this. I feel lowly. Measly.

I need to give them a reply to confirm the time slot for the interview. But I am unable to. I am unable to even write a response. Maybe I should step back? I feel like I don't deserve to sit for this interview. I know I will botch this interview up. Plus, I have never given an official, proper, serious interview before. I have given telephonic interviews but not video ones like this, with a senior professor asking questions and all.

I wish I had someone to talk to about this in person. My friends are not exactly interested in this. My parents—well, as I mentioned before, they can't know. I am just so, so scared that I feel worthless. There is a very vague, dreadful feeling in my stomach. But the feeling of being doomed in my mind is vivid. I am unable to eat.

- 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.

Random Diary Entry - 19th February 2023

Forming an unhealthy obsession with my top-choice university

This might be a very embarrassing, but I just need to let it out (and, maybe, seek a bit of validation as to whether it's normal and whether other people do it or not).

I applied to one university for a very specific Master's program, and I am becoming obsessed with it. There is no such thing as a day or a minute when I don't stop searching for it and thinking about getting in. I know "the perfect university" might sound banal to some people. But I can't stop thinking about how perfectly it fits me. I am getting so lost underneath the heavy blanket of fantasies that I keep forgetting that my application is not outstanding. My grades, publications, and activities are not "striking." Heck, even my academic essay, on which I spent months and months researching and editing, is not that remarkable. I am still awaiting an interview letter. There is a good chance I may not get selected for an interview, let alone getting accepted. But all I've done and continue to do is religiously "stalk" my university, watch their YouTube videos, follow their every post and account, attend their model classes, attend their webinars, apply for their summer programs, connect with previous and current university students on LinkedIn, check their profiles, and occasionally compare if I have a chance (which always ends in disappointment).

But, at the same time, there is a part of me that knows I may not get accepted and all this obsession might come crashing down around my ears. That part of me wants to stop, but at this point I am too scared to face reality because I have invested too much, and I just want to hide behind "fantasies" while I wait for a rejection letter.

- Oizys.

She Kissed My Hand and I Want To Die

I am stifling. This is becoming too much. I am physically nauseated. I don't know why this is happening to me. Every minute passes by, and I just wish I never existed. This horrible existence Every night, I cover myself with a heavy blanket of lies and wet my hair and pillow with tears, hoping the night will engulf my existence and churn it into nothingness.

Nowadays, I just wish nonsensical, desperate things like, "Why was I not asked where I wanted to be born or not?" It's stupid, isn't it? Even with all the science and technology, we can never ask a human, while it is inside another human, whether they truly want to live through humanity. Because, after we are born, it is the humans who make the baby regret its own existence; its very sentience.

Humans are so territorial about their children, they forget children are human too. When they grow up, they will feel the need to use their autonomy. Why do some parents think they can dictate their child's life to every extent possible just because of procreation?

Each day, I wish there were some way I could have conveyed to the person who gave birth not to do so. Only if I knew, she would birth me and micromanage my entire life like my existence isn't mine, like my breathing isn't mine, like this world isn't mine. We, as children, learn to grow up and lead a human life, but our parents never learn to detach themselves from us. 

I wish I could shed all of this and run away. I wish there was a way to run away from everything I have now. Get lost in oblivion. not even a single memory of anything that is around me right now. The very longing to put an end to all of this. Because, even if you move far, far away, the happenings of past will be deeply etched in your mind forever like their blood in your viens.

When you know how your mother births you, you are amazed and you say, "Oh my God." And then, when she proceeds to mould you, break you, rearrange you, and beat you like you are some hobbling boot, you realise there is no God. There is only evil in humans and misery in humanity.

- Oizys.

Oizys In Lesboland

One of the things that I absolutely love [read: doing it purely enriched with my attention and focus, no part of my brain woolgathering at the back] is excavating old blogs and reading them, pinpointing random events of the ol' internet. I think I have spent hours deep in the night with teas and scrunchy eyes trailing bloggers and their dusty blogs.

