Childhood feels like endless gold,
wrapped in warmth,
too soft to hold.

But life grows teeth,
it snaps the thread.
One day you blink,
and care is dead.

Noise replaces gentle sounds,
blankets turn to battlegrounds.
Doors swing wide,
the fan clicks cold
no space for soft
when life gets old.

And out there
kids play with stones in the street,
laughing like kings
with nothing to eat.

A baby swings from a tree in the sun,
while life burns hands
to feed just one.

And somewhere between
hope and despair,
you glance at the clock
and life’s unfair.

You’re chasing success,
but here’s the crime:
you’re not just late
you’re losing time.

Not your time.
Theirs, the ones who wait,
believing your dreams
will arrive too late.

They’re aging while
you load your fate,
still buffering goals
on a tired update.

So here’s the truth,
served sharp, not sweet
the softer you’re raised,
the harder you bleed.

And the cruelest thing
about running late
is love still fading
while you hesitate.

[End]

Father loved Mother.
Mother loved Father.
I loved the small certainties:
hand-fed spoons, silent protection, gentle laughter.
Life seemed arranged neatly,
like fine china on a shelf.

Then I grew.
Love became a strange apparatus,
clattering and whistling in ways I did not understand.
I tried to enter it politely,
with a borrowed interest in cricket, games, cafes—
all things foreign to me, yet suddenly urgent.

I bent. I mimicked. I learned gestures
I thought would invite affection.

And still.
Still, the kettle would not whistle for me.
He, the one I loved, remained curiously indifferent,
like a cat observing my earnest gymnastics
from the top of a wardrobe.

I gave, and in giving, I forgot myself—
my laughter, my hands,
my small, quiet obsessions.
A curious emptiness settled
where my heart had once ticked.

I want a love that does not ask me to perform—
a love that does not weigh my attention like coins on a scale.
A love that sees me, not the reflection of its own desires in my eyes.

Yet, the absurdity persists:
I still hope. I still watch. I still imagine
that one day, someone will notice the small, stubborn self
I have been quietly losing
in the shadow of my own giving.

That’s how it began for me — not with ghosts, not with visions, but with small moments like these.

Over time, those moments grew sharper.

When I was a child, I was close to a neighbour — my bua. She confided in me about her struggles, and then, tragically, she died by suicide. People assumed I’d feel scared in the house after that, but I didn’t. Instead, I felt a strange calm, like she had finally found peace. There was also a flicker of guilt — maybe, somehow, I could have done something differently — but the calm was undeniable.

Our rented apartment

Later we moved to a rented apartment. From the day I stepped in, I had a strong feeling that something was off. There were pigeons nesting in the kitchen — which some people see as a bad sign — but I never believed in superstitions. Still, I started sensing the presence of an old man and a child in the apartment, as if their energies were there.

At first, I ignored it, thinking I was just being over-sensitive (I was 18 at the time). But gradually, my feelings about the place became stronger. The balcony — which I had loved initially — suddenly felt scary and uncomfortable. During the last two months in that house, I never saw or heard anything directly, but it felt like someone there was angry. I never knew if it was a person, or God, or just the air itself — but it felt as if even the air was angry at me. After we shifted out, I learned that an old man had died suddenly in that apartment due to financial pressure. This shocked me because it matched what I’d been feeling all along.

A man in the night: seeing death

In our new apartment, one night, I was walking with my father. It was an ordinary night — the kind of night when the air is soft, the streetlights make everything golden, and your guard is down because you’re laughing at some silly story. My mind was light; I remember even swinging my hands a little as we walked.

And then I noticed him.

At first it didn’t register — just a man, standing a little apart from where people usually stand. No movement. No phone in hand. Not even that restless shifting people do when they’re waiting for something. He was upright in a way that felt unnatural, as if his body had been placed there by someone else, like a figure in a photograph.

I slowed without realising it. My father kept talking.

The man’s eyes were locked on mine. Not a glance. Not a flicker. A direct stare that didn’t blink. It wasn’t aggressive — it wasn’t anything I could name — it was just… fixed. And in that moment something in me shifted.

It wasn’t a thought. It wasn’t imagination. It was like a sudden download of knowing. I didn’t see a scene, no images flashed — yet I felt as if I had just watched his entire end: a rope, a ceiling, the silence of a last breath. It was so specific it made me gasp inside my own head. “He hanged himself,” my mind whispered, with the same certainty it would say “That’s the sun” or “This is my father.”

