Nisha Chhetri (18)
23:18 p m
28 . 6 . 17
I write.
I write about all that I’m feeling and experiencing and observing and realizing. I write about my days, my nights, my lows, my highs. Sometimes I don’t write at all. I write when I’m happy, when I’m sad. Mostly when I’m sad. I write in the company of my cat. I write as my left hand twitches and my phalanges ache. I write horribly. I write honestly.
I write late at night or early in the morning when my family is asleep. Inside my room, the door locked. I like to know that my parents are oblivious to all that I write about. My mother says, “What on earth do you write that you cannot even share with us?” whenever she gets a hint that I’ve been writing. I stay quiet. She calls my sister and asks her to read out all that I’ve written. I get uneasy. Hold my journal tightly. Anxiety has swallowed me whole. She doesn’t even get a whiff of what I’ve written.
I write because I’m the only one who’ll read. I write about feelings, emotions, conflicts and constant heartbreaking. I write about boys and about girls, about the sun, the moon, the stars and the universe. Existential crisis. God. I write about how much I’d love to be by the sea, to hear the waves, to feel the sea foam with my hands, to try to catch my breath under, to lose myself in the water. I write about my world, a world so dern, it’ll burn, you. A world so secretive I fear them finding out about it. I fear them finding my treasures hidden behind these carelessly woven alphabets. Fearing every syllable that spills out of their mouths.
You shouldn’t be writing. You shouldn’t be wasting time. Telling me that it’s not okay to write, it’s strange that I lock myself in the room to: write? “There’s something wrong with you,” they say, and I believe them; I let them get into my head.
Writing is my drug. An escape. Door locked, curtains pulled, and I write. I write, trying not to crackle the sheets so much, trying not to involuntarily retract my yellow pen so much because if they hear me, they’ll know. I cannot endure their affronts. I will have nothing to shield me against their words.
I stare at the ceiling, white. Think I’m odd, think I’m misunderstood, think I’m unreachable, think I’m unlovable. Think I’m not supposed to be this way but I am. And you’ll know when it happens to you, and it happened to me that night.
Muffled sounds. Deadening. Terrifying. Deafening. Think I’m going to cry. Think I’m going to die. The truth showing itself to me. I am me.
I’m writing in the seventh last page of my year-and-a-half-old journal. It’s 23:26, drizzling outside. My brown door, wide open. You may come in if you want to. You can tell me anything if you’re willing to. My retractable pen will shield me; I will shelter myself. I’ll say, “Welcome to my world. I hope it doesn’t burn you.” My left hand doesn’t twitch anymore. My phalanges don’t ache anymore. I’m not afraid anymore.
Nisha Chhetri was born on the 9th of July in the year 1999. She currently resides in a small town named Kalimpong in the state of West Bengal, India, with her parents, a younger sister, five cats and two dogs. She is studying in the 12th grade in St. Joseph’s Convent, Kalimpong. She has never been by the sea and wishes to be soon. She likes to look at grey clouds with luminous and blinding silver linings and imagines that somewhere people are witnessing a beautiful sunset. She writes because she wants to and has never gotten published before because she hasn’t taken her writing seriously until now. She questions a lot and wonders how this world could be a constant source of heartbreak for her and at the same time full of endless possibilities.
23:18 p m
28 . 6 . 17
I write.
I write about all that I’m feeling and experiencing and observing and realizing. I write about my days, my nights, my lows, my highs. Sometimes I don’t write at all. I write when I’m happy, when I’m sad. Mostly when I’m sad. I write in the company of my cat. I write as my left hand twitches and my phalanges ache. I write horribly. I write honestly.
I write late at night or early in the morning when my family is asleep. Inside my room, the door locked. I like to know that my parents are oblivious to all that I write about. My mother says, “What on earth do you write that you cannot even share with us?” whenever she gets a hint that I’ve been writing. I stay quiet. She calls my sister and asks her to read out all that I’ve written. I get uneasy. Hold my journal tightly. Anxiety has swallowed me whole. She doesn’t even get a whiff of what I’ve written.
I write because I’m the only one who’ll read. I write about feelings, emotions, conflicts and constant heartbreaking. I write about boys and about girls, about the sun, the moon, the stars and the universe. Existential crisis. God. I write about how much I’d love to be by the sea, to hear the waves, to feel the sea foam with my hands, to try to catch my breath under, to lose myself in the water. I write about my world, a world so dern, it’ll burn, you. A world so secretive I fear them finding out about it. I fear them finding my treasures hidden behind these carelessly woven alphabets. Fearing every syllable that spills out of their mouths.
You shouldn’t be writing. You shouldn’t be wasting time. Telling me that it’s not okay to write, it’s strange that I lock myself in the room to: write? “There’s something wrong with you,” they say, and I believe them; I let them get into my head.
Writing is my drug. An escape. Door locked, curtains pulled, and I write. I write, trying not to crackle the sheets so much, trying not to involuntarily retract my yellow pen so much because if they hear me, they’ll know. I cannot endure their affronts. I will have nothing to shield me against their words.
I stare at the ceiling, white. Think I’m odd, think I’m misunderstood, think I’m unreachable, think I’m unlovable. Think I’m not supposed to be this way but I am. And you’ll know when it happens to you, and it happened to me that night.
Muffled sounds. Deadening. Terrifying. Deafening. Think I’m going to cry. Think I’m going to die. The truth showing itself to me. I am me.
I’m writing in the seventh last page of my year-and-a-half-old journal. It’s 23:26, drizzling outside. My brown door, wide open. You may come in if you want to. You can tell me anything if you’re willing to. My retractable pen will shield me; I will shelter myself. I’ll say, “Welcome to my world. I hope it doesn’t burn you.” My left hand doesn’t twitch anymore. My phalanges don’t ache anymore. I’m not afraid anymore.
Nisha Chhetri was born on the 9th of July in the year 1999. She currently resides in a small town named Kalimpong in the state of West Bengal, India, with her parents, a younger sister, five cats and two dogs. She is studying in the 12th grade in St. Joseph’s Convent, Kalimpong. She has never been by the sea and wishes to be soon. She likes to look at grey clouds with luminous and blinding silver linings and imagines that somewhere people are witnessing a beautiful sunset. She writes because she wants to and has never gotten published before because she hasn’t taken her writing seriously until now. She questions a lot and wonders how this world could be a constant source of heartbreak for her and at the same time full of endless possibilities.