bone crush

If everything aligned, it would be perfect, but it doesn’t. I do everything right, follow the steps, put in the effort, but still, something always seems to be missing. It’s frustrating, feeling like I’m always so close, but never quite there.  I try to be patient, to remind myself that not everything works out the way I want, but it doesn’t make it easier. I look around and wonder why it seems to come together so effortlessly for others, while for me, things are always just a little off. Maybe it’s the timing, maybe it’s luck, or maybe some things are just never meant to line up perfectly. But that thought doesn’t really bring much comfort. I just keep moving forward, hoping that eventually, the pieces will fall into place. It’s hard not to get tired, though, when I’m constantly adjusting, trying to make things fit when they don’t. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m holding on too tightly to this idea of perfection, if maybe it’s not about everything being perfect but learning how to live wit

It was hard to breathe. The lie settled in like a heavy weight that couldn’t be ignored. There was an opportunity to accept what was given, but it was pushed aside. No explanation could justify it, and in the end, things were messed up. Everything was fine before—maybe not perfect, but good enough. Now, it’s too late, and there’s no turning back. Moving forward seems to be the only option. There’s no use in drowning in regret. People were hurt—people who didn’t deserve to be—and that’s a tough truth to face. No one likes to be the cause of pain, and those on the receiving end felt it deeply. So many things could have been done differently. A few choices were right, but not nearly enough. Instead of stubbornly resisting, trust could have been placed in the kindness that was offered. But being unreasonable got in the way, and now all that remains are the consequences of pushing away what could have been a way forward.

There’s space now. To breathe, to feel. But the more room I have, the more lost I get. It’s help—I know that—but why do I keep pushing it away? Why do I choose the harder path when there’s an easier one right in front of me? It’s not about ease, really. It’s this structure I’ve built around myself. If I step outside of it, I feel like I’ll fall apart. I think I’ve grown used to the weight, to the constant pressure that keeps me grounded. Without it, I’m scared I won’t know how to stand. The pain, the tension, the worry—it’s all I’ve known. And the thought of letting it go? It feels dangerous, like I’d lose control completely. Is it possible to be afraid of freedom? To be scared of what happens if I let go and trust someone or something else to keep me steady? I want that freedom, I really do, but it feels risky, like it’ll leave me too open. There’s a strange kind of safety in the struggle, in the chaos I know how to handle. If I stray too far from that, if I let myself breathe too eas

The point beyond burnout feels like a void. A place where exhaustion is a way of being. Every muscle, every thought, every breath is heavy. All with fatigue that no sleep can cure. But one must go on.  The world doesn't stop because you're tired. Expectations, responsibilities—they keep spinning, even as you're standing still, hollowed out. They say you should take a break, that you need to rest. But there’s no time. There’s no space for it. One must go on, because stopping isn’t an option. Take rest but you must have all the answers after. It’s gone, though. That spark, that drive, that sense of purpose—it vanished somewhere along the way. I don’t remember when or how. Maybe it slipped away in the night, lost between sleepless hours and endless tasks. But I must believe it’s still there, somewhere. Faint, but not entirely out of reach. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but eventually, I will find it again. Slowly. Quietly. I don’t need your blazing eyes to guide me, just a fli

If I look away from the computer long enough, maybe it will finally finish loading. If I look away from the world, it will still keep turning. And maybe that's not comforting to most people—the idea that everything continues on without you, regardless of what you're doing. But right now, it comforts me. Knowing that I'm replaceable helps. They'll figure it out eventually.  We get so wrapped up in this narcissistic idea that we're essential, like the world can’t move forward without us. But the truth is, they’ll be just fine. And if they really do struggle without you? Well, maybe that's on them. People need to learn what "it" is on their own terms, not just because you’ve been holding everything up for them. It has to be a group effort, or it’s not really worth anything at all. Let them experience it. Let them figure it out. Because in the end, we’re all just cogs in this giant, indifferent machine. It keeps spinning whether you’re there or not. And ma