I couldn’t look away. His eyes were ordinary, but the weight in them wasn’t. It was the weight of someone no longer living. My body felt it before my mind could question it: a coldness down my arms, my pulse suddenly loud.

And then, as quickly as it arrived, the knowing receded. My father said something and I forced myself to break the gaze. When I looked back, the man was still there, still staring — but I already knew I would never see him again.

The woman in the auto

The most recent incident happened while I was coming back from college. Normally, I take the metro, but that day for no reason I took an auto. A woman sat in front of me, along with two other women and two children. I noticed the two other women were keeping their distance from her, and even keeping their children away.

Her clothes were messy, she looked mentally disturbed but also self-conscious, like she was trying not to draw attention. I didn’t stare at her the way some people do with mentally ill individuals; I was just sitting normally.

Then our eyes met. For about two minutes I looked at her eyes, and in that short moment I felt an overwhelming flood of emotions and images:
– She had been sexually abused.
– Her newborn child had been taken from her because people thought she wasn’t capable of caring for it.
– The child had been put in an orphanage.
– She was deeply broken, embarrassed, and disgusted with her own life.
– She was planning to end her life because no one was helping her, only blaming and fearing her.

It all came to me suddenly. After two seconds, I had to look away because the feeling was so intense. But even as I turned my eyes away, I felt like she was still staring at me with big, knowing eyes — as if she had realised that I “knew” her story.

I’m usually not scared of people or situations (other than dogs), but in that moment I was genuinely afraid to even look at her again.

I don’t know what any of this means. I’m not afraid, but I am uneasy. Once I “feel” these things, they don’t go away. They leave me with a strong urge to help, though I don’t know how, or even if I’m supposed to.

I’m sharing this here not to convince anyone of anything, but because I wonder: is this something unusual? Should I be concerned? Or is it simply the way my mind and senses work?

I’d like to understand what I feel — and why it feels so real.

A cry, a pout,
and skies would part.
The world, it seemed,
had room for heart.

Then slowly, years
began to teach—
some stars just hang
too far to reach.

We painted dreams
on every wall...
but watched them peel,
then watched them fall.

No thunder came,
no final blow—
just doors that shut
too soft to know.

And that’s the ache
we never name:
Not failure—
just a paused acclaim.

The kind of quiet
that never ends...
where want grows old,
and hope pretends.

Maybe we don’t break on no… we just learn to carry it.

The world says:
“Hurry. Don’t delay.
Be done by ten.
Submit today.”
But how do you force
a quiet mind
to rush the gold
it hasn’t mined?

What if the best thought
comes too late?
What if the masterpiece
misses the date?
What if the heart
still needs to roam…
long after the deadline
calls it home?

We sit with pressure
in our chest,
asking—
“Is this enough?
Or just my best?”
Some days, we finish
half-unsure.
Other days,
waiting feels more pure.

But perfection is a trick—
a shifting line.
A game we lose,
time after time.
So maybe it’s fine
to do what you can:
to build,
to pause,
to start again.

Create in pieces,
soft and slow.
Let some ideas
stay seeds… not show.
And when the right one
comes too late—
save it for next time.
That’s not fate.

That’s just being human.
Learning to cope.
Balancing deadlines…
with moments of hope.

A little reminder that slow doesn’t mean failure

THE END.

But we all grow. We move to bigger houses, take our own rooms, our own paths. And somewhere in that space, we learn that the world doesn’t wait for us to feel ready. You’re supposed to stand on your own two feet, keep the tears in, and call it strength.

Still, some nights, lying in my bed, I wish I could be small again — when safety fit into a single room, and love was something you could hear breathing beside you.

If this made you think of your old home, I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

Not explain.
Not prove.
Just… exist with all these feelings I can’t say out loud.

Instagram was too loud.
People around me felt even louder.
And I—
I felt like a whisper stuck in a screaming room.

So this is where I’m dumping things.
Things I can’t say out loud.
Things that don't need to be perfect, just real.

If you’re here, reading this,
maybe you feel a little too much too.
Maybe you’ve got people around,
but not someone who really understands what's going on in your head.
Maybe your secrets don’t sound real out loud,
but they still keep you up at night.

So here, I’m not looking for someone to fix it for me.
I just want to say it.
Without expecting a solution.
Because maybe there isn’t one.
Or maybe I’m just too tired to find it right now.

This isn’t a story I know the ending of.
But maybe letting it out will make it lighter to carry.
Even if no one claps.
Even if no one replies.

And I’m not a writer.
Just someone trying to breathe a little easier.

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