Zozo's

In my 24 years of lifetime, I have encountered all kinds—people who amaze and fascinate me, people who make me think into the deepest pits of philosophical and scientific inquiry, and lastly, people who awaken in me a bottomless, crawling disgust. Some people really disgust me. They truly, deeply do. When you laugh at the plight of others, captured through the sterile, unblinking lens of the internet; when you urge, fool, and berate people to act the clown, and then proceed to mock them for it—when you take hold of someone’s sin, someone’s shame, and then laugh, ridicule, and bludgeon them with it. you still have the audacity to claim moral high ground, simply because “you would never do anything like that.” You just love to feel powerful, aren't you?  Well then, allow me to aggravate you with this: why would your God— your conveniently merciful, selectively outraged God —forgive you for laughing, berating, and tearing others down? Why would you go to heaven? Continuing to preach...

Dear Kafka, help me. I desperately and indefinitely need your ears because I lose my mind when I think too much. You wrote about how humanity's ruthless progress toward functionality shall be its downfall in Metamorphosis, didn’t you? Dear Kafka, I feel so weak. I feel like a leech, mooching off of my family and having nothing to show for it. I feel like useless furniture that just exists. Who just exists with no contribution. But dear Kafka, I don’t feel indulgent. I constantly apologize for existing the way I am, and still, I feel like I’m supposed to. Why is the world so cruel or why am I so cruel to myself? The construct of functionality and normalcy that is instilled and expected in one’s personhood is eating me alive. Because when the demons come to eat me alive inside my mind, I don’t think of how I should take care of myself. I think of how disappointed I am in myself for letting those things get to me. And then, expectedly, I burst out, devour, and destroy. And as I crawl ...

I went about my way as I abandoned that little girl and left her to beg for help from others, like I once did. Asking, pleading for love and affection. I cannot go back to her. I know I’ve already left her behind. I want her to sleep in peace, to dream beautiful dreams that make her happy. I cannot dream like that, mine are either hollow or nightmares.  She doesn’t deserve to see that. She doesn’t deserve to know. She will find kindness from strangers who take her home. She will eat warm meals, sleep with a full belly, and close her eyes with wonder. I, on the other hand, can barely digest food or I eat like a pig and I dread going to bed. She doesn’t deserve to witness that. Her face is so full of joy, hope, and love. Mine is tired, hollow, and worn. She has to live the life she always dreamed of: smiling, hoping.  I can’t even go one hour without a cigarette. After all the pain I caused her today, I know she’ll still forgive me. She might hate me for an hour or two, but she’...

I met my younger self for coffee today and I don’t even drink coffee. She came smiling and jumping around with such childish beauty, and yet, I stayed in my seat, looking for the meds in my bag. She ordered something sweet and tasty, while I opted for an alcohol-infused drink She said alcohol is bad for one’s body and looked at me warily.  I said, “So?” She talked about her dreams of being free—being a fashion designer, travelling, exploring the fashion world. I told her I am currently unemployed. She said she loves to read, write, and draw, and that she’s doing well in her studies—though she gets in trouble for talking too much. I couldn’t tell her that I can't even continue my PhD because I can’t keep up with the pressure. We didn’t talk much after that. She’s always been a sensitive kid, always talking and talking, yet so vulnerable.  And I didn’t say much either. She asked me what I’m doing nowadays. I said I write and paint. She lit up and asked to see my works. But I...

Dear person, how gratuitous it ought to be—to be a man of sound mind. A sound mind capable of being a dynamic catalyst of paradox within your very core; free to suffer, yet free to be at serene. Dear person, how freeing it must be to be the Calliope to your own logos. How exhilarating and fruitful it must have been to foresee that better days are to arrive soon. Dear person, you whisper to yourself, unconsciously, to be better than who you were yesterday. Your body hears your whisper— and rejuvenates with function and authenticity. Dear person, how favoured are you? because when the mind tells the self to stay suffocated, imprisoned in its own realm of misery and self-inflicted suffering, why is it deemed narcissism? Even my dreams do not bring me tranquility or beauty. Oh Morpheus, dream me better in your creations. Let me dream better, even behind these closed eyes. Dear person, again, and lastly how lucky could you be to see and understand your pain?

