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Powerlessness and other Things


“I don’t know what to do……”

“What should I do?…”

Such sentences often come into our minds when we have something that pains us and we seem powerless against it. Powerlessness is most certainly a horrible feeling. When you see things happening right in front of you. Wishing you could change it so bad or at least make it a bit better than it is.

You wish and you wish so strongly with all your might to be able to make a difference only to realize that all your prayers and efforts don’t make a difference. It’s like you can see your own hope and faith slowly slipping out of your hands and instead of falling to the ground, you can feel it falling in an endless pit shrouded with nothing but despair. The frustration is nothing less than painful. It plays with your mind and makes you feel so tiny and useless, to say the least.

Sometimes, you keep all these struggles inside yourself, hoping time will be your knight in shining armor and save you from everything. We all know time is usually too slow. People say that time heals everything. In those times though, it sounds like a lie. Like you have to fight it all on your own and all by yourself. After what seems like endless fighting you standstill. You start to hope that if you stop reacting to it, it will just go away. You bear with it and keep bearing with it till you break and then the words become more frantic echoing in your mind muddling it further.

“I don’t know what to do!”

“What should I do!?”

Now that you have had enough. Everything starts to pour out. You start to cry. Whether it is your eyes or your mind or your soul or your heart it doesn’t matter. Some part of you starts to cry.

Maybe it’s just a cry to let everything go or maybe you are screaming with all your might.

Maybe you want someone to come to you and save you from all of it even though you aren’t saying it out loud.

At times like this…..

It is okay to not do anything.In fact you shouldn’t do anything if you have already tried and can’t.

Rest yourself a bit.

Take some time to yourself.


Rely on someone. It is perfectly fine to ask them to stay with you longer than usual. Have a mental breakdown if you feel the need. It is okay to leave whatever is bothering you to someone else. To ask them to sort it out for you. Be it the matter itself or your feelings. Sometimes, you need someone else more than anything and that is fine.

At times like this….

It is fine to wait to make your move.

To be afraid of what will happen.

To think or maybe overthink if you are an overthinker.

To be afraid of every move you make and do things at your own pace.

Once everything settles…..

It is okay to realise that it was something small and easily solvable.

It is okay to realise you could have handled stuff in a better way.

It is okay to realise that nothing could have been done all along.

It is okay to realise that you were entirely in the wrong or totally wronged.

It is okay to realise that you were only confused and that it made everything worse.

It’s okay….

Sometimes all you can do is feel powerless and then let time help you see the real picture and make you realise what it all was.

But once it all settles…

Don’t be bothered by it again.

Let it go.

Forgive yourself and anyone involved.

Thank the ones who stayed with you throughout.

Show gratitude to the ones that helped you get through it.

Once everything settles though…

I want you to know.

You did your best.

You did great.

You are still loved and as long as you try to set things right with sincerity.

Whatever happened and however things went down is not just your fault.

Whatever happened doesn’t mean you are any less than you were before and that you deserve all the happiness that comes your way after it.

Love yourself even after everything happens. It is very important.

Powerlessness will go and how you grow from it all depends on you.

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TW: violence

“Imagine the one thing you wanted, being used as bait to lure you into peril. That’s what I feel when my freedom, like a cubical cheese, remains positioned at the center of this mousetrap. If you haven’t realized already, I am the mouse surrounded by the predator lurking in the darkness and the temptation of freedom.”

A loud bang from the kitchen draws my attention to the empty hallway. I set my reading glasses aside and proceed to reach out for the baseball bat. I knew I couldn’t escape him. I didn’t even want to try. I had to make sure that he wasn’t going to hurt me again. Purple bruises from yesterday littered my skin; Artistically, I could describe this as a hue of purple and blue with tints of black. 

With slow strides, thinking about the artistic representation and the uncanny philosophical approach to tackling problems coupled with contemplating my life, I reach the kitchen. I didn’t want to push open the door. In no way did I want to see him again. 

“I can see your ghostly worn-out figure. It’s not a sight I am blessed with, so why don’t you tell me why you are here and end both our miseries.”    

Well, oh crap. Maybe I should think of a more effective tactic next time. 

My hands are visibly quivering. The baseball bat falls with a thud. Why wouldn’t it? What you hear now is the silence before the storm. He was a stout short-tempered man. If I was to speak, I am sure I’d vilify him. I don’t have a death wish. Therefore, I remain mum, which you may have identified as my biggest mistake. 

