From archives, March 7, 2021

Sometimes, you don’t even have a metaphor to describe how you are feeling. It’s just shitty. I’m exhausted inside, tired of holding up my mask because I’m in so much pain. I’m tired of being blamed, being the scapegoat, being the bad one constantly and without fail, no matter what. I’m tired. 

And I can’t let this mask down because I’ll be met with disappointments. They will tell me my tears are fake, as they already have, they will tell me I’m fictitious, as they already have, and it will break me again. 

An excerpt from a poem in [unpublished] Half a Woman

I see right through you. 

What you hide, what you show; 

what you’re feeling in the moment, 
what you think you know. 
I recognize you yet I have never met you before, 
that you want to trust but you don’t, 
that you feel lonely yet stay alone. 

December 3, 2021. 

It's cliche but I do have a silly wish. One day I too want to have someone in my life I can watch the beautiful night sky with. I guess everyone wants that. I used to think that eye contact was intimate, but it would be the most intimate to be with someone and watch the same things they watch, shiver in the same breeze, marvel over the same sparkling lights, and sit under the same skies. It would be perfect to share such a moment with someone. Not bad, not good, simply perfect. 

Metamorphosis

What is happening to me? Metamorphosis? 

For what good is a story if the characters never grow? 

That makes me wonder: who are the characters in my story? Am I also a part of their stories? 

What might be growth for me as the protagonist of my story may be reflected as a setback of my character in someone else’s story. Depends on how they write it, right? So why should I care how they write (or rewrite) my character? I shouldn’t, and I’ll try not to. 

This growth is for MY character in MY story. I am the author. 

I’m not the coauthor of any of the stories I feature in. That’s on them and how they perceive my character. 

What’s this rambling? I don’t know. I guess I’m starting to realize I should stop trying to individually work on my character in other’s stories. I should work on myself for myself. Right? 

What I Didn't Say, What You Will Never Know

I am still not okay with what happened. I couldn't tell you when we were talking because I was in disbelief. It's not that I was used to the "sad version" of you, I was used to the guy who cared for me, that's all. When we talked, I could tell that I wasn't talking to that guy anymore. But you were still talking to the girl who has always cared about you, and you should know that, but I will never tell you, so you will never know. 

I was confused as to why you wanted to call me, but I kind of knew at the back of my mind: it meant you didn't love me anymore, at all, and I didn't want to believe that. I couldn't, because that's now how it was supposed to end. You were not supposed to find out what I was feeling through another person; you were supposed to be reluctant to call me. You were not supposed to stop talking to me; you were supposed to stay with me. You were supposed to understand that you weren't the only one in pain, you were supposed to realize that I, too, was dependent on you. But never mind that. It happened. All of that happened, and nothing went according to my plan. In my perfect plan, we were never even supposed to break up, but we did, so then we were still supposed to stay friends, but we didn't. Never mind. Let me stop talking about this. 

Truth to be told, I kind of always wanted us to be something, so seeing you so comfortably move on from me, I didn't exactly rejoice at that. Here I was, dreaming about you at night, my stupid mind conjuring up any excuse to want to talk to you, and there you were, not thinking about me at all, and only pitying me because of my poems, because of how I still write about you, three years later, two years later, a year later, now. 

You have spies on my Instagram blog, but you don't have spies here. I made sure of that. Only 2-3 people view my blog, and you are not one of them. That's good. You should never know that I cried after talking to you. The stupid fucking siren in the background was a perfect representation of my mind. I was seated on the bench, crying because I couldn't fathom how my heart had been beating too hard and too fast until it crumbled (again, what a shocker wow). I couldn't believe I was stuck. I still can't. Fuck, what have you done to me? I'm too fucked up, but you couldn't catch that when we talked, because you're not me. 

I guess this is what happens when one feels too strongly. I will never forget. The pain. The love. The suffering. The happiness. The tears. The feeling of betrayal. The dreams that came true. The dreams that didn't. Everything. And you. 

Unsent Message

Hey, how are you? I’ve been having weird-ass visions of you needing help lol. It’s pretty annoying because everyone says you’ve changed, you’re bad now, but I still kind of want to help you, if you need it, which I think you do. 

you end up crying to sleep, mission complete

 You wake up at the crack of dawn, you study, 

you do your homework, you sleep on time, 

you meet your friends for lunch yet

nobody knows what's on your mind. 

