writing archive

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[ The zoo ] (2025)

I visit the zoo everyday. It's something that constantly exists around me, and even though I go out of my efforts to avoid it, it still finds its way through the holes of my life. The animals inside are disgusting. By what standard? They are blessed with sentience and yet muddle themselves with the low intricacies of shallow human life and interest. They are egoistic creatures, loving only what serves them, even though they may not fully realize it. And that's what makes them ugly. Though, everyday, as I visit in my proper attire with appearance well done, I feel as though I am the ugly one; perhaps the ugliest animal in the zoo. For all the reasons that the animals are ugly must be tenfold the reasons for I. And the very reason is in my own word. I visit the zoo everyday and scorn the simple animals who live their lives the way they are supposed to live them. They are within their cages and I am watching from afar, brows furrowed, as they laugh and love amongst each other with total ambivalence to the intellectual pessimism that I dress myself in. They laugh and they love and they live despite everything. I look down on the monkey as he kisses his lover because I do not. I turn a cold shoulder and laugh in contempt because they are simple creatures who know nothing of the animalistic and carnal desire they indulge in, only because I am a creature who knows nothing of such animalistic and carnal desire—how can I be when the world is made of a system that has never found its way to mine? Perhaps the monkey is above I, simply because it lives while I do not. If the monkey is egoistic, then what am I? The monkeys are in tiers and all segregate amongst themselves so, while I can only stand from the sidelines and convince my lonesome self superior. I am the very reason for my being.

[ A girl I know ] (2025)

There is a girl I know. In the morning, there is a pathetic sense of hope for a day that will reward her dreams and make true the normalcy that she dreamt of. The routine that follows isn’t one to prepare herself for the day, but to make herself worthy of it. The day that follows is filled with both dread and yearning for the intimacy she irrationally believes will one day come with no cost, and there is an abstract faith of self-importance that everything will fall into her lap just the way she wants it and has been dreaming it, for all these years of her fruitless life, because it has to come one day, no matter when that day is, because that’s the way life is supposed to work, it has to be—but then fails to realize that in her being so she has dug herself a hole so deep it is near impossible to climb out of. In her head lies a home of ideal. Here, I have a perfect form and am esoteric and eloquent, humanly so, expressive, and laughing prettily. There is an assortment of items and products I’ve collected throughout my life, each contributing to my person, and I am at a place of mind of confidence, wisdom, and experience, that I am so sure of my home’s existence. But there, in reality, she is someone else. I do not know who she thinks she is, but every morning, she paints her face and tells herself things in pathetic hopes of becoming me, and of having a day where she is me. Within the safe haven of the mind and ideal, spectating through the rose tinted windows of her mortal form, I can only laugh to myself in perfect solitude.

[ beauty ] (2024)

The lukewarm sky taunted me with its gaze, the sun leaving its mark on my emotions. I lay there blissfully on the fields as I count the seconds passing, patiently awaiting my lover’s arrival. I can feel myself innocently smiling in the sun’s rays, perhaps for once in my life, I long no more than to hold onto the present. The present where I love and am loved. I turn my gaze behind me.

Then I see it. And as I do, my smile drops and no thoughts fill my mind. It goes blank.

The serene scenery surrounding me contrasts deeply with the reality I am eventually forced to face. Before I know it, I’m sprinting as hard as I can. It’s blinding. The sun, rather. Perhaps it was mother nature’s protection for my sweet innocence, the sweet innocence that would die that day. I ran as fast as I could, in hopes of preventing the horrors that were about to happen. My mind going hazy as all I could hear was the grass rustling between my feet, and as if on sync with my quickening heartbeat, all I could feel was the wind clashing against me. It was hopeless, but that’s what desperation is. The desperation to stay like this forever and cling onto the only world I had the opportunity to call my own. But as I approach the scene, reality finally unfolds before my bare eyes. With no protection to what awaited me, I am broken out of my trance by the sound of cars violently colliding. I stand there, my eyes and thoughts dazed, like a deer in headlights. It took my precious, unbothered world only one second to be corrupted. It felt like everything in my life was a build-up for this moment.

Blood splashes everywhere. It gets on the road, the cars, and me. I was covered in the blood of my beloved. What a beautiful thing it be. The blood splattered on my face, blinding my sight, as if the universe’s last attempt at shielding me. I force my eyes open despite it, the blood seeping into them, making me feel a burning sensation. And as I do, I make direct eye contact with the very scene, her once beautiful form now destroyed and ruined from the impact. Her limbs were unjointed and her neck was folded back like a book. I didn’t even know it was possible. My mouth simply gaped open at the sight, unable to form any screams nor cries for help. I couldn’t turn my gaze away from her. I really couldn’t. My hand didn’t reach for my phone to call the ambulance, instead it reached for her. Even though what was there wasn’t truly her anymore, and she was gone. She was dead.