Whilst wandering in the trenchy threads of Reddit, I discovered some of the best phases of lesbian blogospheres. All those well-intentioned hoaxes, talented sockpuppets from the early 2000s, and some even dating back to the 90s. People are tracing those lies while communicating with each other on discussion boards and forums. For the past few days, I went down the rabbit hole of old-school blogs of lesbians and came across so many unimaginable (retrospectively speaking) things. Starting from the Acanit, which was followed by a great literary experiment of Plain Layne to the most famous one that catfished the entire internet, Gay Girl in Damascus, the old internet is nothing but a big, beautiful museum of hoaxes (which is, by the way, a legitimate website called "Museum of Hoaxes"). Liz Henry, whose blog became the ground for investigations and unmaskings, made a beautiful and hitting-right-at-the-spot slideshow—Fake lesbians all the way down. 

Oh, dear screen, the opaque yet magic mirror, I can sit in front of you and scribe my own image for others' eyes. Fleshing out a cyberhuman with intricate lies, labyrinthine personas, and a web of communities around it, trapping all kinds of bugs.

When I was on a reading spree of these webbed diaries and blogs, there was a tinge of nostalgia. Now, it has become crowded. It has become easy to track down people and even easier to create an entire clan just to hide behind a screen. We are all reflections of our own lies (or fantasies...?).

When you reflect on these digital masquerades, you will not be able to help yourself but marvel at how the early internet was a rotating stage for genuine connections and an elaborate theater of deception. From the experimental narratives of the early 2000s to today’s hyper-connected digital personas, the idea of every online avatar being a meshy tale of truth and fiction is crafted in our heads. We believe what helps us sleep at night, and the rest washes up to the shores of forgetfulness, but not before deeply staining the fabric of modern society and its proactive characteristics with its impunity.

I think this made me ponder about anonymity.  Anonymity, often misunderstood as a refuge for the repressed, a channel where the silenced could release their truth, is, in actuality, a battleground. What was meant, in the book, to be a mode for unfiltered expression has always been overrun by fakers, those who steal the voices of the vulnerable. They cloak themselves in false superiority, assuming martyrdom to justify their acts but end up furthering the oppression, turning the space into yet another arena where the real voices are drowned out by the noise of deception. 

Maybe Virginia was right: Anon is, almost always, a woman.¹ That's why, in the digital world today, anonymity has become both a shield and a cage. What is sold as a tool for liberation, for those silenced by society’s rules, is actually wielded by those who hide behind masks of false bravado. The true voices, fed with ideas of empowerment by the safety of obscurity, are drowned out by a cacophony of fakers who steal their place and reinforce the power structures the victims have always hoped to escape.

- Oizys.
1 A Room of One’s Own, Chapter 3.^↩

Nothingness Permeating Life

Days like these. So empty, so hollow. Every night, you wish for darkness, a darkness that existed before your existence, to come and engulf you. Every morning you lay in your cot and drown yourself in the question, 'why did I wake up'? The feeling of not being. The feeling of not wanting something. The feeling of anti-desire. The feeling of not being unable to want something. And, the guilt. Oh, the guilt! The guilt attached to the feeling of not wanting something. The guilt of not being able to perceive anything good. The guilt of being nothing. An unprecedented and invalid rage bubbled in my veins. Feeling inconsiderably angry about some things that are not even mildly annoying. Every single thing becomes heavier. Even things that you didn't know existed. Even words that you want to utter become heavy, you are not able to let them escape your mouth. Your body becomes heavy even if you weigh like a thin paper. You lie underneath the blanket in a cold night and watch days pass by. You are unable to remove the blanket and get up. Soon, everything bocomes one colour. You start forgetting anything else other than that colour. You start forgetting faces you have met and smiled with. You start forgetting names you have whispered as prayers. The colour starts engulfing your brain. Your memory. Your sense of knowing things. There is a complete loss. One moment, you have this life. Full of random people, hobbies, tasks, responsibilities. Then, the next moment. It is all engulfed by that colour. I can't even seem to remember what colour that is. The brain is been completely conquered and shut down. 

- Oizys.

Pure, Unadultered Guilt

Wanting is not enough. We have to work towards what we want. I have been dreading for the past few weeks. I want something. And, I am trying so hard to make myself work toward it. But, I am so scared. I am so, so scared. What if I fail? I have nothing to fall back on? I am so scared of getting rejected. There is a part of me that is so scared of failing that it is not letting me work toward it and there is another part of me that wants it so freaking much. I am just so tired with all the gut-wrenching anxiety. Just the continuous rumination. Of what will happen. Of the results. Of what will I do if I do not get it. Of how will I face people. I just want to escape. I just want to not want this. I am going crazy. What if I am not good enough? Will I ever get it? Is it for me? What is out there for me? And, apart of all of these emotions, I have this guilt. Pure, unadultered guilt. I do not know why. I am so exhausted. It is nerve wrecking. I am not eating. I am not sleeping. Everything is a havoc. I am just crying constantly. I do not know how will I go through these few months. I do not know. 