Oh Daisy, Daisy, Daisy Beloved love of Gatsby, and yet forgotten and neglected wife of your very own husband. You hoped your daughter would grow to be a fool— a beautiful little fool, because you know that being a fool is better than being cruel in that world of yours, right? It is better to be a foolish girl who doesn’t know the realities of the world than being a man who reflects those very cruelties, right? Your husband was not a very good man, is he? He did not hit you, but he does abandon you, disregard you, neglect you, disrespect you— disrespecting your presence, disrespecting your marriage. But it is better to be a fool, who smiles and dreams stupidly without a care or awareness of the world. It is better to be a coward than be brave and stand up for yourself in that world of yours, right? You grew to be a beautiful fool, and you became a beautiful trophy fool. You couldn't wait for Gatsby because security was better than risk, wasn't it? I am not shaming you or glorify...

I am someone who is not very likable in general. Out of my very own flaws, I have been prideful, arrogant, distant, vicious and annoying. I am not a very nice person as well, I am too intense or too distant, too loud or too silent, too nice or too rude, too liberal yet too reserved, and the list goes on. It has been harder and harder to be good, to be nice, to be amicable and honestly, to be person. I have had an impact of bad impression due to me being a flawed human whether it was out of will or wasn’t or it could be just their expectations of a decent person they projected onto me. It is clear to me that me as a person and how I chose and still choose to present myself in this society is something that is not conventional but at the end of the day, I am at peace with it. This is not a self-deprecating or self-indulgent piece but I too am known to be loyal, nice, kind, generous, honest and loyal to the people I love and those who love me. The people I love trust me, stay close to m...

  What is favourite? Preferred one of the other or others. How lucky is someone who has a favourite person Or the person who is someone’ favourite person? What is the use of someone who has a favourite person? Just someone who is beloved and cherish endlessly and unconditionally Someone is their first for everything and anything By choice; By one’s very own choice. The act of having a favourite person is a universal experience How beautiful it is to love and choose someone over anything and everything And how gratuitous it is to have someone loving and choosing endlessly Endlessly.   I for one have never felt like I am someone’s favourite Nor have I felt like having anyone as my true favourite I have been chosen as a “favourite” for conditional and circumstantial reasons Ever since I was little But it is alright, I bear no ill will or bitterness I do know that I, for one was not a very pleasant and “chooseable” option For a friend Mayb...

If they didn’t die… would it even matter? If they hadn’t suffered, if their lives weren’t filled with such darkness, would we still whisper their names like prayers today? Tell me… if Van Gogh hadn’t lived in such loneliness, if his nights hadn’t been soaked in madness, if his heart hadn’t shattered quietly in corners no one saw would we still stop and stare at Starry Night as if it holds the sky together? If he had lived… full, happy, fulfilled would those strokes still bleed with sorrow the way we feel them now? Is it really his art we worship? Or is it the shadow of his life that falls over every canvas? He’s not here. He never knew the fame, the museums, the books written in his name. He died with paint on his hands and nothing in his pockets. What good is all this recognition when the man it belongs to is long gone? And Plath… If Sylvia hadn’t left the way she did, would we still read her poems like sacred wounds? It’s cruel, isn’t it? How the world devours the sufferin...

What does one think about when they look at art? Is it colours? Is it structure? Is it aesthetic? Why do people see it as an object? Art, to me, is dear. Abstract, subjective, transparent, yet lucrative. I draw the lines and curves, and I paint them with the colours as I please. If I didn’t do it for the love of it, my art would be a failure. But it is alive for me. Every stroke paints a picture for me. Oh, beloved and tragic Mr. Van Gogh, how hard it is to just see it as something to love in this world of capitalism and globalisation. Where does abstract art lie? Ignored. Deemed weird, unknowable, and disturbing. Why is it so hard to survive in a world where uniqueness and imagination feel rare? Isn’t it why you dread life, Mr. Van Gogh? The failure to gain recognition, simply because people couldn’t see past what is on the surface. I do not know you, sir. I personally don’t. But as I look at your art, I see me. I see loneliness, sadness, isolation and most of all, be...

 I am not perfect. Never said I am, never will. But lately, I've been heartbroken— by people who turned out to be who they weren’t. Even if the betrayal wasn’t directed at me, it still hurts. Because when you live in a world where you can trust so few people, and when you decide to trust them— they do things behind your loved ones' backs, biting the hand that feeds them. And the worst part is, the person knows exactly what they are doing. The disloyalty breaks my heart. I hate disloyal people. I am not a perfect person. I never claimed to be, I never will. But why are people so horrible? Am I naive? Or is this something I’ve grown used to, deep down? Because I never want to betray the people I love. Ever. How can people hurt the ones who love and cherish them? How can they do that? Mistakes are mistakes— and I, myself, am no saint. But how can people be so horrible? That stays in my mind. I am not a naive person. I, too, am someone who has done ho...