The scene left its imprint on my mind, forever haunting me with its memory. I could barely remember equations from the classes I attended daily, yet my mind took in the sight before me with the upmost detail. I memorised every line and colour of her cracked, blood soaked figure, and the bones that ripped through her beautiful, delicate skin. Despite seeing her like this, I still yearned for her. I still loved her deformed self, no matter how different she now appeared. Because it was still her, just in a different form. And despite the depth of the situation, the scene forced into me a smile. I could feel my cheeks warp and my mouth open, grinning at the sight of my mutilated girlfriend. I loved her, I really did. But I couldn’t help myself. She was just so beautiful. On that day, it came to me that her beauty would remain unrivalled no matter what state she was in. She truly was the most beautiful being on this earth, even in her death.

[ 3 ] (2023)

Perhaps everyone but me knows me better than I know myself. I believe I am a good person but when it comes down to it, I am not. There is not a single good person because no matter how many good conscious thoughts we form, our subconscious is still as disgusting and unravelled as everyone else's. And we don’t realise that. We don’t realise how fucked up and self important we are, and that’s what makes us hopeless. But those who realise their true natures are worse. Those with the consciousness to disassemble the root of their existence and come to the understanding of their actions are worse. Why am I still such a miserable, loathing person when I of all people around me should not be? But is it really a matter of “I of all people”? Nobody is special and you don’t deserve the time of day. You don’t deserve anyone's care and sympathy, nor do you deserve their love and affection. And yet you think you do, why is that? Is it simply because you exist? Simply because you are you? What makes you better than other people to the point of demanding constant attention if you yourself don’t even give that so desired self important attention to others? Are you hearing yourself right now? Simply being alive isn’t enough. Why has your misery and narcissism dug itself so deep in your core that you subconsciously believe you’re better and more deserving than other people, simply because you’re you? Because the way I look at it Jan, everyone is themselves. Everyone has their own thoughts and preferences, and just because you do doesn’t make you special. So tell me, why are you special? What gives you importance over others to the point of expecting attention everywhere you go? I’ll tell you, Jan, and I’ll tell you well. You know you’re nobody and demand everybody to compromise for that fact. Admit it. Not to me, not to the whole world— but to yourself. Admit it to yourself and only then will you become a worse person than you already are.

[ 2 ] (2023)

I cannot fathom what human connections must be like. What forming connections with other human beings, existing in a world where you belong, and seeing other living organisms as other forms of you. Crowds of people do not feel like crowds of human beings, but crowds of aliens. We are all aliens, and none of us belong. But especially me. Neither the way I speak nor my form is normal enough, but not special enough to give some sort of meaning to its existence either. I am truly average, but in every wrong shape. My existence is a public statement although silent. My words do not speak for me, because there are no words to say. No words are ever said, but existence is loud. The world is quiet, uneventful, and dull, but their gaze is loud. Their thoughts and impressions remain ingrained on my existence and all there is about me. But there is nothing about me. I am not my own person, and nobody will see me as such. I am not a human being to connect with, but one that simply exists. A fish out of water. I do not belong and I will rot here as long as I do. The world down here is lonely, isolated from any forms of life. I wish I were a chameleon

[ 1 ] (2023)

I feel like my body is slowly rotting. It is melting away, sizzling under the heat of the bright, hot rays of the sun. My form is decaying along with whatever is supposed to be left of me, left of my personality. I am not an individual. I am a collective being, each singular thought formulated no more than a clone of what the outside world imprints on me, my mind. I am nothing but a computer. I don’t know who I am, and if there really is a me. Life devoid of thought is not a life worth living, yet no matter how many times I say it, believe it, I still am the way I am. My existence is unfathomably dull, and there is not a thing about me to take interest in. Nor is there a thing I myself take interest in myself. My thoughts are my own, but are they really? Is anything I think of my own thought? Is it truly of my own understanding? Am I the person I believe I am? Or am I a mindless computer borrowing the thoughts of others, rebranding them and rephrasing them as my own? Are my interests truly what I’m interested in? Or are they what I want to be interested in? Am I really even my own individual or am I just a copy of the environment around me? Does anything I think make sense? Or do I want it to make sense? My thoughts are not my own. No matter how much I long to have my own thoughts, my own personality, my own philosophy, in the end, I am the same as everything else around me. My existence is nothing special. I do not have a deep level of understanding, awareness, or even consciousness. Not even my words are my own, nor the way I tell them. Everything about me is borrowed from somewhere else. Who am I? My physical form does not define who I am. Nor do my thoughts, and what I think I know about myself. What do I know about myself? What will I allow myself to know about myself, that isn’t unfavourable? Am I only viewing myself in the way I want to view myself? Is my perception of reality so warped that even I myself am not sure of my true thoughts and intentions? Whether or not they are my own, and whether or not I am worthy of existence. Nothing about me is unique, neither my thoughts nor my actions. I am doomed for a life of idle simplicity