- Oizys.

December Is Cold And Full Of Regrets

The end of December approaches. As I wrap myself in this thick blanket and search for some sleep in this deep cold, a layer of regrets settles on me. It is heavy. And it is chilly. Like the night. My ankles are locked. My hands were trembling under my chin. I reminisce. About all the opportunities I could have taken advantage of but did not because I was too afraid. About all the messages I could have talked to people but didn't because I was too disconnected. About all the times I could have gone out and been with people but did not because I was a bit too tired. About all the time I could have been just happy but did not because I was a bit too caught in my own head. About all the times I could have sat with my family and laughed but didn't because I was upset.

December is ruthless. Pricking you with the worst nostalgia. I cover myself from head to toe, hoping to escape this layer of regrets by immersing myself in my fantasyland, only to regret not sleeping properly the next morning.

- Oizys.
 

Is It All Just Plain Dramatic?

 Am I too dramatic? With feeling all these emotions constantly. Constantly stressed out. Just worried. Filling my entries with all the overthinking. Am I too much? Do I crib a lot?

On this beautiful, chilly night, I was neck-deep at work. And, suddenly, the above thoughts hit me like someone splashing water on my face.

Is it true, though? Sometimes, I wonder. Am I a buzzkill? I often look at my friends or family and think, "Would they be having more fun if I were not here?" If I were not here, they would be doing all those things that I am holding them back from or that they are not doing because of me. Would this place become a better place if I were to stop existing here? Sometimes, when I was younger, I would think. Is there any way to escape and watch my life from afar? Like, I won't be here, and everything else is the same. How would that affect the lives that are connected to mine? And I don't think like this with bad intentions about my near and dear ones. I would never want them to be hurt or sad. I just wonder if they would be happier if I were not here. Or simply feel and act differently if I were no longer a part of their lives. Just to make sure that I am not a burden on them,

Such intrusive thoughts. Yet very absorbing. That is, I keep looking for meaning in my non-existence while completely ignoring my existence as if it holds no meaning.

- Oizys.

Am I Doing Enough Or Not?

Currently, I do not have much going on in my life to write about. It is all the same. Wake up, work, sleep. But, I have been wondering. About the university, I had mentioned earlier. I was so caught up in desiring and fearing, I forgot to think if I am prepared for it. I mean, that is the most important part. Am I doing enough? Am I eligible to study there? Am I preparing enought for it? I am so scared and feeling so jittery. Ugh. Why can't I be more decisive? And, confident? Or, a bit more sorted? Why do I have to be constantly worried about things. A constant itch in my left foot numbing my entire body out of anxiety and twitchiness. Why can't it be a bit simple for me just once? Sometimes, I feel like I cribble too much about it but then I think, is everything else also always crippling with constant uneasiness and collywobbles like me? I wish I could have something or someone who would just tell me, what would it be for me? What's in the store for me? What will the providence throw at me this time? I just cannot stop ruminating, over and over again. I am mentally exhausted. 

- Oizys.

Success Is Weird

It feels so weird to go to the next level, right? You have worked hard for it. Sleepless nights. All the running around. The juggling. All for something. And, then when you get it, it feels weird. People say it is just self-doubt creeping in. Some say, you are not in the same place anymore and the new place is just... new and you need to start getting used to it. And, when you are there, the easiest option is to take a step back to where you previously were. That itch in your foot. Ugh. I start feeling anxious. Do I deserve this? Do I do this or that? Am I doing it right? That constant itch in my foot had numbed my entire leg and I am so, so tired. So tired of feeling incompetent in my own head. So tired of underestimating myself. But, I can't stop. Because the moment I stop, the other set of thoughts wakes up on the other foot. And, the cycle continues. I feel constrained and drained. You give everything you have just to worry if you deserve it when you finally get it.

- Oizys.