He pushes aside the door and walks out with an angered expression. I had never been able to make out his face. I would like to know what my captor looks like; it’s a decent mystery. 

“The next time I ask something, I expect a reply,” his hold grew rigid on my hands. Another set of purple bruises? I must buy a new concealer. As his grasp grew tighter, I let out a small whimper. It was always a series of unexplainable events which led to him beating and hurling abuses. If only I could remove that mask and see who he was. It makes for a good death wish, right? 

“Tell me what you were supposed to do,” his voice louder and distinctly clearer made chills run through my spine. Petition to get him to drop it down a little? I find this very ironic. The same scene greets me every day and expects me to weep for help. I find this nothing short of a monotonous picturesque scenario. Right, where are we? I am supposed to be scared, but I’ll be honest. I am tired. I don’t feel anything. I should, but I can’t. A sharp tug of hair brings me back to reality. I was supposed to do the dishes, clean my room, make pasta and sweep the entire apartment. I chose silence again. You don’t have the right to mock me. When I spoke yesterday, the scene was comparatively violent. 

He drags me to the water basin. 

That’s a first. 

And before I could protest, my head is submerged in water. I am trying my best to overpower him. I fear water. I remember when I was seven and almost drowned. He knew that too, but this was punishment. Punishment for not responding. Punishment for solely existing. I can see air bubbles. Oh, I like bubbles. I remember this one time my mother brought me a bubble set with my favorite candy stick. I spent the evening in a park, blowing bubbles. How ironic, a fragment of my happy moment is possibly a sign of my demise. I remember falling when I ran to catch this bubble, and oh my, what a fall. It felt as if I couldn’t see, and my lungs were full. I couldn’t breathe, and it almost felt like I had run out of air. 

Dejavu? I suppose so. 

Struggling is futile. I had to remain calm. If this was my ticket to heaven, I am planning on embracing it with open arms. But this, my friends, is where I made a mistake again. At this point, let’s say that my life is a series of unfortunate events. If he wanted to kill me, I’d be at peace but, he wished for a fate worse than death. My lungs were on the verge of exploding when he pulled me out and pushed me on the concrete floor. 

I find it hard to mask any reactions. I don’t think I am scared. I need to get over with this. Hands clutch my neck, and for someone not over the near-drowning experience, a sharp pain arises in the pit of my stomach. Pools of black fill my vision, and just like that, I let the darkness take over.

I am rejoicing in this slow gruesome demise. It is a sad time to remember that I forgot to take my medicines today. The mousetrap writing remains unfinished like my story. The bed remains unmade, and the sunflower on the bed stand will wither soon. 

Fragments of my vision and consciousness find me. I remain on the floor, exhausted by the events which transpired. Supporting myself on the side drawer, I get up at a slow pace. Pain arises at the joints of my neck. Is it broken? Great, just like me. I looked around, praying that he wasn’t in sight and the mighty lord heard me for once. 

I’d be free at last. With a racing heart, I try to take a step forward. In disappointment, I falter. I crawl to my room, feeling the pain resonating through my leg. Moments passed by in a blur, and I reached my room with a smile of bliss at last. The bed frame supports me as I pack my belongings. I would be free at last. 

That’s what I feel when my freedom, like a cubical cheese, remains positioned at the center of this mousetrap,” His voice stops me dead on my track, “Don’t you pay heed to your own writings?” 

My attention shifts to the paper on my desk; I was writing about myself. The cheese was nothing but my freedom, and as a predator, he lurked in the darkness to swallow me whole. I had fallen into this trap; the bait was effective. I feel a blow on my already broken leg. An unimaginable amount of pain takes over. Was this my end? Slow crippling demise with a pinch of freedom, I’d never taste? 

“Didn’t you want to know what i looked like?” he asks as he drags me to the mirror. His hands choke my neck again as I try to breathe; my legs quake. Despite the immense pain, I nod my head. It would make an appreciable dying wish. 

“I don’t aspire to kill you,” he retorted. Had he heard what I said? 

” Precisely so. Death is too easy for you,” he lifts his mask with a hand. Not in a dramatic serial manner; it was too quick. All I see in the mirror was my reflection with my own hands on my neck. I fell for it again. He was not here; there was no one here. I hear the voice again before silence envelops me. 