There is something seriously messed up about you

because you dream about your ex at night. 

In class, you're thinking of setting your body ablaze,

storms arise, but you still sit by the window

until the window threatens to shatter on your dace. 

Abstract thoughts, you can never make sense of yourself. 

Why am I thinking of someone who doesn't think of me?

You end up crying to sleep,

mission complete.

My 18th Birthday Was Yesterday

 One more year has passed by. I'm 18 years old now. I am extremely grateful for the wonderful family and friends that I have. 

My family is the sweetest. I told them I did not want any extravagant gifts and I wanted it to be chill. They listened (to a great extent). My brother made such a cute card for me, so did my sister, and they bought a delicious cake. My brother even bought a box of Ferrero Rocher for me which I am resisting to gobble down as we speak (8:58 am). 

The rest of the day went by with restaurants, my first alcoholic drink (Monte Blanc), and my first dress, haha. 

While I had fallen asleep crying, missing my father, I was woken up with messages by my amazing friends which instantly put a smile on my face. 

Grief, it stays with you, but it gets easier to live with. I have to learn to value those around me instead of only grieving what I have lost. 

I am cared for and loved, and that is enough. 

as does a leech

The whirring of the ceiling fan, 

the morning glow of my room, 

and a piercing pain in my abdomen

the moment I stand. 

The shifting colors from yellow to blue,

the fullness of my water bottle,

and my lack of control over my thoughts

makes me a brute. 

The sun rays reaching in the shelf, 

the billowing curtains, the breeze, 

and the horrific resentment reflectde 

in the mirror when I look at myself. 

A perennial river of whips, chains, and handcuffs, 

my dream drowns, away from my reach:

swim, you bastard! Can you not work for it?

But my mind sucks me dry, as does a leech. 

Yours, Nalini

I hate that you are on my mind these days. I have tried my hardest all this time to forget you, and it has worked, but I can't forget our stories, can I? How do I forget the memories? Heck, I even remember the way I used to feel. 

Every time I scroll through my Instagram feed, I see your 'like' on many of the posts, heck, why do we follow the same celebrities? 

Why have you been running through my mind? I don't know. While I'm one to enjoy a reminiscence of the past in any manner, these memories, in particular, I like to steer clear from.  It reminds me of how I cannot stop myself trying to fix the broken, to heal the sick, to protect the weak. There is only momentary happiness in that, and then I am the one that is rendered broken, sick, and weak.

Truth be told, it is not the person that I miss but the idea of the person I had built in mind. I made myself believe that this person is one that I would save, (but that is a decision one should not make), and the one I would have a happily ever after with, and so, now, all this time later, I still wonder if I am running through this person's mind just as much as they are running through mine. 

I guess some things are better left unanswered. I fear the answer might upset me, so I would rather make up an answer for myself only for me to know. Ignorance is bliss. Actually, who am I kidding? I know the answer to that. No one is a fool like me; everyone knows how to let go. 

Now I see why I tend to wall up around people. I truly cannot afford to put my heart's worth of efforts out there, only to bleed to death again. 

Signing off. 

Yours, insane with riddles from the past, the future, the present, the limbo, everywhere,

Nalini

the great joy of recalling memories

I’ve been recalling memories.
Moments that hurt me, that defined me,
people that I loved, and greatly so,
how we are apart now.
People I miss, the love, the care,
the feeling of being wanted, protected.
Some feelings I thought I had buried deep,
resurrected,
nights are stained with the blood of those I lost,
reminiscing, not hurt
“What if”… but it’s just a fleeting thought.

that gave me great joy;

in the end I'd be left with nothing

What if, one day, they decide I don't belong in their life?

I could say that they are wrong, 

but I'll tell them "You are right".

Why did I decide to drop the guise,

when I knew my heart would be compromised?

What if, one day, they decide I need to be replaced?

I could break, but they will see that I'm unfazed. 

Why did I ever believe inside

that they would always be by my side?

What if, one day, they stay only because they pity me?

I could ask them to leave, but I'll pretend I don't see. 

Why did I tell them the truth,

when I knew that in the end

I'd be left with nothing?

Ruffling_Feathers

He will come in, ask you to bring your guards down; 

you have the tightest of crevices, yet he will seep in.