The Urge To Erase Everything And Go Away

I have this overwhelming urge to erase everything, delete every picture, delete every number, cut every tie, and go away to someplace else where I am alone and new. I do not know if it is the itch to get out of my comfort zone or the yearning to leave my uncomfortable life. People say you need to get out of your comfort zone. But what if you never had one? And you have been working really hard to create one for yourself. Then, why leave? Why not stay there? Anyway, about this urge: I don't know what to do with it. I often wonder why I think the way I do. Is it because I have not much space around me between this half bed and a small table? Am I not able to grow? Am I not scared enough? Or am I just running away because I am paranoid? My inner self is screaming at me to run away from everyone and everything. Now, let me assure you. While I am thinking like this, I have zero intentions of hurting my near and dear ones. In fact, I often think I should go away from them for their betterment. I look at my father, and I feel like I am a burden. I sit with my mother, and I feel like she will finally be at peace when I leave the house forever. I talk to my sister, and I feel like she is just unwillingly fulfilling her duty as my elder sister to look after me. I go out with my friends, and I feel like I am constantly holding them back from having fun and from achieving more. I simply do not feel at ease. And when I come back to my spot, there is nothing but an empty me. A phone with no texts waiting to be answered. A laptop that has no mail waiting to be read There is no list of books to be read. There are no movies downloaded to watch. Nothing. I search for something, just something—maybe a hand to reach out to. But, nothing. The hollowness is jarring. I want to escape this vacuum. But how? How do you escape nothing? I try adding things, but they all dissolve. All dissolve into my banality. Is it an urge to run away from being a burden on others or on my own self?

- Oizys.

An Orange - A Poem

Some entertain, but I follow your clay-like path.
Here I am, a warm brain loitering in the university of elixir.

Conversations of precisions, the recitation
of curtains, we
call an aquatic necklace.
Cinnamon and pure father,
which is a silent map of directions
three hundred, or too many to count, rejoiced
on a bed or in the warm land
directions of the leg, a calculation in your tails.
Halfway.
For river was rabid and morally positive.

- Oizys

{I love writing. I have been through so many phases in my life, but one thing that has remained constant is my love for writing. Well, another could be my dream to become a writer. No matter how mediocre, cringy, or banal my words can be, it has never made me give up. I would read more and try to write better. Some days, I fantasised about writing stories and novels. Some days, I would dream of publishing my poetry in magazines here and there and then compiling them into one. Some days, I would dream of becoming an unknown diarist whose diaries get published posthumusly. But words have been constant. It is true that most of these dreams are nowhere near becoming true, but it is not a crime to dream.}

I'm A Spectator Of My Own Life

I'm an idle spectator of my own life. I am watching everything from afar. Just passing by. Just happening. Just breaking down. I would love to take control and do things. But, I am so scared. Of what, if you ask? I do not know. Of people? Of circumstances? I do not know. I just feel so burdened. Like, I have withdrawn from something. I have no say in something that's entirely mine. I am observing but not functioning. I am in the spotlight but the background is the focus. It is been so long since I have been in focus, I have forgotten how reality feels like. It is a strange, hallucinating sensation when I am jolted back into reality after zoning out for a very long time. I can touch my life but not life. Like there is some disconnection. Like when you hold a hot cup of tea but the hotness doesn't affect you anymore. I just sit here and watch the small parts of my life unfold with very mild curiosity. And, once in a while, there is a lockdown. I am unable to think or speak. My brain gets thoughts but I am unable to decipher them. Or I am unable to construct sentences or think of words to express them. It feels as if, my life is passing by yet I am sitting in the same spot. On the same rock. On the sideline. Silently watching it just... go.

- Oizys.

Scared To Desire

I am so scared right now. This is one of those typical times that determines what will happen with my life, if not in its entirety, for the next ten years. And this is the first time I have wanted something so badly in my life. It has nothing to do with other people. No one decided it for me. No one influenced it or directed me toward it. I did not have to ask my sister if it was right for me. I did not have to ask my parents if I could have this. You know, it was one of those things that sparked something special in you. Something you did not know you were looking for. And, when you find it, you feel like you have found everything you have ever prayed for. There is a very brief, soft moment of happiness. That one-minute of sweet calmness until the stinging starts. Then you just burn. I was so happy. Then I got scared. Because if I don't get it, I will feel a lot worse than the happiness I have now. With the weak heart and low self-confidence I have, I will probably give up everything. But I do not want to give this up. And that's why I am scared. This could define one. I'd like to take a course at a university. It could help me achieve my dreams and goals. I know, after learning what it is, it might all sound very dramatic, but it is what it is. It is important to me because of my circumstances and situation. This is what I want. But, at the same time, I am so hyperaware of my mediocrity that I am just scared—if I do not get it, what will I do? Where will I go? It has conquered my entire mind so that I can't plan any other things in case I do not get into that university, which makes me anxious. Because, now if I do not get it, I have no other safety net or plan B. You know, one of those things where you get so strangely possessive that this is all you want and you can't see anything else but that? I may sound like a geek or a nerd or a dork or whatever the word is for talking like this about an university, but... it is the first time I am deciding what I want to study. Previously, in school, it was either my parents or, in college, it was my sister. But, for the first time, I know what I want. I have even connected with loads of people from there and started learning the language of the country in which the university is located. I told almost everyone about it. It is oddly settling. It just feels right. And I don't know what I would do if I didn't get in. It would get so difficult to get in the next year because it would require coming all the way back to ask for letters, to ask for documents, and to stop paying loans. It is a weird and difficult situation, which I cannot fully explain to someone but which I wish I could. I wish I could explain to someone how much this means to me and how difficult it is.

