Don't care about what the kids feel

Hi,

I wanted to talk as I’m making my nails. Nothing special they’ve grown a lot and they have gotten a bit dirty because I keep on brushing my hair. My head is also very dirty because I haven’t taken a bath since 4-5 days now. So, let’s talk while I’m using a tooth paste and brush to clean my nails and then sharpen using a nail sharpener. By the way, the tooth paste hack was told by mom and it actually works, it whitens your nails.

I’ve been wanting to talk this way from quite a long now. Keeping my artistic shadow and filter aside. I started 2025 very quite and alone. Often with no will to talk with anyone. I felt alienated most of the times because I don’t know, I just wanted to feel alienated. I was the problem because I chose what I feel.

I somehow liked writing a lot and I had one good reader who liked reading what I wanted. Maybe, this is where the problem is too, but I don’t know I feel it’s a problem because I am the problem and I wanted to feel problematic. I wrote a lot about my childhood and a few moments which were stuck in my mind from years and years. I’ve been a spontaneous kid always. There are some moments where I even plan conversations and my body movements before an event. That’s bad but I chose to do those bad things.

I wrote “On Being the Dumbest Different” on 26 January, 2025. I had a clear frame in my mind and I wrote the clear frame. It was all natural, did not have to think anything special, there was no need to plan a plot because I was the plot myself. I was the victim and I’m very sad about it. Around the same time, I had started seeing Kafka’s drawings from his Diary. The image in the thumbnail completely made sense because I was also feeling really really sad. Also, please get away if you don’t want to read about sadness going further because earlier in 2025 I had known that something terrible was going to start eating me alive.

I was high on Frank McCourt’s writing. I really loved reading him because of how fun it felt while reading his writing in a Missionary bangalore setting. I could see little McCourts running in Cubbon Park whenever I read it there. I wrote “On Working Young” with some inspiration from his books. Inspiration was just his, source was my own. The source was the severe amounts of frustration and anger I was developing for myself. I wasn’t feeling important at work, I felt like a little kid over in the company. I wasn’t adding direct value, but I was also the least paid. Somehow, I’m not pragmatic or practical. I’m a very emotionally sensitive person. Say something to me once and I’ll think about it for months and months. It hurted a lot, so I wanted to make my feelings of not being a bottleneck public.

By now, things had worsened a bit inside my mind. I wouldn’t sleep. I wouldn’t sleep on time whatsoever. I was becoming arrogant towards myself. If I’d tell myself “Sleep”, I wouldn’t. In spite, I would go on a walk at night for hours. I’d walk so much that my inner thighs would get rashes from that reckless walking. I’d often see very still things at night. A still standing street lamp, a yellow car, bikes, closed shutters with only a few cockroaches walking here and there in my locality. I had started writing poems by then. I wrote “Observe the Observer” a very broken poem which talked about what I already explained. I was feeling watched all the time, stuck in my mind. If I did not sleep i’d either listen to songs, watch porn, cry or just lie down on the floor thinking. I had many reasons to cry. I think I have always been like this. Even if I was just sitting alone, I’d start crying all of a sudden. No specific reason but just wanting to cry.

Around the same time, I was making a switch to Frappe. I shouldn’t have done that and I’m being honest about it. I did not know what I was doing back then, I was being pulled but I did not really know if I wanted to be pulled. I had gotten some feedback on my interview which made me close myself for 10 days inside the house. I was not happy about getting a new job which paid 105% more than what I was getting in the previous company. I don’t know why, I just did not like myself. I was afraid of seeing myself in the mirror and I made that really true by avoiding seeing my face.

The interview did not go well, the beginning did not go well and neither did the work. I should’ve left by that moment itself. How do I tell you what I feel or imagine like when I think about a few moments in the last year. It’s like you imagine yourself being so mundane that you want to cry the very moment. I was burning myself and I just wanted to do that more and more. I wouldn’t sleep and did not even feel sleepy at nights. It was exhaustion which executed me on the bed at the dawn.

Ohh man, I was just rechecking on Akhbaar and I’ve written so much. This is going to be very long,

Nah, I think, I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to write. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to draw. and I don’t want to eat. It’s too much of struggle and hustle to do these things.