bone crush

It's done. In a weird way, I feel nothing. I never feel it when I—when we—win. I feel immense joy and pride, but inside, I feel dead. It's not something I can attribute to anything around me, but rather a hollow void that gnaws at me from within.  It’s more like the crippling pain of loss is the only thing that truly makes me feel, a sharp contrast to success that leaves me questioning everything.  Winning brings a dull ache, a disbelief so deep that it borders on denial, as if the reality of the moment hasn’t quite sunk in yet. It’s as though victory is plastered over by emptiness, a numbness that lingers long after the cheers have died down.  And in that quiet, when the adrenaline fades, I'm left wondering why success feels so lifeless, so devoid of the depth and intensity that failure forces upon me. It’s as if, without the sharp edge of loss, I’m left drifting, unable to truly grasp the meaning of what I’ve achieved.

It will be done soon, and it will begin again. Another pocket of time where I fill my words into this page. I don't need words of sympathy. Don't analyze my feelings. I know what I feel, and I tell you as it is. It will be done soon. I wake up every morning with dread. I can’t believe in hope because I am not full of it. But I must believe in it, even if I don’t fully understand it. It’s something I have to hold on to, even when it feels out of reach. It will be done soon. I sleep every night thinking of it. I hear what they say, and their voices linger in my mind, turning into her. I hear all my fears come to life. She’s always there when I fall apart, always there when I’m at my weakest. I’m starting to think it’s not just a coincidence, that she is tied to these moments of my undoing. It will be done soon. The thought repeats in my mind, a constant refrain. It’s what I tell myself when the days feel too long, and the nights too heavy. I keep saying it, hoping that maybe, one

My fan has started making sounds. I should get it fixed. Its back is broken. Its head stares at my feet. I have to lie back to feel something. It's still not fixed, and it's been two months. Now it creaks, but can't everything speak a little? I am not cruel. It's dusty. I haven't cleaned it in ages, and I think my lungs can tell, so can my pants as they brush against it, gathering the dust that clings to the metal. I have this vision of the main screw flying out into my roommate's side as I look on in disbelief, watching the blades fall, the imbalance making the fan tip over. The whole room, for a moment, waits for the crash. I see it happen. I will see it happen if I don't do what I must. Only if I complete it can I feel the air directed at my body. Is it punishment or a reward? Maybe both. It’s as if the fan itself is waiting, its broken back and weary head demanding attention, asking me if I dare to leave it any longer. Asking if I, too, will collapse und

I have brought more work upon myself. I could pretend like what I did didn’t happen, but I can’t. I must write two of these today, yet I can’t seem to find the time to finish even one. I am out of breath, stealing five minutes before I must go to places where I’m needed. I slipped away to have a moment to myself, but here I am, writing to you. I can’t escape it; this consistency has almost become a curse. It’s the only constant—death and this blog. Now, the aches in my stomach begin. This isn’t a pleasant night. But I keep writing. I am sick, but I keep writing. I don’t know what else to do. I keep writing. I have places to be, yet I keep writing. I’m hiding away, trying to find a pocket of time before 12. I can hear my work waiting for me. I have to go back soon. But this must end—then the weight will lift from my chest. It’s there, a nagging pain throughout. I welcome it. I can let it all flow out through this. Unfinished or finished, they live through my words. It will end as this d

Something bit me. I don't think I will turn into Spiderman. With the soap suds entering my swollen pinky finger, I sure felt like I was turning into a washing machine. Sweat droplets collected on my forehead, and my baby hairs felt like worms crawling down my face. I was out of breath and flattened my palm on the washing stone. I am eighteen years old. My seventy-seven-year-old grandmother (she's been the same age for four years now) does the same, not out of breath, only with a soft "ish" as she slaps the cloth against the stone like it committed some heinous crime. Maybe it did—the simple act of existing as a dirty cloth. Weekends were now reserved for me, my clothes, and the room where I washed them. I despised it. Back and forth—back and forth, again and again and again. Then into unsoapy water and again. Then wring it dry with all your might. That’s just one cloth. Now just ten more pieces to go. As much as I hate it, once it’s done and the clothes aren’t as soak

