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.