How long can we stay like this? The books haven’t been opened in ages. There might be insects burrowing holes into the pages. The circled dates are a week away, but I feel months away from everything. Grades, marksheets, things we need to sign up for—it’s satisfactory for the core subject. That’s supposed to be good. But now I wonder what I even did to get those grades, and I can already see my fall. The start is always perfect. I’m starting to think there’s no balance in success. It’s this height of obsession no one can afford to replicate. Everyone is capable, but only some reach, and only one catches it. And in them, there’s this unbearable need to win. It quite literally surpasses them. A broken bone? Nothing. If they had to touch their heart to make it real, they’d rip their body open in a heartbeat. Success—the height of it, the taste of it. There’s no balance in madness. It’s a sickening, quick fall, but it feels slow. It feels so real compared to everything else. It’s great bec

The Wi-Fi symbol is gone again. Only nine minutes left. I finally woke up today, but I still missed all five hours. A splitting migraine tore through me, and now the exhaustion, the pain—it all makes sense. It’s her again. I shouldn’t care, but I do. I need to show up, so I must. I’m starting to feel like this has become my personal diary. It’s strange; even as the number of reads grows, it feels like no one is actually reading any of this. There’s this odd disconnect—people say I’m unapproachable, yet now, you know which chips I like the most. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t care at all. I just hope I wake up tomorrow, too. There’s so much to figure out, and I can’t rest until I do. Today, I took small steps—nothing earth-shattering, just forward movement. People say growth isn’t linear, but I can’t dwell on abstract ideas like that right now. I have to act. I have to do, right in this moment, because that’s all that matters. The pain’s still here, that dull and irritating stab, b

I hadn't noticed the moon watching me through the window until today. What a creep. I turned my face away from the wooden study table, where the ants had made their pilgrimage across its cracked surface. So oblivious to my war on their very existence. Perhaps they thought of that one spider poem every time I accidentally crushed them. I looked away, far above the giant trees, into the dark sky. There she was, brighter than ever, but in half. I wondered if I could curve my back to her and sleep for a while. Or would she cut me? Would I sink into her? It was only a play of light. She was never really half. She just stayed covered for a while, but if you saw her crescent, you’d think she’d stay that way. But she’s been whole all along.

I’ve felt this before. I’m holding on, but just barely. Strangers always seem to see right through me. Why don’t those closer to me notice? Have I blinded them with love? Does that mean it’s real? Does every tear you don’t see mean you love me? Maybe you shouldn’t. Or maybe I should cry in front of everyone. I woke up at 4:31 AM, lost in a haze, with an insatiable hunger. A packet of sweet chili chips was in front of me, orange and shiny. I devoured it like a man dying of thirst in a desert with no water in sight. Then I fell back into a deep sleep. I had a dream where I was being stalked. No one believed me, even when he stood right at my door, holding a black knife, wearing a red button-down shirt. His hair was black.  I don’t want to find meaning in these things. But something is chasing me, and I fear I know who it is. These small, strange warnings have been trailing me all week. The fear of knowing that when he lifts the cap, it’s my face that I’ll see looking back. I wake up hati

Slowly crochet around me, inch by inch, wrapping me in soft yarn. The thin instrument clinks when it falls, and I know because it slipped from my fingers before. I pick it up and try again. I don’t know how to crochet, but there’s something comforting about the idea of surrounding myself in those simple, repetitive patterns.  Each loop feels like a tiny shield. Don’t let them find me. I want to stay hidden, away from the red numbers circled on the calendar, the ones that demand attention and insist I show up. Don't let them find me. Compromise, sacrifice, just be there until you aren't here anymore. I don't think I have anymore to give. To dream to your idea of realistic, to see visions only you can see and execute. If I leaped, you’d say I jumped the wrong way. You tell me to dream within your limits, to shape my vision to fit your reality. But it’s mine because I see it clearly. I believe in it, even if you can’t. Don’t look at me with doubt; I need you to trust in what I

I am past the cravings for crunch, meat, and spice. Now, I want something soft, sweet, and gentle. I want the world's kindness to wrap around me like a warm blanket. I feel like a lost child, hoping to be found. I long to be swept up into someone's arms, someone who feels safe. In this moment, the world is good, and the thought of anything bad doesn’t cross my mind. I imagine a soft scarf wrapped around me, my knees pulled close. I want to be brought back to what I know, into arms that hold me tight, but not too tight—just enough to make sure I know I’m safe and loved. I want to be held like I’m precious, like they’ve found me after I’ve been lost for too long. I used to hate getting lost in big places like malls, but now, I long for that feeling of being found again. I crave the relief and joy in someone’s eyes when they see me and know I’m back where I belong. Softened eyes, shoulders falling, a relaxed smile, a soft crinkle and a few wrinkles. All at the mere existence. 