Time feels like it's shrinking down. Each day, the moments I spend writing grow shorter. My words spill out, a rush of thoughts thrown onto the page, as the exhaustion fries my brain, leaving only the surface intact. This is all my body knows now—drenched in sweat, weighed down by thoughts of tomorrow. Things are moving the way I want them to, but that’s what scares me. I want things to work out, but why are they working out? Should I question it, pick it apart until I see the flaws, and then stop it all?  Or should I just give in, knowing at least I'll get some sleep? How can I focus on the bigger picture when I’m struggling to manage the smaller one, day by day? But deep down, I know that what I do today is part of something larger. I'm planting seeds, hoping the fruits will be sweet for those who come after me. I tell myself not to think of my own needs, but I still crave this sleep. I don’t want to pay the price for it. I’ll do something I’ve been avoiding. Maybe it’ll

The days seem to blend together, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s always been this way—quietly slipping by, easy to miss until it’s too late. It’s not really about the time itself, but what it leaves behind. The memories of what could have been, of moments I didn’t fully grasp until they were already gone. I’ve been here before, trying to hold onto something that feels just out of reach. I’m not trying to hold on too tightly. I’ve learned that the harder you try to keep something, the quicker it slips away, like trying to grip water in your hands. But there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to let it all blur together, to let these days pass unnoticed. It’s easy to get lost in the routine, to let the hours drift by without really living in them, until suddenly, you look up and realize they’re gone. The world pulls you in a hundred different directions, makes you feel like you have to be doing something, proving something. But sometimes, just being is enough. I know that when I look b

I can't feel anything. I always talk about how I must do something. And so I have. Perhaps in excess, but it's all things I love. It mustn't be a burden. It isn't, but it's turning into work. Words I pursued with feeling, never forceful, have turned into a chore—a chase for perfection. Drown yourself in work. If only the hours and hands we had could increase. I don't know if I hate this work, though. I don't have to think of anything else. I have to think of everything but what I avoid. It feels as though I am in a simulation, controlling these hands of mine. Forward, I press. Don't shout, I remind myself. Break the cycle, break the cycle, I input into my body. It's a pattern, a system, a program I've tried to get this character to follow, but I feel something, sometimes. It's great—I know it is. But that's when control collapses, when no matter how many buttons I press, nothing works, and I have to think of sitting with it. Of being with

It's subtle, but it's there. I can feel it, and you know it too. Our eyes meet, but our laughter doesn't have the mirth it once had. The hands that were left unshaken, the hands that should have been clasped in greeting, remain motionless. They are our hands, separated by an invisible barrier built out of respect—at least, that’s what we call it. Some gentlemanly, chivalrous idea, noble in intention but twisted in its execution. It sounds more like disrespect. A simple acknowledgment would have gone a long way. What is meant to be some holy form of respect feels like a dismissal, a negation of my presence, as though I am invisible, unworthy of being drawn into the conversation. Does my body, does my mouth intimidate you? Does the very thought of my words unsettle you?  It stings every time it's noticed, yet my body has grown accustomed to it. My eyes no longer widen in shock, but my heart still flinches. It isn’t unfortunate that it continues to hope. It’s that stubborn

It’s only been a year and a few months since I left school, yet it feels like an entire lifetime has passed. Geographically, I'm far away, but even more so, the version of me that I built under those glaring white lights seems distant, almost unreachable. I try to recall it, but nothing comes with the warmth of nostalgia. I can still faintly feel the hard work etched into my bones, the familiarity of that one song that played on repeat at every event, and the faces that simply represent memories of both laughter and sorrow. Things that once fit together perfectly, things I thought would last forever. But they have broken apart, like everything else eventually does. I once believed I had found something special, but it too seemed to shatter like the rest. Yet, even in the fragments, there are pieces I treasure to this day. I hold onto them, trying to piece it all back together, even when it feels impossible. I let myself slack off for a few days, letting the fatigue wash over me. Sh