- Oizys.

A New Year Entry For Myself

A new year acknowledgement to me. '23.

-  Oizys.

Do You Think I Can Also Make It?

First of all, I donot know why I put the title in second person as if I am talking to a person. But, do you think I can make it? Fulfil my dream? Live my passion? Do what I like?

- Oizys.

How Do I Give Up?

How do I give everything up and escape? No single thing seems to be fruitful or meaningful to the very least. It all seems vague and hollow. No single thing piques me anymore. I have been dragging myself like a dead soul for god knows how long. It keeps getting worse and worse if not just the same. My knuckles and knees, scraped to the bones from all the dragging. I don't know for how much longer I can keep dragging this. I am desperate to leave it. Drop it. But, I don't know how. I'm unable to leave it. No matter how hard I try, it is just too mazey. Stuck in my hands. No matter how hard I try to wash it off, it just doesn't stop. How do I give up.

But, all I know is. I need to leave. I can feel myself at the edge of insanity. One little nudge and I will lose it. I need to escape. Run away to somewhere else far away or to non-existence. Anywhere but here. I need to go. My left foot itches. The left side of my back twitches. My body rotting every passing second in anxiety and jittery. I need to escape and I need to run away.  

- Oizys.

Kafkaesqued In Life

"Suffered much in my thoughts." (Franz Kafka. From a diary entry written c. November 1919.)

"Dreams flooded over me; I lay weary and hopeless in my bed." (Franz Kafka. The Blue Octavo Notebooks, 1917-1919.)

"I'll shut myself off from everyone to the point of insensibility. Make an enemy of everyone, speak no one." (Franz Kafka. Diaries.)

"I've spent all my life resisting the desire to end it." (Franz Kafka.)

"How many days have again gone silently by?" (Franz Kafka. Diaries.)

"I feel so lost among these entirely strange people." (Franz Kafka. Diaries.)

"The relief of giving in to destruction." (Franz Kafka. Diaries, 190-1923.)

A few years ago, I came across an YouTube video about Kafkaesque. I discovered Franz Kafka. And then I discovered his diaries. Since then, I have been wondering how do I stop relating to his excerpts. When I started reading his diaries, I found a part of me wandering in between those parts. A part of me I have been searching. A part of me I have been looking. A part of me that was sick of life. That was tired of existing. And when I read Kafka's words. I realised my desire to meet the end of my existence. I realised an innate need in me to just stop. The word "Kafkaesque" deeply resonates in me now. Even if you wish to escape with causing absolutely no harm to anyone, there will a labyrinthine like sprial staircase waiting for you to cross. When you stare at it angirly while people whisper "calm down", your body starts to feel the hopelessness, the annoyance towards of absolute absurdity in life, bottomless pit of nothing but failures and disappointment. Every day, every night, the words from the copy of the Metamorphosis appears infront of your eyes, "Why don’t I keep sleeping for a little while longer and forget all this foolishness."

The Aesthetic Cottagecore Fantasy (A Comforting Lie)

Green garden, handpicked berries, her company, her soft white cotton dress, pouring orthodox tea, with freshly baked bread and sweet butter, some wine in a cup, in the backyard of our cottage, the soil and herbs growing and their earthy scents, humming sapphic poetries to each other, collecting flowers for each other in a woven basket, whipping cream to bake yet another strawberry cake.