He will ruffle your feathers and then he will leave. 

When I’m out running late at night, 
I think of you running by my side.
When I look up into the sky,
I see a broken heart so I cry. 

 I wish you listened to me, Mother, 

I do feel neglected sometimes. 

Drawer

 Where can I start? Okay, so this is a new font. How about that? Pretty, isn't it? It is the kind of handwriting I would use to write someone a letter, you know, in its glory of parchment and ink. 

I have written many poems about my life but this time it feels different, and I can't seem to write about it. I feel unliving, but in a different way. I feel empty and hollow, my thoughts are not manifold or scattered, but merely a lonesome echo in the darkness. 

I feel disappointed, tired, but most of all, I feel unhappy. I'm not a perfect person, no one is, and I know I rank below average on the perfectness scale, but it doesn't mean I don't deserve goodness in my life. 

 When something happens, I take it in and stop caring about it, both inside and outside. When I learn something that has the potential to destroy me, I don't acknowledge it, and simply chuck it in the back of my mind, in a drawer covered with fake cobwebs: a futile attempt at warding myself away. I don't think about it, I don't speak about it, I program myself to say "Oh it's alright, don't worry about it!" to anybody who asks. 

And then later, at night, when I am tucked in and ready for a sound sleep, my mind decides to do a little cleaning. It brushes the cobwebs off, wipes the drawer until it shines as bright as any star, and then opens it with feigned shock. Well, well, well, what do we have here? Surely this is something we have NEVER seen before. 

Just like that, the "thing" is acknowledged, chucked back into the drawer, and swallowed into nothingness. It happens again day after day after day because it is never considered or let out, and so it becomes perilous day after day after day, until one day the drawer can't hold it in anymore and it breaks, sending all those "things" into my mind. 

One day, my mind, though infinitely large, will break too, and then so will I. And that will be the end of me. 

Jupas Interview

I am really sad for not receiving any before-DSE interviews. My hope was to score an interview on the basis of my profile- merits and self account, not my exam scores. But the interview period has passed and I was not able to feel the excitement other students did when they saw "JUPAS Interview" in the mailbox. 

My absolutely brilliant and smart friend J did not receive any either, and while it is a tad bit consoling, I feel terribly sorry for both of us, because in spite of our SPNs, we were unable to score an interview. It's his birthday tomorrow so I wish that he gets into the uni of his choice.

My last hope is being called for an interview after the release of my DSE scores, but I think it is highly unlikely.

No

I’m not bad and I’m not selfish. We have lost our foundation. I’m just constantly trying to fill that gap in with anything that I can find. I’m trying to fix our cohesion. I’m trying to make us a sound family. I desperately want to know too where my faults lie. Just because I try to impose the rules we had earlier, doesn’t mean I’m a dictator. 

I’m so tired of being misunderstood. I just want to fix everything. I want to make us all each other’s best friends instead of merely material to be ranted to other best friends. 

I don’t know what to do. If I stop I’ll feel guilty for not trying my best. If I don’t then they’re going to ruin me. 

I don’t know what to do. Going through with this is the right thing to do- as a daughter, sister, person. But the selfish choice would be to back off, let the whole family fall apart.

They think I’m selfish. But I make the right choice everyday. 

In this case, the right choice and the selfish choice are mutually exclusive of each other. 

- an excerpt from a fictional story I wrote called No

vaccination

 I hate injections. I have a phobia of needles. 

1. I was probably 10 years old. My father took us three siblings to a doctor. We were getting an injection each. I don't remember what it was for. I was pretty calm. My sister went first. The moment the doctor took out the needle, I lost it. I started wailing. Everyone laughed. I let my brother go second. He started laughing when he sat there but when the doctor wiped his thigh with alcohol, he started crying. Then God knows what he was doing: his eyes were letting out tears over tears, but his mouth was smiling. I started crying even more. I don't know how but they managed to get me seated. Everyone was laughing and that made me cry more. After about fifteen minutes of struggle, I was told sternly by my father to sit tight. Then my arm hurt a lot but the rest of them were fine. I laughed too afterwards. 