The cheese I bought isn't cheesing the way I thought it would. I still eat it, feeling disappointment with each bite. The extremely spicy noodles and the cheese that was supposed to wrap around them, giving me the relief I needed, don't quite hit the mark. A forkful of it all goes into my mouth, but nothing tastes as I wanted it to. This is a craving that hasn't been satisfied. But I am full, and that's enough for tonight. I don't know what to wear tomorrow. Sadly, I have no clue how to wear a saree, and the rest of my traditional wear is in the wash. If I show up in my black jean jacket, I'm sure I'll be due for a public execution. I must learn someday. Traditional wear is convenient, and everyone is suddenly satisfied without constant questions about why I wear what I wear. I'll watch a movie tonight. The fifth night is the direct translation of it. I wonder what it's going to be like. I try not to look at the description, but I saw a comment sayin

He wouldn't know anything of a weight that you don't carry on your shoulders, of one that crushes you from within. Does it cave into his bones as it does mine? We never chose this. Who would? I was born one way; who says I must stay that way? I was born 5 pounds and a kilo of expectations. Why must I shed something to become myself? When was this placed on me? When I took a breath as myself, it crushed my ribs. I didn’t know the pain was so sharp. They say forgiveness flows like a river, but mine runs dry. Each flower I tried to grow dies. I used to long for a self I could love. I wish I could feel air in my lungs. I try. It’s suffocating. What crushes me isn’t close to me; it kills me from within. When was the seed of death planted in me? Why do I yearn for a sense of purpose this much? Why does my fight not die out? It would be much easier if it did. Why do my bones take more to break? Endure, endure, endure. Feel it through and through. It’s almost as if I can endure enough

Writing without feeling is easy, but it doesn’t feel right. I do it sometimes, but most of the time, I hate it. When the emotion isn’t there, the words fall flat, like they’re just there to fill space. I need to be connected to what I’m writing, to feel it deeply. Otherwise, it just doesn’t work for me. But right now, what I’m writing feels like it’s just for the sake of getting something down on paper. It’s hard to care when I’m not truly invested.  Writing should be about expressing what’s inside, but when I’m doing it just to do it, that feeling gets lost. The words come out, but they don’t mean anything to me. It feels like I’m just going through the motions, and that makes it frustrating. I want to write something that matters, something that I can feel in my bones. But when I’m detached, it’s just not the same. It’s like I’m pretending, putting on a front, and that’s what bothers me the most—writing without really saying anything that matters, without feeling the weight of the wo

I backed out. I said it. I did it. After everything that was said and done, I said no. I don’t really know how I feel about it. It went smoothly, but the thoughts of what it might bring, or what it might not, make me tense. Sometimes, it feels like I can’t fully express what I’m feeling. It’s like someone else is trying to dictate how I talk, move, and feel. Why can’t I just be confused? Is it wrong to be indecisive for a moment? I don’t know. It’s almost as if I can’t make my own choices, like I’m not trusted enough to handle them. The residual anger that follows is so frustrating. I don’t know what I did to make them feel this upset. The glares, the stares—I feel it all too well. As much as I pretend to be unbothered, I feel everything. And maybe it’s a good thing because some people are cruel to the core. The more I think about it, the more I realize how deeply it all cuts, even if I try to act like it doesn’t. I guess that’s just how it is—feeling everything but pretending not to.

The aftermath is tricky. There's something in the air, a feeling I'm just beginning to grasp. I feel a little joy in my heart, just a small bit, but it's there. I'm letting myself breathe, slowly taking in this moment. I know that by the time I fully feel it, the nothingness will start to creep back in. It's a cycle I've been through many times, one that keeps repeating. Today, I didn't do much. There's still so much left undone, so many tasks waiting for me, but I couldn't bring myself to start them. Yet, I did manage to do one thing, and somehow, that feels like enough for now. It's funny how one small thing can bring a sense of peace, even when there's still so much more to do. I'll hold on to that small feeling of accomplishment, letting it be enough, even if only for a short time. Sometimes, just making it through the day feels like a victory. Even the smallest steps forward matter. And in this moment, that small win is all I need. F