Ah, the view from the kitchen. When you peel oranges. When you brew tea. When you wake up, groggy eyes and walk into the kitchen for a cup of soothing coffee and a warm stream of sunlight hugs you a good morning. The kitchen window. When you stare outside at the sunset painting your kitchen orange, while you stir your vegetable soup. Or toast your bread and cheese. Or bake your bread. Stare at the empty street at night, bees and insects humming near the streetlight bulb. The kitchen window. The window to the core of a content and well-fed soul.

Is this a dream? Are we in a dream? Or, are we living the dream? And, whatever it is, hope we never escape it.

- Oizys.

 

I'm Done

I can't even drag myself anymore. I'm so done. I'm no goal to look forward to. I have no options to choose from. I don't know what I want. I don't know what I like. I don't know why or for what I am moving forward. Each day, it is just the same chores and sleep. Hollow. Empty. Nothing to wake up to. And just heaviness to sleep on. All these parched parts of my life are desperately squeezing for water out of me. But, I have nothing to give them. Nothing to quench the dryness of this soul. 

- Oizys.

Descending Into The Dichotomy of Ignorance & Apathy

People in my life have been telling me something in me has changed. Something integral.
I lost interest in getting up in the morning all of a sudden.
I did not care about the mess or the clothes strewn around.
I did not want to look at the marks dropping or opportunities passing by.
I stopped caring about patches of dandruff and pimples.
I stopped taking pictures and capturing moments. Stopping altogether from making moments
I stopped listening to music. I stopped dancing to music.
I stopped talking. No thoughts came to mind anymore.
My creative ability waned. Words were no longer a constant companion.
Blank papers became a regular occurrence. I stopped penning.
A few pages of reading became a chore.
Friends moved on.
Cousins and siblings moved away.
Life walked away.
I descended into the dichotomy of ignorance and apathy.  

- Oizys.

I'm Tired Of The Constant Expectation To Be Happy, To Have Fun

I am unspeakably tired and burnt. I love my friends but there is a huge portion of my existence that they do not understand or if they understand, they do not feel the need to acknowledge it. It is that I get socially tired. I run on a battery while interacting with people. And, it runs out. Further, it takes time to get charged again like some unrenewable resource. I get tired of the constant need to have fun, the constant demand to take pictures, and the constant clinginess to have fun all the time. They need to be perfect and to look good with an artificial smile plastered on all the time so all the pictures come out really well. They need to be available and free and have the money to go around and eat and drink. They need to have fun all the time and constantly plan for the next outing without even having some time to recover from the previous one. I am tired. I am exhausted from the constant requirement to be happy. I am not essentially sad but I am just lacking the energy to be happy. I just want to be. Again, I love my friends and they are the best anyone could have. But, I fear. With my weak social energy, I might be pushing myself away from them. It is, at times, too much for me. Just so much more than what my mind can take. I just need some time to be me. Just to be. The constant need to be aesthetic is making me sick in my soul. Because it also is a constant reminder of how I am not perfect and of how I am a just misfit trying really hard to fit in a little bit. And, this is exactly what I need a break from. I want to just exist in my routine without this tiresome expectation to be perfect, all ready for the camera. My veins are dry from the extended efforts to be hip with them. My mind has become barren. I need to sleep without the lingering thought of how should I escape from the next plan. I need to read, write and work without the hurriedness of having to go somewhere. I need to laze around without the need to dress up, look good and travel all the way to take Pinterest-aesthetic pictures for the socials I don't have or use. I am tired of constantly thinking of ideas to give as excuses. I am tired of lying. I am tired of faking excitement and enthusiasm. I am tired of trying to be perfect for the camera all the time. I am tired of being someone else all the time. I am tired of looking for reasons to push away my friends all the time. I am tired of complaining about this and not being heard too. I am just tired of running away from people who once used to be my comfort zone.

- Oizys.

Do You Sing?

Do you sing? Do you dance? Do you paint? Do you read? Do you play? Do you travel? Do you run? Do you count stars? Do you do something to feel alive, to feel human when you get some time amidst your routine? To fill the break. 

- Oizys.

An Embarassing Entry Of Hope & Praying Of A Not-A-Believer

 I am not a believer anymore. And no, I am not a non-believer who has the opinions of the non-existence of any superior one. I am somewhere in between where I have stopped believing because I don't feel it from within in who or what to believe. Yet, this entry is a secret one. A manifestation. A pray. A call. Because, even though I have stopped believing, I have not stopped being desperate. I saw these posts where people have been writing the same sentence numerous times in which they say what they want in order to achieve it. In this entry, I will lay myself bare open and do the same. Because I am desperate and hopeless. And, I want something to happen. I want to be somewhere. I want to achieve something. And, I have no idea how to. I have no means to. I feel weak. I feel low. But, I want it.