2. I was 14 years old. We were getting vaccinated at school. Our class was seated in the medical room. It was according to class number but I pushed mine till the end. Now, it was common knowledge that I was a pussy when it came to needles. EVERYONE wanted to see me get injected. I laughed the entire time, and then it was my turn. Everything changed. I was sitting in the chair while the nurse/doctor asked me to count the number of light switches. I thought aggressively while tears started leaking out of my welling eyes, "What the fuck, do you think I'm 12?" And then I started shaking pretty bad and cried and cried and cried, said "No no no, listen just don't do it, please it's fine." My class teacher told me, initially kindly but then severely, to sit my ass down and just take it. I didn't. I tensed my arms and wailed. Jesus, then three nurses surrounded me. One held my right arm, one held my left arm, and one turned to me and locked out gazes. I was crying a lot. Then they suddenly started moving away and said, "see, it's already done, you didn't even feel anything." Which was true, I didn't. Then I laughed a lot. Quite hysterically if you ask me. And then my classmates laughed too. 

3. I got vaccinated today. Coronavirus goodbye you stupid fucking cunt. My left leg was shaking constantly while I was in the tram. Then the medical counselor told the following but in a much nicer way: it's chill so calm your tits and your very obvious leg shaking. Nope. Didn't work. Next thing I know, it's my turn. The Chinese doctor was so nice, she said "Namaste." I started crying but I doubt she could see the well in my eyes. I was trying to hard to stay calm, breathe slowly, and not let a single tear leak that in a second my vision became watery, you know like water haze? Then I told her I'm scared and she said "Just look at your pretty mom." Nope. Didn't work. Again. I couldn't see but when my body felt the pointy needle touching it, in nanosecond I accidentally jolted like 6 feet in the air. I looked at her so scared, I thought they'd kick me out, but she understood and told me not to look. I felt it go inside me (sounds outrageous out of context!) and then they told me to sit in another area for 15 minutes and tell them if I feel sick. I cried my eyes out there. I don't know why I get so scared. 

So yea, I hate injections. 

Questions

It does scare me that in a field of chirping canaries,

flies wallowing in the flock of felicias,

the breeze channeling through brazen withering grass, 

I can’t feel at peace. 
Why, in a lovely grounds, in the bounty of nature, 

do I feel that I don’t belong? 
Why, away from the crutches of mad mankind,
listening to the animals talk, 

can’t I focus on their song? 
What insanity has engulfed me as the frog did the fly? 

The longer I stay put, the more I wonder “why?” 
The madness never ceases. 

Hours pass by while my soul further creases. 
Searching, searching, has made this heart sore; 

but it never knows what it’s searching for. 

But a father will never stop loving his daughter, right?

I couldn’t keep you, but will I see you again?

It is dark here, the sun doesn’t come up for me; 

polar night, but all year, anyways, how are you? 

Cancelled rendezvous, 

but you can still find me at the sea. 

Green-eyed because she says she meets you. 

Is this true? But you said you loved me more; 

and I’ve always loved you a lot more than she. 

I learned to make your tea, 

and woke up for you at four. 

Have you read my letters yet? 

They’ve been piling up since 2019,

but I am sure you must be very busy.

If you’re Eminem, I’m Stanley, 

and that will be the death of me. 

Lip Quivers

(My lip quivers but I stop myself from

crying- the trick is to tilt your head back, 

they return to where they came from.)

If your father chooses to leave you, 

don’t curse him. On one hand, maybe your 

love wasn’t enough, on the other, the pain was too

much to your surprise. 

(My lip quivers but I bite it, I’m trying to

be rational.) What’s your favorite number? Because,

there is a bigger set of infinities between 1 and 10, 

than there is between 1 and 9, and my love

was overpowered by infinite pain between 9 and 10, and so

he chose death. Must I really hate him for

 leaving me? He saw me living, and he was trying to. 

(My lip quivers, the waterfall from my nose tries

polishing my lips, but no, no, I won’t allow a cry.)

Will I really let his selfless acts of fifteen years

crumble against one? Surely not. 

(I love you and I always have, these tears- 

they do not stop, perennial, as our bond.)

The woman who hummed her way into my mind

 I was sleeping. Well it was 1:25 A.M. I was half awake enjoying the breeze from my window. 

When I first heard it, it was low and vague. I had to close my eyes and focus in order to listen to it. A woman was humming nearby. So, I live in a village house in the middle of a hilly terrain, and the closest house is about 100 meters away. That’s why I was baffled.

