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The Fear of the Blank Page

The page stares back at me, white and wide. Unforgiving. It looks like peace until you try to write on it - then the silence is too loud to bear. I hover my pen above it, waiting for the first word to flow out like a miracle, something tries to stop me. The page says, “Go on.” I say, “I can’t.” Who’s holding this weight on me? It’s only paper - but it feels heavier than I do . As I close my notebook a soft voice begins to speak, “ You’re afraid of me, aren’t you? ” I get up and try to walk away, the voice follows. “You come to me when you need to fill me with your impossible dreams, you hide from me when you need the truth.” I open the notebook again, the page waits patiently this time. “I’m trying”, I say. It replies “Then stop trying, start listening.” So I listen. As the pen hovers again, I hear the sound of an untold story trying to stretch its way out. The one that hides between thoughts I never finish saying. The dreams I left half-drawn, quiet truths I never dared t...

Life Bled, Death Whispered, God Watched — Point-Blank

Today was rather cold. It's not uncommon for January mornings to be bone-chilling and windy, but today, I could feel the wind pass through my sweater, hit me point-blank, and extinguish the remnants of heat that my skin and bones radiated. Hitting at point-blank, being hit at point-blank—both are mutually exclusive events, but there's a contradiction; both are cohesive too. When a bullet leaves a gun and pierces the flesh of a living entity, it not only splatters the blood of its victim but also ravages the innocence of the perpetrator. When a lion tears the flesh of a dying deer, it not only eats parts of its prey but preys on parts of itself, too. When I am long lost in this smoke, when this nicotine roll burns in my hand, it's not the only thing burning. Death always occurs in pairs, but neither entity ends the same way as the other, and it's rarely instantaneous. It's more of a slow, gruesome, tragic, yet cinematic event. Death is always violent. Sometimes, it a...

approximation errors of life

I just woke up from a fever dream and it dawned on me that the dream lasted too long and hasn’t been that long since I arrived. Does time move differently in dreams, with different experiences, does it relapse, can it not be stuck in a loop of my favorite childhood memory? I wake up with these questions, and I don’t quite know when is the right time to ask questions and when is the right time to answer them. The timing is important you see, when you choose to change the curve and when you accept the flow, it makes all the difference. Also, pardon my casual language, I just woke up from a fever dream. I think about existentialism and how the originality of human experiences causes self-alienation and how lonely the suffering can be ( yet I never wished any suffering on you ). I’m not a philosopher, educator, or a liberal arts student wandering and wondering about the technicalities of life ( i don’t know who the addressee is ), however, I still believe the originality of human e...

Flesh

It’s a spring day today. It’s summer in the sun and winter in the shade. My body does not know which season to belong to, so it lingers in the in-between, splitting itself apart. Half burning, half frozen. Half alive, half rotting. You understand this, don’t you? That feeling of being suspended between two selves, two states of being, neither of them quite yours. The warmth touches you, but it does not sink in. The cold nips at your skin, but you do not shiver. You are not here, not really. You are only the shadow you cast. Just like you, The enormity of my desires disgusts me. I want to be called beautiful. I want to be told I am loved—not once, not twice, but over and over again, until the words sink through my flesh, until they take root in my bones, until I become something soft, something sacred, something worth keeping. But I am made of spoiled meat, swollen with things that should not be here. I hold too much filth inside me—blackened regrets, sickness curdling beneath my ribs, ...

What Never Poured

Sometimes I think about those clouds: how they drift, soft and deceptive, pretending to be cotton balls while carrying entire oceans inside them. They look serene from below, even gentle, though their silence is nothing but a storm waiting to come out. Perhaps that’s what makes it so tragic? Their quiet obedience to a sky that only loves them when they’re harmless. They swallow what the world won’t see, rehearsing to look gentle and to stay soft, masking ache as grace, until they find a sky willing to let them break. They are the lucky ones as their sky listens. So, when they collapse, it isn’t destruction, it’s devotion. The rain falls as a confession, honest and unashamed, and the sky? Well, it receives it without flinching. For a while, there’s no sorrow, no anger in the undoing, only relief. The clouds pour until they are empty, and the world below calls it beautiful, not realising the years of pain it holds. But what about the ones that ne...

The Silent Takeover

The air tonight is thick, darkness stretching out like a lie too polished, too staged. The city below glows in dim yellow light, but it is a deceptive kind of glow, shuddering like a breath too weak to hold on to. Somewhere, laughter spills from a distant window, but it is hollow, floating into the night like a shadow of what once lived. They say the night is beautiful. That it is a whispered promise, a fleeting touch, a sky too vast to hold. But beauty is often just a mask stretched thin over something ugly. The moon shines down, with a smile that does not reach my hollow heart, basking in radiance that was never truly its own. The stars blink like knowing eyes, but they are nothing but remnants of dead things, whispering from too far for us to listen. But the night does not love you. It does not listen to your secrets; it swallows them whole. It watches, as footsteps echo in deserted alleys, as shadows stretch under flickering streetlights. Somewhere, a deal is sealed with a quiet ha...

Dying with Borderline

The face I see in the mirror of the woman looking at me feels foreign. I look at her while I dissociate. Are we the same? Do I live inside of her, or does she control me? Every waking moment, a thought creeps up: Is she sane? Am I ruining her life? What if I merge with her? Is that even possible? We look the same, yet we have no sense of familiarity. I fail to recognise her on most days. The picture she took a week ago seems so different; is that her real smile? Does her nose crinkle up? The ghost of me walks through the hallways of the college, smiling at people, sometimes strangers. I have lost all control over her. We are two different beings now. The third one who recognises her shows up some days, but we don't let her stay. She dared to call me a monster while all I did was protect her. She knows she doesn't deserve love. We know it's never going to come our way. Her trying to look pretty only gets her looked at, stared at, and objectified. But we know that's the ...

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