- Oizys.

The Process Of Getting Comfortable Is Uncomfortable

I am not a social person, in general. I am pretty awkward. With my enhanced overthinking skills, I make it further edgy. I have to go through a huge process of getting comfortable. Be it with a person, or at a place. Even the process is so physically and psychologically uncomfortable for me. The tumbling, the stumbling, the picking up, the embarrassment, the picking up, the process of getting familiar, the hiding, the confrontation, the speaking up, the syncing and everything.

It's not that I don't want to be social, it's just that it takes so much energy and effort for me to feel comfortable in social situations. I envy those who can effortlessly walk into a room and strike up a conversation with anyone. For me, it's a constant battle between my desire for connection and my fear of being judged or rejected.

- Oizys.

What Brings Me Happiness?

I was rubbing ice on my pimples. And staring at my blemishes in the mirror. And, I started thinking. What brings me happiness? What brings me pleasure? What do I 'want'? What are my desires? I seeked answers within but the jarring silence pierced my mental peace. The pin drop silence within me in response to these questions made my soul wail.

I thought about all other people I know and moments when they were happy. My families, friends. How did they know what brought them happiness? How did they know what they wanted? How do people recognise their needs? How do people decide on what they desire? Do they also seek these answers from within? Or, in other people?

Is there someone else who has faces the same silence as me? As you know, misery loves company. 

- Oizys.

Do You Worry About What Other People Think About You?

Do you worry about what other people think about you?
Do I? Oh, yes, I do. I worry. A lot.

A Rare Entry of Cribbing About Someone Else

You know, normally I don't crib much about other people in my diary. I restrict it to my own thoughts and pieces. But, today. Oh, today. Some people have an amazing talent to boil your blood with their disgustingly cold and pompous attitude. You know, those specific kind of people who lace their words with extreme sweetness to cover their repugnant personality yet, the odium leaks from the break lines of the cream coating. You can feel the stink and your souls shudders as soon as they open their mouth to spew dark clouds of unpleasant effluents.

It just gets you. So hard they make their way into your precious things. Like here in my diary, in my case. And whatever you do or don't do, they leave a mark on your brains forever. The ickiness, stickiness from their negativity lingers. And sometimes, it successfully dissolves to become a part of you as well. It is, indeed, horrid.

Shame & Inadequacy Are My Constant Companions

Shame and inadequacy are my constant companions.
I am never left alone.
My mind crowded with overthinking and blurring emotions.
Consistently shameful of every action.
Unwaveringly inadequate in every manner.
I sometimes wonder:
Am I just like any other person or is this what it feels to be an invalid?
People always say, be you. Be yourself.
But, who am I? What am I?
Who even am I other than the constant need to know what to do? What to think? What to eat? What to wear?
And obviously, all these questions are always unanswered.
It's been so long they have remained unanswered like an age-old riddle.
Whenever I seek for them, it feels as if someone is haunting me from within.

A Tumultuous Day

Inside the meaning of time the seasons' whisper,
Memories of longing emotions like a dancer alone on the stage,
Followspot chasing behind her twirling legs like months unwrapping season after season,
Her hands dancing to the tune of music like flowers blooming with colors.

Stealing moments from here and there to take a glance at her own reflection,
To taking moments to check for her beauty in the others' eyes,
Thoughts keep dwindling between self-confidence and self-doubt,
But the legs and hands overshadow the sounds of the dark thoughts.

- Oizys.

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.

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.

August – A Poem

A nauseating wind hits my face.
Followed by an ill-omened cloudburst
I sit clutching the fingers of one hand.
Strangling my toes with twitches
Trees turning a deep green.
Also, potholes with mud
I take out my phone only to flood the screen.
And blot it on my jeans.
And I imagine myself in someone else's life.
As someone else's rider
As the lane approached
A wave of bile bestired in my mind.
Anxiety erupted like this.
I look at the date.
The first day of August
And I lament the past few months.
I see myself approaching my dwelling.
And I imagine myself in someone else's life.
As someone else's pupil
I knock on the gates and the door to misfortune hails me.
Takes my baggage
She lovingly strokes the bad luck as she wipes the raindrops.
Only to let him lunge and bellow at me.
Shutting off my valve of defense
Barring my lips of vindication
I wail in desperation battling with my words of demurral
And I imagine myself in someone else's life.
As someone else's daughter.
I run as I scream at his profoundly deaf anger.
I separate myself from my being.
I scratch my skin and clamp my eyes shut.
Mulish tears salt my wounded mouth.
I beat myself with shuckling
As I imagine myself in someone else's death
As someone else's misfortune.

