no spiral pasta!

in the day, I’m one of those people you detest on train rides. there I stand, leaning against the possibly contaminated germ-infested pole attempting to regain my balance after some abrupt jerk the train decides to take. I’m avoiding the Airpod trend or bluntly, you can say I am broke – so you see dangling wires bopping rapidly as I begin to groove subtly to some melodramatic yet empowering song on my “feminist!” Spotify playlist. In my pursuit of exuberating confidence, I eliminate factors of possible negativity. I ensure the songs queued throughout the day relate one way or another to the whole idea of being unstoppable – possessing the kind of power Thanos has. I begin to dig the whole idea of having lunch in solitude. Amidst the crowd, I find an empty seat right smack in the middle of two tables and prop myself down with nearly no hesitation at all. I grow wary of certain social behaviors and more so, intrigued by their food choices. Fried chicken wings should not be soaked in a bowl of porridge.

in the night, my mind becomes a rain vortex that turns people away unlike the artificially man-made one in the airport. bewildering thoughts about acceptance, appreciation, annihilation, reality, rejection, reconciliation – all these thoughts persistently infiltrating the exhausted brain of mine. I’m on some sort of “spiral pasta” ban for the week so I’m only eating penne for the time being to avoid spiraling into a whirlwind of excruciating self-torment. Unfortunately, the night works differently on me. No amount of empowerment music to liberate my entrapped feelings of despair.

The proposals of who you really are – often get trampled upon because you fear repudiation. That this proposal might be torn apart and dumped into the nearest trash can. We live in a world that calls judgment, intellectual acuity. A world that calls abomination, tough love. We live in a world that contorts the notion of beauty, and a world that corners individuality – forcing acquiesce. yes, reluctantly accepting without any protest. there’s no need for a hullabaloo but opinions are very much treasured.

And in this world, the original copy of your book needs to undergo major editing by the senior editors with mighty authority. The raw original copy might pollute the mind of innocent readers, creating an infuriating atmosphere. Every page goes along with the pencil slipping, erasable in time to come. Or perhaps, you have unreadable monstrous handwriting they decided to do away with it. They would complete this book with a hardcover because they claim that it’s easier to tide through rough comings. Perhaps waterproof?

So who am I really? how does one combat an existential and identity crisis all at the same time? how do day and night find a middle ground? perhaps we were meant to be unpublished authors. so – keep the original copy in the drawer, or that recyclable box you use to stash away all the cheesy yet believable love letters back from kindergarten.

Screw the edits deemed necessary, you’re quite an author yourself.

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