Ms. Hyde

Do you ever feel like someone around you is turning into something you’re not? Not because of anything they’re deliberately doing, even. Just by being them, by being themselves, they turn you into a version of yourself you really dislike.

You feel happy when they fail

You wait for them to fall

You don’t help them when you know they need it but they don’t know they need it

You feel consumed with jealousy and insecurities about everything they do

…and there are days when you can’t see the difference between this type of craziness and a justified defense of your interests. this is when you start to wonder…have I really become this person? this person who cannot feel good about themselves without putting everybody down? this person who cannot feel happy, not for a second, without comparing that happiness with someone elses, without tearing that happiness apart with black thoughts that you don’t even recognize as your own…

So is it that person’s fault, for making you this way? Or is that person simply the trigger, the catalyst, the proverbial straw, that was needed to bring out this terrible, but ultimately true, side of you?

All I know is, I’m tired of feeling resentful and suspicious. And I run up the white flag. I can’t play these games anymore. I can’t live life as a constant competition. I freely admit it — I ‘m too weak to handle it. I’m to insecure. I have too many fragile points of my own.

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Fucking December

I know its been ages but better late than never.

My life is full of such cliches at the moment.

I don’t even know what to say or how to describe it so instead I’ll just tell you how I feel.

Like there’s a lot of noise, a lot of constant, never ending back ground noise, and I’m trying to sleep but the noise won’t let me and I cannot wake up either because I haven’t slept enough so there are only two modes in my life: sleepily awake or wakingly sleepy

And all the time background noise is making me dream bad dreams and think ugly thoughts and there’s no where to go but inside, inwards, towards the center, where there’s something even darker that I really, really, really don’t want to deal with, ever.

Sometimes memories, even the good ones are painful. The better the memories the more they hurt.

Can’t. Won’t. SHAN’T.

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I’ve realized the reason I feel so lonely sometimes despite having a decent number of friends is because I am the sidekick in all my friends’ lives. I am not the heroine in any of the stories. Who wants to waste a whole scene/chapter on a sidekick? Sidekick’s stories almost never have any relevance except when they directly affect the protag. And so they are never told.

So when I have a thing I’m feeling, and I want to pick up and call and talk about it, I don’t. Because I think — this is so unimportant. Its meaningless and simultaneously depressing and existential compared to their issues. Its not tonally right. I’m always eager to listen and to snarkily commentate and nicely advice as and when required about them. But when it comes to me, its as if my own issues are really not that worthy of discussion.

These are the same people with whom I shared every detail of my mundane life once. Who I could talk to about anything without any shame. But now I wonder if my friends actually care when ask ‘and how are you?’ and if they actually breath a sigh of relief when I say ‘oh fine…tell me about YOU”. Perhaps its paranoia. I hope so, anyway.

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Boat is coming

“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on?

When in your heart you begin to understand: there is no going back.”

(Return of the King)

Tolkien always has gems with which my life can correlate but this one I had hoped to postpone till I was old and I don’t know, had saved the world after a perilous journey at the very least. The reality (back to home country, boring life, blah blah) is very anti-climactic.

Although the idea of being rescued by a pretty boat that takes me away to a beautiful members-only island full of tall, hot people with great hair seems very excellent. Anyone? Anyone? Anyone?

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Love Addiction (a poem)

Preen in a river
Smoke on a stick
Say the word love
Until it makes you sick

Yesterday I saw you
Today I wrote this poem
No idea if its true
Or if it makes any sense

Yesterday I kissed you
Though I didn’t hear your name
Undoubtedly I knew
With a name comes the shame

For a moment, or a meeting
They’re both pretty fleeting
But the indomitable spark
That can last forever

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Feminist TV is a soothing salve(ation) for the soul

There’s melancholy, which is undefinable, and then there’s anxiety, which is like when you have to pee but you can’t, and then there’s depression, which is like nothing.

And then there’s that moment when you find yourself vacillating between the three, and you have just enough control over your emotions to choose which one you want to descend into.

Which one do you choose?

Answer: Choose to watch the Orphan is the New Black (damn right) bonanza of feminist goodness on TV right now. #GOWOMENS

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Villette (Part 1)

Charlotte Bronte was a fucking genius.

I absolutely do not understand why she isn’t considered the best thing that ever happened in that century. All the romantics and fops and Victorians, all those social novelists and gothic romancers and religious moralists are left in the dust by this chick. She was the voice of her generation.

Reading Villette right now and I am just astonished at her powers as a novelist. Her fantastic descriptions of Lucy Snowe on drugs! It was disquietingly accurate and exciting to read. And Lucy Snowe’s tortured desire for a man she will never have, her continuous struggle to avoid emotions whilst being an extremely emotional person and that brilliant vacillation between depression and joy. I don’t think a more complete picture of a young woman struggling to survive in that time, or really, any time, has ever been drawn.

And she goes so much beyond a realist analysis of social structures.

Her writing is almost a kind of music at times, in that you know what it makes you feel, but when asked to describe how that process works, you draw a blank. It’s just the perfect symphony of deep emotions and phantasmagorical illusions. 

And it’s really like my life. I don’t know if, reading Bronte novels even as a precocious teenager, I adapted the style of thinking of their protagonists, or if I was drawn to the sisters because we are of similar molds. I have that same sense of a vast and tumultuous inner life often unjustified by circumstances or stimulation. That same outer obscurity and that struggle with identity. To be a watcher of the world, and thus, safe and sound from extremes, both joys and harms? Or to participate in, and almost certainly be disappointed with, a world prepped with a thousand different knives to prick my soul and heart? This is the struggle all Charlotte’s heroines face, and so does Emily’s Katherine, in a way.

Some people might read this and think, what nonsense! Just get on with your life and the lot you’ve been given, and stop thinking so much about these inconsequential things which will only create further imaginary problems for you.

I congratulate you if you’re that person. You have found the off-switch I’ve been searching for ever since I began to think.

Or maybe I haven’t found that switch because I don’t really want to find it, because thinking and feeling is what makes me feel human. Feeling human is awesome at a very profound level, while also keeping you in misery a lot of the time.



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