- Oizys.

{A structurally inconsistent and irregular ode to my wistful thinking. A woebegone August, lamenting the end of my life's summer at the lack of lambency. I wish I could write down the address of this snakebit's origin. But, I am scared. I am scared that if I write it, I will be banished. My heart will be vagrant. And, as a result of my fugitivity from his tumult, I will forever bear the label of scapegoat. Oh August, the new beginning of an old wound. The new branch from rotten fruit. I stew in this rumination as I imagine myself in someone else's perception, as someone else's loved one.}

The Evil Crevasse – A Poem

"The immanence is not unworldly!" It cried.
The immanence is exceptionally terrestrial.
Deep into the chasm of the immanence,
Swiftly they cascade - the sophisticated, the terrestrial, the mercenary.

These humans,
However hard they try,
Will always be evil.
"Do humans make you shiver? Do they?"
It asks me.
Makes me think...
Think of the eschaton,
Confused is just the thing,
It get me wondering if the eschaton is woolly.
Muddled with misdeed and malice.

Makes me think...
Think of a human,
However hard one tries,
Will always be yellow,
Yellow-bellied and eering,
It shakes before stampeding away,
Says, "Pay attention to the divine Nature",
For the divine is the most ordinary reverend of all.
Deep into the gorge of the divine,
Swiftly it goes - the mundane, the characterless, the mediocre.

- Oizys.

I Am Scared To Write Here - A Poem

I am so scared to write here.
What if they find me?
What if they look into this pile of words?
A heap of rotten emotions,
Nothing but stale angst,
Useless anger,
Faceless rebellion.
What if they chop my words into pieces?
Throw away my putrid seed vessels,
Take away my good flesh,
Sell and eat them.
What if they dump it in the mass of kaput?
Sticker me as noisome,
Dispose me as unculled,
Ending up as manure
Manure full of weedy seeds,
Corrupting the arabilis.

I am scared to write because,
I am scared to blather my noisome concoction,
Dole out my unsavory portions,
Unlade my tanks of insipid versions,
Dangle my flesh blotted with too many horrid snippets,
With no morsel of structure or rhythm,
Because, a bad apple spoils the entire barrel.

- Oizys.

18 July 2022 - "nothing to write home about"

Hello, I received that extra protective jab today.

No matter how protective and secretive I am, a small part of the writer (I hope I can call myself that) in me, has always wanted to reach out to a reader, hand out my words, break open my salted poems, and show my phrases. But, there is something very banal, very vacuous about my opus of writings with shame stitched in its backcloth that becomes prominent when "seen". I see books bounded by soft covers or hardbacks, beautiful art spread over it, engirdled with rates and crits. I see profiles on social platforms, sapid and tactfully stacked pictures and videos that ensnares fingertips, and beneath it is a brick of words with emotions and notions sun-dried together. So ambriosal and so moreish. So potent and so chewy. Such sweetness and hydrating power. Bedewing tears on fresh graves of catastrophes and contretemps. Leaving a considerably bittersweet yearning for more in your head.

Then, I open this site. Search my notes. I scramble with the passlock and I look over my words. Not even a grey wraith of grace or ingenuity. The flow is so sluggish like how I wake up in the morning and rummage through my day to find a trace of my will to live. The meanings are so staggering like how I walk after I unsuccessfully overcome any situation. The blueprint, patched up like how I cover my gaping anxiety with my ego and fear of embarrassment. The ideas are so incoherent like how I speak in front of an audience even with hundred hours of practice and a lucid script in plain sight. And the words, oh the words. Shambolic and draggle-tailed like when I am out in wind and try to fix my hair by running my fingers in them but end up further dishevelling it. Stolen and pinched from here and there, from posters stuck on trams in an unknown city to ancient taglines in broken and forsaken repositories, like a debt-as souvenir.

- Oizys.