Testing times

Three weeks to go.

Sigh. As overworked as I am with a barrage of assignments to finish, tests to study for, deadlines to meet, and homework to complete; now there's an added worry. I better start studying.

Considering I don't get nice long breaks in between exams, I always wonder how on earth I manage to pass them, and end up doing pretty decent, too. I have several not-too-happy memories of staying up 'til the wee hours of the night, poring over my monstrous books and solving tricky question after tricky question, and then crawling into bed, and falling asleep instantly without even bothering to take off my glasses. And then giving the exam a few hours later in a horribly sleep-deprived state. After that, get home, bleary-eyed and tired, worrying about the next day's exam. Lather, rinse, and repeat, every day, until it's finally over.

Anyway, my brain is a mess right now, full of assorted, mundane little details, continuously worrying about whether or not I'll get through this year alive. Why is everything so difficult? And, when things fall apart, they always fall apart all at the same time, so that I feel like tearing my hair out.

Khair. Guess I have to be content with cursing the education system. Which needs a major overhaul, by the way.

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Ink on Paper

My hand moves swiftly across the sheet of paper, my long fingers arranged awkwardly around the pen, as they always are. All around me is the soothing calm of solitude; the only audible sounds are the whirring of the ceiling fan, and the scratching of my pen. The words form in my head, and flow out gracefully in the form of long, black strokes on paper. Curves, lines, loops. My slightly slanting writing, with its sweeping Gs and Ys, curled Rs, and abnormally long Ls.


I pause to think of the perfect phrase, and the pen stops moving. The harsh blackness of the ink forms a large blot on the clean, crisp whiteness of the paper. Then the pen moves again. But the blot stays. The sharp tip of the pen strikes out a few words here and there, replacing them; sometimes it omits whole sentences. The whole sheet is now covered in my writing. And punctuated with ugly blots and scratches.


My eyes skim the lines traced by the pen, taking in the words they form. After some more corrections, I'm satisfied. I lay the sheet of paper among many such others, all crisp and white, covered in black lines.


Then I feel a sudden warmth spreading over my entire being, and filling every part of me with calm. Writing, as usual, gives me inexplicable joy. Sometimes, though, I wish I could write out my life. Reduce it to lines of black ink on white paper. And then everything would go according to plan.


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I was once a doll

Has it ever occurred to you that I am a living, breathing human, with feelings of my own? I doubt it. To you, I've always been something akin to a live doll, that walks and talks and breathes, but possesses no capacity to experience emotions of any kind; you were under the impression that you could do whatever you wished, and I'd willingly bend into submission. I was just an experiment. You could dictate nearly every action of mine. My feelings were nothing short of a joke. You could play with them like they were insignificant toys, just the way you played your cruel, harsh game with me, your adorable little doll.

Oh yes, you'd pretend to care on the countless occasions during which I shed tears, but of course you didn't. I was your doll. You could give me even the most blatant of all lies, and if you wished, I'd believe it. I was a plaything. You'd watch carelessly as I stumbled and fell, not caring to help me get on my feet again. I existed for the sole purpose of your happiness. My own had no importance whatsoever. Who cared what happened to me anyway?

And for some silly reason, I let this happen.


 I still continue to be mesmerized by the empty words that escape your lips, accompanied by your cold, pretentious voice.

But I've promised myself that I'll never be the doll again. And I wish you'd fall off a cliff. It'd make my life a whole lot easier; I wouldn't have to experience the longing and pain that ensues whenever you strike up old conversations, day after day.