I don't understand this sadness without a reason. It's frustrating when there's nothing to blame, nothing to fix. Just something to sit with, giving it time, some precious time.  To be patient and kind to yourself. Give yourself a break, be a kind boss. When there's nothing to solve or analyze, you're left with just your emotions. There's a kind of intelligence in that, in just letting yourself feel, even when it doesn’t make sense. Our need to control or understand often takes a back seat to our need to feel. We crave immediate clarity, but sometimes the best thing we can do is accept that the answers might not come right away. It's okay not to know, and it's okay to just feel. Sitting with that discomfort, with the unknown, takes courage. It’s not about pushing the feelings away or trying to force them into something recognizable. It’s about letting them exist, even when they’re messy, even when they don’t fit into neat boxes.  It’s about giving yourse

I slept late last night. My legs are tired, and my feet are aching, but I like it. Not the lack of sleep or the sweat on my forehead, but the exhaustion that comes from knowing I worked a little harder. Sleep takes over easily when you’ve really worked. It’s not a choice; it just happens. A surrender. You wake up and do it all over again. You keep going, even when it’s tough because that’s what you have to do. Even if you start knowing nothing, you’ll learn. Time will pass, people will remember and forget, and you’ll get better. You have to, right? It seems like you will if you’re consistent, but sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes, consistency feels like a burden. It can be tiring, and the progress seems slow. It’s tough, but maybe that’s part of it too—the struggle, the moments when you want to stop but don’t. Sleep is a brief escape. Is it all worth it when it seems so far out of reach? Maybe all of this amounts to something. The fact that I could have reached every step I am taking earl

I'm starting to fear death a little. Is it for the better? Has my life begun to carry weight, to have something worth holding onto, something to care for? I haven't lost anything in my life. That's a lie. I've lost a lot, but I've never lost anything that loved me back. Perhaps that's why grief has always been easy to swallow. Now, death seems to loom over my family, like a rope that's caught fire, burning down the threads from one end, inching closer to the other—the roots of where I came from. With them, stories and memories that only they know will die. It feels as though something must be lost for it to be missed. A person’s life must have weight. It feels closer now. Maybe I'm overthinking it. Am I speaking it into existence? I don’t believe in that, but I have a bad feeling. I know what’s coming is imminent, but must it happen with my eyes wide open? As I grow older, I find myself struggling to understand death more and more. It was never explained

What I thought had settled down has stirred up again, and all I want is sleep. Yet I keep myself awake, chasing perfection in a work I've been assigned. Hours have passed with me hunched over, inhaling food when reminded, my eyes straining, and glasses leaving faint, pink indents on my nose.  Now I lie against the bed, half my face pressed into the pillow, one leg hooked upwards while the other rests straight. My hands curl like dinosaur claws around my phone as I type this out. Adele's singing about finding someone like you, but I can't seem to care about love right now. This is as casual as I'll get.  In sleepy bouts, I let myself be tired, and my mouth loosens. Don’t wake me up and ask me something—I’ll start talking about something entirely different from what you asked. I might even make you a cup of tea. Or I'll fight to the death to ensure I get my sleep. Right now, sleep feels like the only thing keeping me together. If there was no transitional rest phase b

We remember so we don't forget. Of the pain, of the love, of resistance, of liberation. They will forget, their children will not remember. But our flesh has the memory stored in our bones, as we are born, it is born with us. In us.  Forget about it. Forget about yesterday. Time that's to come is made by time that's gone by. The bones remember, the flesh clings to what was, and with every breath, we resist. The past slips away with parts of us, we must hold it gently without letting its arms turn into binds.  Can we live without leaving scars when we were all made of wounds? Can we make choices that feel like they reach beyond ourselves?  We remember as if by instinct because we were forced to forget once.  I hold the cracked vase gently. I wait for the glue to arrive. I can buy a new one now, but something tells me the old one will last longer. Once we trace our fingers over the scars, let them heal and fill them for all the space it has created.  Maybe then, this vase can

This was never meant to be a haven. It should only be an escape for me; as you read it, I don't want you to be relieved. I want you to have rage-filled blood, to have your mind painted in red. My feelings felt and your brain fed. I can't escape myself. I think of existence. I think of commonality. I think of unity. I am hopeful for the things I can't feel because I am hoping for their creation. All I've ever known is their destruction, shattered into shards of glass that cut me even now. Then they press it, let it mend the flesh, they say. The glass is buried, but the grief is ever present. Its sharpness strains against our skin. Stitches aren't necessary, they say. Stitches aren't necessary. Tear my skin open, rip it out of my flesh, call me an extreme case. I must be mindful now of what grace they have shown me. I must be satisfied with my life from now on. This freedom has its limits. It's hurtful to remain hopeful for something I have seen. I write it. I