I was lost in my thoughts when I heard it again, even though one of my ears was pressed into a pillow and the other was covered by a blanket. This time it felt more distinct. I got up to go to the toilet, which is on the other side of the hallway. I was peeing with one eye completely closed and the other only slightly open, and I myself was lost in my own world, when suddenly I heard the humming right next to my ear. That lasted only for a nanosecond till it got back to being vague. I thought I was so sleepy my audio senses were lagging. Thus I shrugged it off. 

For some reason, my mother just could not hear it. She was busy in her office and thought I was just being crazy. I headed back to my room and snuggled into my blanket like a burrito. 

I was back into my half asleep condition when I heard the loudest bang I have ever heard before. My mother came into my room and inquired about the same. But we couldn’t see anything that had fallen, and right about then I started hearing the humming, again, and my mother couldn’t, again. 

I was weirded out, and I just fell asleep. I don’t know how long later, but then I heard my mother humming an old Indian lullaby, except the lullaby woke me up. Ironic. She was humming from outside the house so I thought she went for her daily cuppa tea, although it was close to 4 am. 

Now as much I will try to properly explain what happened next, I won’t be able to describe it. One second I was thinking way too fast and the next, I just lost my train of thought. I was aware of my surroundings but it felt like I was in a trance. I got up, wore my slippers, and headed out. I wanted to check my mother’s room first but I don’t know why I just didn’t stop. I walked right by her door. I was in the hallway at the end of which was our back door. I felt like everything else was blurred and to open the door was my mission. 

“FUUUUUUUUCK!” I stubbed my toe. “FUCK SHIT FUCK!”

It hurt like a bitch but after I yelped out, I realized all this while the humming was there, and after my gut wrenching swearing at the crack of dawn, it stopped. I suddenly became aware of the creepiness of the whole situation, and I ran upstairs to my mother’s room. 

She was curled up and facing the other side. I breathed out a sigh of relief. I tiptoed into the room, and slid into the sheets behind her. I just wanted to hug my mum…

She turned around. She turned very, very, slowly, almost deliberately so. 

That was not my mom, the imposter had no face, just a void of blackness. I scrambled to get out of the sheets. Where was my mother!? I was in panic mode. 

The imposter started humming again. I remember being pulled towards her, slowly and forcefully. My mind was beginning to soften, if that makes sense. It was like lazy mist started clouding my thoughts. 

“Alexa, play Rock radio.”

I could think clearly again. The music — Smells like Teen Spirit — started drowning the hums. I turned around but the creature wasn’t there. I ran out the door and stumbled down the stairs to my mother’s office, praying she just fell asleep during work. 

It was dark in her office. I turned the lights on. 

She was hanging upside down, but her hair rested on her shoulders normally, defying gravity. Her neck was slit and blood was pouring into what appeared to be a silver candlestick. Her blood seemed to be forming itself into a deep red candle. 

The humming started, and it was right behind me. I was shivering because of what was being done to my mother. I was angry. I just turned around. 

There was a woman in a traditional Indian sari. The sari was black and laced with golden on the tips. Her face was covered with the sari drape. The humming intensified but with lowered volume and pitch. But it wasn’t affecting me, I was angry and I was playing rock music in my head.

She raised her head and the drape fell off her face. She had my mother’s eyes and lips, but the rest of the areas were still black and empty. As the candle grew taller, the emptiness was being filled.

Soon she could grin, and she did. And then she brought out her hand. Her chiseled nail curved down my neck and across my chest. I had goosebumps everywhere. 

I don’t remember anything after that. I woke up in my bed. I went to my mother’s room and she was sleeping there, no slits, no scars. I went down to the office and it looked normal. Our CD player was beeping though. There was a CD in there and it had to be played. I pressed the play button. 

The same humming filled my mind and body. Suddenly I knew what it meant. 

“See you again, sister.”

I felt something curve down my neck. 

A wicked blessing

Talk to me, 

and I’ll talk to you; 

even though 

I am annoyed 

that you need me 

only when you are low. 

Empathy is a blessing. 

Come to me,

I’ll never turn you down; 

for I’ll swim 

to the Bermuda Triangle, 

so that you 

don’t drown. 

Empathy

it’s a wicked blessing. 

I will 

bring you back 

again and again

and again. 

And I will lose myself, 

because the empathetic:

they are sick, 

we save others 

and sabotage ourselves. 

