Light/Yet by Shereen

Posted on May 11, 2014 by


Dear Diary,

It’s been a while since I’ve last written anything here, and a longer while since I’ve last ripped my heart off and squeezed all the blood out of it.

Today’s day and date? I couldn’t care less.

Purpose of writing? Internal suffocation; I think.

I’m not sure about anything lately, except for the fact that I’m through confessing.

I’m through writing about things that make paper and ink feel pity for me.

So I’ll be writing down this one last entry before I burn every dirty, little, sick secret engraved in you.

I’m through.

I should have known that this world is unjust and tragic, and that Hemingway was a liar.

He was right about one thing, though, writing is a lonely life.

Every time I write, I’m reclusive, and all I think of saying aloud to people is: are you repulsed by who I am? Are you disgusted by the fact that books and papers and paints can easily replace each and every contaminated soul alive?

But I keep quiet. Because in a way, silence is all I am.



Remember when I was a kid and I said I got over my mother’s early plane-departure, and my grandfather’s early soul-departure? I might have lied.

And when I was a kid and I said I was kept company by a lot of people and I was euphoric? I might have prevaricated about that, too; and maybe a bunch of other things..

But I didn’t lie about how much I hated writing.

Or how much I wished I’d been a better writer; a better narrator; a better liar.



It’s happening again, you see.

Some mornings, I wake up at 3:45 a.m., with no previously set alarm to break dining plates out of frustration; some nights, I’d say I’m going to take a shower, but all of me feels like curling up into fetus position on the bathroom floor.

As for today, I locked myself up in dark, good-for-one room like I did the day my mother left.

I sat on the floor and pushed my thighs towards my chest, then held my head on top, like the ending of a beautiful beginning. As if!



I’m 17 and it still feels like the world just crashed like the flight forgotten about.

I am 17 and I feel like a messed-up part of what used to be whole.

Locking myself up in that solitary room made me feel so debilitated that I had to lay on the floor. I don’t know, I guess I was waiting for the light that was yet to come.

Or maybe I was running away from this world, towards it.

Yours Truly.

Posted in: Light/Yet