For you, I would cross any line. But would you follow her into a well if she asked? My parents, friends, and cousins often asked us that, like they knew something we didn’t. They warned us about love that consumes, about losing ourselves in it. Reading Keats' letter to Fanny Brawne (with a tinge of misinformation on their story, I find out now), I thought of a love that overwhelms, a love so consuming there’s no room for anything else. But why must a tree bear fruit if it’s not ours to take? I’ve heard it all before. Every word you say, I’ve already spoken. I invented the language your tongue speaks, so how can you comfort me with my own words? There’s a pretense in your care, something that never quite feels real. I never wanted your love. I just needed to know if you could love—if I could be loved. But if I don’t sacrifice for this love, I’ll have to sacrifice this love.  And now, I find myself wondering what that even means. To love without wanting, to love so deeply that the f

It’s back. Whether you claim to want it or not, you check—you want to see it happen. You are drawn to it. It’s a high fall. I walk on the tightrope, not balancing anymore. I use the time I have efficiently, but time is long and mine doesn't feel like it. I fill these hours with music and strange white noise, as my mind can’t exist in silence. I think all the time, and that’s what the world wants: never being enough, and yet being too much. I think what you want me to think. The silence is unbearable, I say but I know it's my mind. You only hear it when you listen and who listens to strangers?  Keep your distance. One only wants to be itself. You were born as broccoli. No picky child is going to eat you. You aren’t a punishment. You don’t have to be processed to be digestible. You might not like the taste of yourself, but how will you ever know if you never try? I know what’s coming; I don’t want to try. Now you are the picky child. Stop protecting yourself from suffering. Suffe

When does the touch of a person feel like it burns your skin? Maybe it happens when what should comfort only reminds you of what never was. Affection, meant to be soothing, feels foreign and heavy, like it's something you can’t recognize anymore. Love, once familiar, has become strange—open in a way that feels too exposed, too raw. When a hand is raised, you flinch. It’s a reflex now, one that you can’t shake off, because you no longer believe it’s meant for you. Instead of warmth, you brace for something sharp, something that will leave a mark.  The touch that once meant care, a reminder of what’s changed. You don’t pull back out of fear but because it’s unfamiliar, like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak. And so, you stand there, waiting for the sting, only to be left with the ache of memories. You forget but your body doesn't. They forget but you never will. Each touch feels like a test. Will this one burn too? Will it leave a scar that won’t fade? You don’t want to pu

There’s a line that sits between us—a hesitation that hangs in the air. Let my silence speak. It’s awkward, yes, but it’s real. Why should I feel bad for you when the hurt is mine to carry? I can see where you’re coming from, but the choice was yours. If the words were empty, why let them out? If you didn’t mean it, why not say so? Just don’t say it at all, or let me know it was never meant to hold weight. But now, I find myself asking—is this what we’ve come to? Has it all become casual, something to brush off like it was nothing? Letting things go because it’s easier than facing the truth?  If that’s the case, then maybe that line I drew wasn’t just a pause. Maybe it was a boundary, a way to protect what’s left of something real. Something that matters. Because once it’s all casual, what’s left but empty gestures and hollow promises?  I wonder if this is how it starts—when words lose their weight and actions feel more like habits than choices. When we start ignoring the small things,

My ideas remain unwritten. My mind runs on the same system it has since 2005—ridiculous ideas, none commercially successful, but ideas with some value, at least to me. They are things that can be transformed into something better or worse. Regardless of the final result, they were all given a chance. Even when I gave up graphic design for a long time, the ideas for book covers and posters lingered in my notes, as fresh as the day they first appeared. My storage may suffer, but my heart holds no regret. A poem idea, multiple story concepts, things that make me think—they all sit quietly, waiting.  One day, I decided they amounted to nothing, that I’d never get back to them. The thrill of having a wonderful idea in the shower, then rushing to jot it down before it slipped away, doesn’t happen anymore. It’s been over a year since I edited a video purely for the joy of it, yet even now, edit ideas fill my notes, reminding me of what I once loved to do. They stay as a reminder that I need t