Empathy 

it’s wicked. 

Seek and Chase

I seek pain. I seek pain, not joy. 

Not joy, I cannot live through that

only to meet pain; I would rather 

live in pain. Wandering in a dark 

forest, cuts bleeding, but I am

just a globe 

in Ming's Strange Souvenirs store, 

and they pick it up,

they see a girl in a dark forest,

and when they turn it over, 

dark grey mist fills the forest up. 

That is my life, running through 

the dark forest, running from what?

Who knows? But I chase pain,

because at least it gives me meaning,

at least I know I can feel, 

and it makes me feel, it makes me feel

alive more than anything, it wakes me up

from my slumber and reminds me

that I am a living being, 

that there is an insanity in 

my seeking of pain, because I am a mortal,

but I want to experience an eternity.

So

 I was standing next to the jars of pills, 

so close, so close 

to take just one box, okay not really; 

correction: four big boxes 

of two hundred pills each, the possibility of 

a long, long slumber. 

Oh, how I wish, 

like the others around me, 

I could do away with manners, or 

use my problems as an excuse 

for bad etiquettes. 

I abhor how they use practically anything 

as a reason to behave off 

with others. 

I was talking to a friend, 

but I envisioned him as something more. 

Then came shame and then came guilt, 

I wondered if, like she once said, I was a whore. 

I was writing a poem, 

and well, I forgot what I was writing about, 

so I wrote about my thoughts- 

And well, everybody judged; 

what was the point anyway?

Scarred

 Blog name: Life Diaries

Last Activity: October 10, 2020

Post: Scarred

Dated: October 10, 2020

—————————

I was extremely tired in September, to the point I couldn’t remember doing anything by conscious effort. I was half asleep most of the time. My favorite part of the day was around 3 am when my head would finally drop on my pillow and I’d instantly fall asleep.

Finally, on September 30, I emailed out my projects, deliberately just 10 minutes before deadline. At last, I could get at least three hours worth of sleep more than what I usually get. It was already past midnight by the time I crawled into bed, which meant it was my birthday. And I don’t like my birthday. (No, I’m not an edgy teenager; you know me, right? Because you read my blog. I stopped celebrating my birthday ever since my father died. Just 4 days after my birthday comes my father’s birthday, and I cannot... just cannot.)

Well, my head dropped, but where was sleep? I needed it to come as it always does, heavily and promptly. But it didn’t come, and I just laid there, on my bed, on my birthday, staring at the ceiling with tired eyes. How melancholic, how morbid. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, watching the shadows shift from the light casted by the window, but somehow I was pulled back into consciousness only to find myself somewhere else. The place felt familiar. It took me a few minutes to realize I was in my old house, waiting for dinner at our vintage rosewood dining table (that we had to sell after my father died to make ends meet).

I was seated to the right of the main chair, my usual seat. Suddenly, I remember seeing everybody there, although I couldn’t see their faces, just their silhouettes. It almost seemed like a snippet of one of my old memories. My mother was seated at the other end of the table, serving food to my sister. But I couldn’t see them clearly. You know how you try to focus your camera lens when it’s unfocused? It seemed like they were unfocused all of the time. I also heard snarky giggles out of nowhere. I thought they were sounds from the TV, probably the three hyenas from The Lion King. I don’t know why I thought so.

Then I looked to my left and saw my father.

Somehow, I could see him very clearly. And his face was just how it always was... but something about his expression was unsettling. It was almost as if he was sneering... But you don’t get to see your dead loved ones a lot of times, so I went with it, and hugged him. I think I expected it to feel warm but it felt like cold sea water waves over me. I pulled back and tried to look into his eyes and tell him I missed him, but I could see his eyes were hard and icy. I remember thinking to myself if he might not be proud of who I’ve become since he died. At that point, I became desperate for his affection because I was afraid this dream would end. He got up and walked towards the room at the end of the unlit gallery of our old house. I didn’t remember that room being there. But my desperation was so high, I got up and followed him. He turned back, smirked, opened his mouth, and said, “Will you help me?” I heard those hyenas giggle again. The giggles stopped me from actually hearing his voice.

“Of course I will help you...”

I could practically hear him grinning at this point. I attributed all of the weird features of my dream to the crappy quality of my imagination. I followed him down the dark gallery.

