We beg for our cries to be heard We cry for the unsettling storm inside us We adjure for the storm to leave, unharmed For our beat to not be disrupted The human conflict we call pain To be prevented in all scenarios But then again, it narrates a story People in pain are people who write With the pain subsiding, We lose a bulk of stories Is that a world we sought for? This might be the fifth poem I wrote today. The five poems have no relevance to each other. The first is about the moon, the second is about sunset, the third is a satire based on one of Shakespeare's sonnets, the fourth on vision, and the fifth is about pain. What I find ridiculing is the number of poems I wrote since the pandemic as I gave up on writing. And the cherry on top? I was repulsed by the idea of taking on literature. You ask why? Simple, it just felt too monotonous and gloomy. I found it hard to sympathize with it. Once I read The Picture Of Dorian Gray, I straight up went like, "no way this is real." With the extensive poetry and implied erotica, I barely understood half of it. But the writing style had me captivated. I still opined with the fact that writers need a big hug and be a bit optimistic. Now coming from a fellow pessimist, I get why they aren't on the bright side of life. Being locked in a dark room feels suffocating and frightening. Even if the atmosphere is vast, it still feels like the oxygen supply is cut off and soon you would be left with nothing. That is how the pandemic felt. It was around my transition age and everything felt so frustrating, so dull. At a certain point, I wanted to give up and it felt as if nothing is worth living for. Life became like a spiral abyss with no escape gate. Just like the chapters of a book, the plot keeps getting better and better right? But once the protagonist starts pitying himself, life becomes an endless nightmare where everything comes to a pause. Reflecting on past mistakes and never moving from them made me adopt a façade that is not me. My present life is a like a house of cards- a house that might break with the slightest gush of wind blowing over it. It feels like I'm there even though I'm not. Even the slightest of things hurt me and I'm left numb. Sometimes I pretend to not care and just go with the flow. I once told one of my friends, ‘you know it wouldn't hurt me if any of you leave me.' Was I lying? No. As someone who everyone left, I expect the worse and nothing more. It is better to assume the worse than to have your expectations shattered. Ever since I was young, I struggled with feelings. I never had a potential lover neither did I feel anything. Yet I pretended to blend with them. Little did I know it would affect me so much. Almost everyone gave up on me including my parents, after all, I'm the embodiment of disappointment. An additional point, I keep making a fool out of myself all the time. I feel empty most of the time, a feeling I cannot explain. Yet I keep fighting but for what? Why am I trying so hard when everyone has turned their backs on me? Why am I trying when I have no reason to do so? I cannot quite remember the last time I was happy. That is where writing comes into play. It is not much of a hassle, just take a pen and paper and let your hands move. The art of writing is not understood by many but once you let the pen flow, a stream of words appears and your mind becomes active as ever. It's like an adrenaline rush for me- writing until your fingers are numb, the pain in your fingertips feels like you have accomplished something. Tragedy prevails in everyone's life. No matter how much we hide from the demons, staying in the light of the day, we are bound to face them once the night dawns upon us. When we practically vent out to someone, they listen and nod. But when one writes, the secrets are stored. One may look at it after a while and realize the progress they have made over time being and that it something to be proud of. Reading No Longer Human, I realized that Yozo, the protagonist tells us about his life filled with shame. He tried his best to be a human and did everything to act what we call ‘normal'. But his life was short-lived as he met the same fate as the author of the book- Osamu Dazai. Writing is not only for scribbling or writing stories but also portraying yourself in a subtle manner, something that Oscar did to Dorian, drawing his sinful life that led to his demise like Dorian. For a story to be successful, tragedy should be written in its utmost element. A lot of us have many stories to share. Especially after the pandemic that morphed everyone's life into someone they aren't. Someone they never wanted to be. Writing is not any form of rocket science. It is art, words combined to form emotions, something everyone can try. Exploring one's different side won't kill, will it?

Dear Grandpa, It's been 2 weeks since you departed from this earth. They say only time can heal grieving, but I find matters may grow even more sad with the passing of months. The more time goes on, the longer it's been since I heard your voice on the phone or experienced your laughter. I never want to forget the sound of your voice. The last time I talked to you, there was a problem with your phone. The last words of yours I heard were "I can't hear you dear" as I repeated, "Hello? Hello??? HELLO?". I didn't know at the time that would be the last chat I had with you. I didn't know that would be one of your last days. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. I remember when I was a little girl and would hug your legs really firmly from behind. That feels like a separate life, long in the past. Yet, it feels like a vivid, not so distant memory all at once. Oh, how time flies. You lived your life and you lived it well for 89 years. What more could anyone ask for? Now, I'm relived to know you're free from isolation, boredom, and pain at the nursing home, even though it aches my heart to accept you're not here. Writing may seem untrendy in this modern day, but as far as I know it's the only thing that helps me cope, a medicine. We must never forget our dear loved ones. I continue to write about our memories together. Grampy, watch over me and please stay in my heart. Love, Your Granddaughter

Today I have been in a good mood. Because of my mother and my writing and art. That and I took call my frustrations out on the “world” on Plague Inc. I love that game and I called it my bitchy game for when I am angry or bored. I am writing a biography and a fanfic that I didn't intend on becoming a book. Lol. Right now it's just on my site. I feel no need to date anyone because with this fanfic book I get to experience the emotions without getting hurt. The same with my short stories. I am working through that so fuck off plenty of fish.

I am doing much better then a week ago Sunday. I am stills angry and hurt but I am able to move on with my art and writing. They are my therapy that and a great mother. She sends me links for my email with inspirational quotes. But the anger is still residual because of the fact that this even happened. But I am working out my emotions through writing and my art. Today I feel better because my auntie came for lunch at the pub so that was amusing. Only one thing after the wind we had last night the fucking sign for the restaurant blew off and I thought they went out of business. Thankfully the open sign was lit up.

Imagine that you are on an old war ship. You are in a battle, and the enemy ship is headed right for you at ramming speed. The call comes out from the Captain, “brace for impact.” One sailor ignores the order, because he refuses to accept what is about to happen. The enemy ship slams into you. Those who braced themselves for the attack are battered and bruised, but are alive. That one sailor is lost. Why? He refused to face the reality of the situation. Sadly, many of us never truly prepare ourselves for the inevitable. Loss is inevitable. Our lives begin with loss. We are born, and we lose the warmth and comfort of our womb. We would likely be traumatized if we could remember the ordeal. We grow. We lose our bottle. We grow. We lose our innocence. We have to answer for what we do now. We grow. We lose excuses. We lose the cocoon we call school, and step into the real world. The real loss begins. We lose money to bills. We lose touch with friends. We lose grandparents. We lose youth. We lose abilities because we age. We lose energy. We lose parents. Time goes on, and the losses keep piling up. During the entire process, we have either been bracing for impact, or we have been refusing to accept reality. If we have prepared ourselves, we soldier on. If we have not, we lose even more. We lose our joy. We lose our hope. We lose our sanity. We lose our faith. My personal faith does my bracing. Loss is inevitable, but if you lean on God and realize that you will never lose Him, loss is much less terrifying. Prepare yourself for losses in your life, not because of fear, but for the sake of strength. If you have given your life to Lord, you have lost the chains of sin and you have gained eternity. Hold tight to your faith, it will surely help you brace for impact.