How to study. I’ve typed this into YouTube a thousand times. We all know the answer is to just start. The question of why it’s so hard to start has been dissected in countless videos. I’m not here to get into that. The work I’ve been putting off has finally caught up with me, now looming over next week’s exams. I could try to comfort myself afterward, but I’ll be busy with other things by then. So, logically, I must study now and get it over with. My heart will be at ease, and I’ll be able to organize all the work I have to do later more efficiently. I tied my hair up, cleaned my desk, trashed my bed, and filled my bottle with a liter of water. The textbook still lays open on the first chapter. I did everything right. But I haven’t read a single line. Maybe these blog posts will serve as a reminder later on. I could compare them with the grades I receive on the respective tests to see exactly why I deserve them, instead of deluding myself and rewarding myself with good food. My mind fl

I've been nursing a migraine since the morning, the side of my head splitting apart with pain. Now, it’s settled into a dull ache, but I still have to be present for auditions. Sometimes, you push through even when you don't have the strength, giving when you have nothing left. You do it not out of obligation, but out of the goodness of your heart, without any sense of superiority. This kind of kindness is a strength. I don’t mean to suggest abandoning self-preservation. But there’s something enviable in extending your hand and heart, even when you’re running on empty. A heart that forgives is strong, but so is a heart that chooses not to. Perhaps not everything should be forgiven. It all depends on what you consider forgiveness. I’m thinking of lighter scenarios, I suppose. My mind isn’t ready to apply this to heavier situations. It would have to be forced. Lately, I’ve built a routine of coming to my friend’s room to write my blog while she crochets or does something similar.

This isn’t one of the good days. It’s not ideal, of course. Feeling awful and pretending otherwise is exhausting. I took a break today—or at least, that’s what I told myself. I informed them I wouldn’t be coming in for my assigned work. But the truth is, I didn’t take a break. I lied. I didn’t go, but my mind stayed stuck on all the things that make me miserable. As a result, I feel even worse. But maybe I need to let myself fully feel what I’m feeling, no matter how much it annoys me. It won’t fade entirely, after all. As vaguely as I can put it, it's a recurring pain. It will never stop. I can find ways to manage it, but it will always be there. Which is fine. I've learned to live with it—until I'm forced to live with it in classes, and everywhere I am, that is. Turns out, it's in me, not the places I go and I can't stop meeting myself.  Sometimes, this freedom I have feels more like a curse. I have time to find myself, but I don’t know what to do with it. It mean

Tamilshaadi.com. Tamilshaadi.com. It's a rhythm that doesn't stop. It comes back, advertising me with marriage websites, humming a rather catchy tune that only comes to my mind at times when I need wit and knowledge. Gallarain kuptacha? That's what I hear; the first word is possibly not right. As much as the way they sing these lines sticks to my head, I don't need marriage. I am there for the music. I am listening to the music I have earned the right to listen to. Three advertisements where I have to listen to a music app tell me I can choose the music I want to listen to only if I pay. The black bean noodles I have wanted to taste forever. At least that procrastination has ended; I have finished the manual as well. A little too late, but the event went well. All I can think of are the cooked black bean noodles in front of me at this moment. Two friends beside me. One looks slightly dejected. One has eaten it; they say it's a sweet kind of spicy. I am wondering wha

I killed a man. I didn't. I wouldn't be able to. Maybe I could. But that isn't the matter here. If you assigned me such a job, I would have to be completely in or not at all. I couldn't help you kill a man. But I could kill a man. Which isn't great. Murder is not a great example to use here either. In extremes, I can pretend it doesn't have a deeper meaning because the shock of the example never washes away. Maybe it will, with time. One foot in the door, one foot out. I couldn't. I would enter your house and ravish it whole or I would leave, never to be seen. I can't leave it half done. Perfectionism paired with procrastination is worrying about the quality of your work before you have started. That worry has taken the joy of my Tuesday holiday away. I am least worried about what to wear tomorrow. I should stay on theme, I remind myself. I could always use the excuse of traveling to this time period. Maybe I should wear less black for some sort of diffe