STATIC. Not only did I start hearing static noises, I could see glitches. It felt like the house was an image which kept changing into a dark forest and then back to the house. And then I felt a warm tug on my wrist, pulling me back, but I didn’t look back because I wanted to stay with my father. I yanked my hand back and started running to my father, who was grinning and beckoning me to come closer.

Then I started hearing my father’s voice coming from behind me. This was the voice I grew up listening to. This was the voice I recognized, and the voice was powerful, it pulled me back, I let it. At this point, the static grew louder and louder, drowning my father’s voice, but I could feel something warm guiding me, and I walked back. We were no longer in the house now but our backyard.

Suddenly, it was dark again and we were glitching back to the house, I could see how dark it had become and I could feel the wetness. My heart was beating frantically, and I was desperately trying to hold the warmth, but I couldn’t anymore. It was then that I saw it growing visible as a fierce yellow blanket, and then I saw a dark and icy entity coming towards me from the house, and the closer and faster it came, the bigger it grew, but I didn’t care and I just shouted “I love you, papa, I love you and I miss you,” I was sobbing. The water in my eyes felt so real, I actually couldn’t see properly. And then the dark icy entity reached for my hand, probably to consume me, but I saw the blanket of warmth engulf me first.

Then I woke up on my bed, it was already 6 am. The sun was rising and beautiful rays seeped in from the window. But I was feeling cold. I was shivering.

There was a black cut on my wrist.

I feel detached from myself

I think I first noticed it when I knew for sure I forgot to clasp the padlock together, but found it perfectly locked next morning. 

I work part time at a lifestyle store. It’s a small store in the corner of a narrow street in K——— Town. It’s just a 25-minute walk from my house. 

Since the beginning of February, I had started feeling detached from myself. I was zoned out most of the time and remembered nothing. I did everything based on habit of movement. It was in the second week of February that I arrived at the store to find the padlock unlocked. It was wound around the shutter clasps, but it was not locked. I realized I must have forgotten clasping it together. I opened the shutter gingerly, my eyes only a millimeter open, fearing the store might look ransacked. But it was normal. Lucky escape. 

The next couple of days I was extra cautious in locking the shutter properly. But then I fell back into my detached phase, and worked absentmindedly. 

On February 11, I remember reaching home and waking up, realizing with exponentially increasing dread that I didn’t clasp the lock again. I didn’t know whether to run back or wait for the following morning. I chose the latter. Mind you, I was only 60% convinced I left the door unlocked. But next morning, it was perfect. Again. I think it was then that I starting suspecting something, but I didn’t know what... until I deliberately left it unlocked on February 14. 

I took the bus to work in the morning of February 15, because I knew it would be my last ride there, after which neither will I be welcomed there, nor will I be able to pay for the fare, knowing full well I’d have to suffer the monetary consequences of the robbery that will have taken place. 

But the shutter was properly locked, AGAIN. This confirmed my suspicions. Before jumping to any conclusions, I carefully asked the other weekly part time workers if they were in the area, but they weren’t. They were on duty in another branch. 

What was happening? I was shocked, but not scared. My mental health was already in tatters for me to focus my attention or energy on something else. 

I was going to close the store again, when I realized I left my phone inside. I raised the shutter and walked in. It was dark but because of habitual memory, I walked right into the counter space and found my phone. Somebody was calling me. But before I could raise the phone from the table, something happened. And I will never, ever, forget how I felt in that moment. 

It got unbelievably hot inside. My first thought was, “Darn it! The heat will ruin the hummus.” Before I could act on that, I felt cool air on my neck. The hair on my neck started pricking up slowly, all the way to my legs. My entire body was covered in goosebumps. I turned around and saw nothing, except... it was pitch black. Even though the lights were turned off, it shouldn’t have been so dark. So I did what any sane person would do. I spoke into the void. “What’s happening here?” 

Something lightly touched my elbow. It felt like a claw but more bony. I think ‘it’ felt my body relax against its touch, and taking it as consent, I felt it coming closer from behind. I could tell so, because the air behind me got cooler, until the room temperature was back to its usual again. 

Everything was normal, except I couldn’t see a thing, and I could feel its multiple hands around me, under my arm, over it, around my waist, around my neck, and I could feel my hair being stroked. 

To be honest, I didn’t know what on Earth was going on. I even chuckled to myself, “Hey am I even on Earth still?” 

