IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, WHO I HAVE BEEN

I was fascinated by this poem called IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, WHAT I WANTED TO BE WHEN I GREW UP, and I was inspired by it. You know that kind of inspiration that leads you to create an identical piece of art in structure and thematics but replacing it with your own essence, but you end up just rewriting the same thing in your own handwriting? Well, thank god, I am typing. And I tried threading this light thread. Perhaps some warm-up for the upcoming Glo/NaPoWriMo 2025!

IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, WHO I HAVE BEEN

Fearless / a pirate with a plastic sword / the kid who never lost at hide-and-seek / the best artist in second grade / a scientist mixing shampoo in the sink / the hero of every bedtime story / a magician who still believed in magic / quiet / the girl who never raised her hand but always knew the answer / the one who wrote letters she never sent / a poet before she knew the word for it / the best friend, but never the favorite / the one who tried to make people laugh / the one who made herself disappear / an echo of someone else’s expectations / an unfinished sentence / the voice in the background of someone else’s song / a missed call at midnight / someone who leaves first so she’s never left behind / the girl at the train station, waiting for something unnamed / the passenger seat of too many cars / the apology that never came / the playlist no one listens to anymore / a wishbone waiting to break / the feeling of déjà vu in a city she has never been to / the one who always comes back / the story still being written / a dreamer, still / a lighthouse without a shore / a punchline without a joke / the taste of metal in a mouth full of words / a storm warning no one took seriously / the unavailable extra chair at the dinner table / the sound of footsteps behind you that aren’t really there / a burning house and the last person inside / an open tab with no intention to pay / the ghost in someone else’s memory / the first sip of coffee at 2 a.m. / the aftermath of something that could've been beautiful / the echo after the door slams / the person you think about but not enough to give a call / a dream you wake up from too soon / a body that belongs to everyone but herself / a firework that never went off / a secret she never meant to keep / a name said like a question / the message typed but never sent / the first to say sorry even when it wasn’t her fault / a Sunday afternoon that feels like mourning / the laugh that covers up the silence / the girl who was always just a little too much or never quite enough / the voice shaking but speaking anyway / a collection of almosts and what-ifs / the loose thread in the sweater someone keeps pulling / the ghost of every version of herself she promised she’d be / the bridge between who she was and who she is / the sound of footsteps walking away, and this time, it's hers

Insomnia Lamentation

The human body is a machine that won’t power down. I close my eyes, but I cannot sleep. Overthinking knots my thoughts into a noose—each loop a whisper of something I should have done, something I should have said. My chest feels heavy, my lower back aches, and it feels like something is stuck in my throat—grief, maybe, or just the weight of being awake too long.

I take a deep breath. Again. Again. But still, I can’t fall asleep.

In this sleepless night, I echo the ancient laments, my soul a desolate city, walls crumbled under the weight of unspoken sorrows. The book of lamentations is what I sought in the library of night.

In the solitude of night, melancholy wraps around me, a familiar shroud. I search for things to help me sleep, but my mind is a labyrinth of introspection and contemplation. Misery has characters, and I play them all: burned out, waking up with headaches every morning, falling asleep after eating, only to wake up choking on ghosts. My pain has a library, a scripture of suffering—seven hidden emanations, the hidden parchment of my soul, the chronicles of mystery.

I ask the search bar what the ending of Lost means, as if understanding fiction will help me go forward. As if knowing who the Roman goddess of love is will teach me how to love myself.

I miss the misery, Halestorm screams through my headphones. Nazareth hums somewhere in the dark. I think of Elliott Smith, and I am sad. But no pain, I whisper. No pain.

The weight of my body sinks into the mattress, the ache in my back humming like a hymn. I dream of Oizys, the Greek goddess of misery, her hands pressing my chest like an absolution. She does not take the sadness away, but she holds it, gently.

In this reverie, I find solace. Vulnerability becomes my strength, and catharsis washes over me. The angst and apathy dissolve, replaced by a yearning for serenity.

And in the quiet, I sleep.

- Oizys.

[Johannes Brahms - Op.49 No.4 Wiegenlied / Lullaby (original composition)]