” I am here. More accurately, I am you. I am the predator in your head , and the only way to break free, would be to lose yourself.Don’t you see, the freedom you crave is merely a bait.” 

I am beyond tired, tired of being sick. I rummage through a table drawer and swallow a handful of prescribed pills before I let sleep take over. 


Delusion, hallucination, disorganized thinking, and abnormal motor behavior are common symptoms of Schizophrenia. Although the symptoms and their severity vary, the following are common traits in both men and women diagnosed with the illness. The following work is a fictional story of a schizophrenic patient and in no way is supposed to depict the plight of any patient diagnosed with the same. I am neither a psychologist nor a patient and, therefore, would like to apologize for any misinterpretation. 

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From Platinum To Taupe


One fine day, with a load of deadlines approaching, in way over my head, I was contemplating my existence and how it had taken a turn for the worse and jauntily headed down disaster lane. You know, a normal morning. And in typical fashion, I proceeded to depress myself further by berating myself for being ungrateful when everything could have been much worse. 

This thread of thought took me to that night years ago, to a railway station, where I sat alone enjoying the serene breeze, waiting for the train. It was almost midnight, and with only a couple of people around, it was with mild surprise that I beheld a man approaching, weighed down by a bag larger than his frail body, asking for alms. Now I am not a person who can ever turn down anyone in such a predicament, or any other for that matter, for I still hadn’t mastered the subtle art of saying ‘no’. So it was with great regret that I informed him that I had no money at hand, for I was quite young back then and was waiting on my parents. 

He put his bag down, which consisted of a great deal of plastic, probably headed to the recycling yard, and started giving me what seemed to be life advice. I scoffed in my mind and was tempted to turn away, after all, talking to a stranger at midnight was not the brightest idea. But then he started recollecting his life and regrets and it was not what one would expect of a beggar. Turned out, he was a businessman but had been dealt quite a hand by fate when his children kicked him out with not a penny to his name. that seemed unbelievable and far-fetched, and I wouldn’t have given it a second thought if it weren’t for the fact that he could speak fluently in English, which was hard to come by in itself. He sold pens for a living, and he gave me one, insisting I keep it as a token when I refused, citing my inability to pay him. It all seemed genuine enough, considering he walked away, giving me something, which would have cost him precious money, with no strings attached. I admit that I was extremely naïve at the time, and my observations were perhaps clouded by sympathy, bleeding heart that I was and that he probably only lied, although, to this day, I can’t for the life of me, figure out why.

All I did, was perceive this overly emphatic side of me as a weakness and try and tune it down a bit. And what brilliant idea did my mind come up with to achieve this end? Faking it. That proved to be a blunder, for, when faking morphs into reality, when the lines blur, when your pretence goes just a bit too far, how do you find your way back?

I do not know how it feels to be hungry, to not know where that little amount of money will trickle in from next. I know not how it is to live without the assurance of a roof over my head, a barrier to keep me warm on a cold night. What will I be willing to give up in the name of survival? The image of a man from a cartel in California, a hired gun, claiming with utter conviction, that he was not a bad man, but just a good man who did bad things in a documentary, flashed through my mind. He believed that he was just another man who worked to put food on the table, yearning to see a smile on his wife’s face and hear the joy in his child’s laughter. Perhaps it was just an effort to give himself an illusion of righteousness. How far would I go when the pangs of hunger make me delirious and my parched throat begs for a drop of water? Would I be able to bring myself to take a life, kill another man, to put food in my belly, or would I rather die? Will I be desperate enough to take any job, and sacrifice my morals and beliefs? I believe I would never know, for it is all well and good to wonder when I haven’t experienced any of it.

Is it not the actions that define us, no matter what we feel about them? But is it not our opinions that make us unique, make us who we are? The infinite degrees of a moral compass provides for infinite shades of grey.  From those that drive people to murder by proclaiming that the glass is neither half-full nor half-empty, but full of air and water and that one unapologetic person in a party, who cares not what the world thinks, ardently believing that there are as many opinions as there are heads, and continues to dance so ungracefully, it would put a zombie to shame, to those that can’t be bothered with life’s games, and are content to wallow in monotony and those that turn killing and maiming into an art form, life is all shades of grey. It is only our decision which one we end up residing in.