Finally stepping out of my spiral of thoughts, I tried to twist and look at the perpetrator. Instead, I saw myself.  The “me” I saw was looking at me, but I could tell her eyes were focused elsewhere, and that she was in her thoughts. So naturally, I looked down to see if my body was free of those tentacles or not, and saw that I was the one with the tentacles. 

And then the adrenaline hit me. I shut my eyes and prayed to be put back into my body and left alone. I opened my eyes after what seemed like an eternity and knew before checking that I was back inside my own body. I had another strange thought as well. I let the thought grow in the back of my mind while walking home. 

See, this was yesterday. I don’t remember locking the shutter after grabbing my phone because I now know exactly what is happening. The power of the mind, aye. 

Somehow, my detachment from myself was literal. My mind was divided into two, and there was so much power in how I felt that another entity was formed. That is why I never remember locking the door, or feeling “out of my body”; it is all literal. I am forming another self. 

I don’t know where it stays, how it emerges, or what it can do, but I know it is not bad, because I am weighing vegetables at the store right now, and I am also writing this story at the library. 

l'étranger

Well, tomorrow is the last day of my school life. I cannot believe it. Nah, just kidding. I can believe it very well, because I have yearned for this day to come for a very long time. 

I know what's going to happen tomorrow. I can make a 90% accurate prediction. 

I'll look around and see sadness. Everyone will miss each other. How can they not? They've known each other for six years now. Everyone will write on each other's T-shirts. They'll be laughing. Some might cry a little. They will be going down memory lane, reliving their best memories with each other. I'll be a part of it, but not really. It will be my last day feeling like the outsider. My trip down memory will not even be one sixth of theirs. So tomorrow, I'll be trying to feel what my classmates are feeling. I will step in their shoes and feel their joy of fulfillment of their school lives, their reluctance to part ways. I'll listen to their fun stories with each other. 

And then I'll go home and sleep. That is just how it will be. And I know a few months or years later, I'll look back in retrospect and think it couldn't have been better than this, given the way things were. 

That marks the end of one big part of my life. 

What if

I once knew a girl very well. I could talk to her about anything. We would always be together, even when we had nothing to say. We would sit in the bus, sometimes holding hands, sometimes resting our heads on each other's shoulders, sometimes giggling about guys, sometimes talking, sometimes not. She was small and petite, I was tall(er) and lean. She studied life, I studied money. Her hair was long and curly, mine was short and wavy. She was vegetarian, I was not. Yet, somehow, we cancelled each other out and tethered to one another like two strong magnets. 

Over the years, I wouldn't say it was a smooth ride. We had our fair share of fights. I think that’s what made our relationship so genuine I could call her my sister. 

But sisters don’t stop talking because of physical distance. They never grow apart. So why did we? It makes me question how strong our bond was. 

Could we have survived changing countries? I think so. If we tried. Is it too late to mend what we broke? Not if we both wanted to fix it. But do we want to? I want to. Does she? I think not. Every time we talk about our friendship, it sounds like a chapter that’s been closed. But if she’s at peace with it, I should be too. 

Now I’m sitting here, bathing in regret, thinking “what if...?” 

nihilism

Undeniably, 

I feel forlorn, 

forever alone

a dead firefly,

a peacock without its feathers,

a tiger without its stripes;

is this where I'm meant to be?

"No focus? No matter! 

We're all going to die anyway!"

But if that's the case then why not just kill yourself?

It won't make a difference, would it? 

For death is inevitable, 

unless you make a deal with the devil, 

and who knows if he'll break the deal?

Who knows anything at all?

Am I going to carry my awards or medals when I die?

My wealth, my friends, my love:

these are little tangents to the circle of life, 

you are born 

and then you die. 

Why do anything at all?

Why think about why you feel like this

because at the end of the day

what does it even matter?

cwcc

 Sometimes you just feel like an outside in your own life. You can smile and laugh and crack a joke with others, but when it’s just you- you’re different. You feel like you’re hovering over your own body: detached, miserable, lonely. There’s an aching desire in the pit of your stomach but you never know what it is. You just know that this isn’t where or how you’re meant to be. You watch time ticking away and you know you’ll never get these minutes back, but you still stay in your bed and look at the clouds or the stars or the mist and feel absolutely and utterly misplaced.