It's getting worse each time. A stabbing pain pierces the right side of my body. Is it real or fake? I can't tell, but it feels real enough. The pain is undeniable. It's like the cry of an athlete dislocating their knee, or the off-pitch note of a singer losing their voice. Years of honing a craft, developing a skill, and with one accident, one minor moment, it all slips away. It's harrowing to face the prospect of dying on the field you played to stay alive for. The sheer exertion and endurance of these athletes—it's a testament to their dedication. The sweat on their faces is more than just a sheen. Wipe it away, and it reappears. Bruised and darkened knees, common slides on any type of ground—their bodies are used to being used. They throw themselves into their sport until it consumes them entirely. It's both their beauty and their burden. Do the expectations and reports weigh on their shoulders? Aren't we supposed to lift them up on our shoulders? My mat

Justin Timberlake's "Mirrors" has been playing nonstop in my headphones. While I am not looking right at the other half of me, I am certainly watching the downpour in the evening. The rain goes pitter-patter, droplets joining the puddle, my reflection wavering. Without mirrors, weren't these visions how we once viewed our faces? Or maybe there were reflective surfaces back then that I can't think of now. As I stare at the rain and let the coolness engulf me, I can't help but reach out my hand. My friend runs into the rain, but I don't. I can't let myself get drenched. I had planned on not going out at all, but my friend didn't have to do much convincing. With the promise of company, I could let go of my misery. Although the quote says otherwise. We walked around the campus before eating hot, cheesy Maggi as it drizzled. It's not that I particularly love the noodles—maybe I do—but whenever I come around, I just have to.  It's been a while si

Stored away in the patterns of my old blanket, amid the aroma of homemade food and trinkets of younger interests, my childhood strains. It's joyful to see those old videos and photos, though there aren't many, as they aren't captured through screens. Perhaps we didn't get the time. We were so busy. With what, I don't know. We have all been busy since we were born. As I reflect recently, a sense of dread and despair fills me with the state of the world. Was it always this bad, or were my eyes closed? There are so many options to choose from. However, when I feel this weight in my body and wander somewhere, maybe just outside my room or looking out the windowsill, I see things. By things, I mean the way people look out for each other, a gentle push to get away from the road as a car is approaching. A sheep playing with a child, rearing up with a powerful push at the child but stopping and lessening the force. How does it know to be kind? Sometimes scenes like this mak

I write this for her. What my mind was filled with as the rain fell.  Do you remember when our hands confided and cursed for more? When they collided like a shipwreck, finding comfort in the hurt we caused each other? Those scars, once passed down as stories to calm curiosity, brought up memories we'd rather forget.  Perhaps you do, with a little bitterness for all the sweetness we had. But nobody remembers those moments our story forgets for the sake of a better tale. Life, it seems, is present only in remembrance, yet somehow, I carry it with me even as my memory fades. At the lost and found stand of our past, it lays with a tinge of regret and fondness. At the bays of our memories, it took ships to my sister's ears and your phone's recycle bin. But it didn't stop there. Still sick with wanderlust, it ran away, sprinting into the arms of blurry images and vague details. It stays lost in the darkness of a sea we created, for better or for worse, remaining there even as

It feels as though there isn't a point where anything is enough. When I feel the sun, I am brighter. I have hopes and dreams. I feel this innate purpose. As the sky cries, I do too. I am forcing myself to be poetic here—can you taste my distaste for my words? So simplistically disgusting. But I will force myself to live with it. That's what thirty-two days of blogging has done to me. I am forced to face that this is what I have written. The fantastical writing I imagine when I hear the perfect composition of a musical piece or see an edit that incites emotions I can't explain without words. To capture that beauty, in my head, I could always do it. But this is out of my head, this is on my keyboard. And nothing that is typed out seems significant. My friend told me to write down something I said today. I said it doesn't matter, and now I regret it. Perhaps I shouldn't dismiss ideas so easily. They fall apart the moment I implement them because reality demands they tw