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(Viewer Discretion is Advised)

It was time to wake up and once again he had a splitting headache; like a hangover. The past few months had been hell for our protagonist. Every time he woke up with a headache, something bad would’ve happened. Not knowing why this was happening was killing him on the inside, as if something was eating him from within, consuming his soul, slowly, until nothing was left to devour. He had no strength left to get out of bed, knowing that something would be waiting for him, something that would finally break him and his mind. Somehow, he convinced himself to get out of bed and get dressed for work, his body trembling in fear. Since it was a chilly morning, he decided to wear his long coat. When he put his hands in the pocket of the coat, he found a list of names scribbled on a paper, names of people he knew, crossed out in red. He had tried to get rid of that list many times before but he couldn’t seem to do so. Holding the list in his hand, he did not know who it was this time, the fear of knowing someone he knew would be no more, maybe living in denial would bring them back or make it seem like that they never went away.

As he opened his front door and walked into the lobby of his old and gloomy building, he saw the corpse of his landlord being taken away, covered in blood, eyes gouged out and fingers cut off. He saw the cops talking to his neighbor, a college girl, in her final year, about to graduate. She had beautiful golden hair and brown eyes that complimented her smile very well. But today she seemed scared, shook to her core, her hair was a mess, probably bed hair, and she was shivering. Was it the cold? Or was it the sight of the old man’s corpse? I couldn’t tell

A detective noticed our protagonist and walked up to him and informed him about the situation and asked him a few general questions, if he saw anyone or anything suspicious, about his whereabouts, and if he had heard anything the previous night. He calmly answered the questions and proceeded to go to work, on the inside he was terrified and wondered if his landlord’s name was on that list. As he got on the 10 AM train, he slowly pulled out the list and mustered up whatever mental strength he could find, and opened the list. Right there, on the eleventh number, he saw the name of his landlord, scratched off with red ink, or was it blood… The train’s brakes were suddenly applied and the screeching sound that followed only amplified his headache. At that moment he heard a voice in his head saying that the landlord deserved it, that justice had been done. He immediately started sweating and became anxious.

(Flashback to the previous evening when he was returning from work and walked into the lobby of his drab building.)

He saw his neighbor being cornered by the old landlord, trying to take advantage of the poor girl. As soon as the landlord noticed him, he backed off and his neighbor rushed into her apartment while sobbing. The landlord made a face that showed his displeasure at our protagonist and slowly walked away while rolling his eyes. Our protagonist then went to check on her and comforted her, but there was nothing he could say that would turn back time. He heard her whisper under her breath that she wished the old man would die a gruesome death. This triggered something inside him, something dark, was it the voice in his head or was something darker at play here. His head suddenly started aching and he went to bed.

Right as the clock struck 3 in the morning, he woke up, put on his long coat and picked up some stuff, few rags, a bucket, some tools, and calmly made his way to the landlord’s house. Fortunately, the old man lived alone, his wife had passed away 13 years ago and his children despised him. He knocked on the old man’s door. After a minute the door creaked open and the old man’s shriveled up silhouette was seen against the streetlight coming from the window behind him. He immediately knocked him out with a hammer on the head and dragged him inside and closed the door behind him. He tied him up on a chair and stuffed his mouth and tied it with a piece of cloth. He woke him up with a splash of water and whispered in his ear about what he was going to do to him, and smirked under the flickering light. He cut off his fingers slowly, one at a time, showing the old man the fate that awaited him and kept going until all his fingers were gone. Picking up a spoon from the kitchen, he made his way towards the old man’s eyes and gouged one of them out. The muffled scream, making him more eager to remove the other one out. Eventually, the screaming stopped and he cut his jugular vein and let him bleed to death. He collected all his tools and made his way back to his apartment, trying not to leave any evidence behind. He immediately made a list and scribbled a few names and crossed them out with the blood of the old man and slipped it in the coat pocket and went to bed after getting rid of any biological evidence he could find.

(Back in the present)

His sweating had stopped and he was as calm as he could be. The train reached the last stop and he made his way onto the platform. The train had stopped at a small town on the outskirts of the city. He made his way to a nearby bridge and sat on the bench that was next to it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a gun. He put the gun against the side of his head and whispered under his breath, “Justice has been done” and pulled the trigger, killing the twelfth and thirteenth person…