Stream of Consciousness
The Disorder Between Us
It all started when I broke up with Alpha. I got into a new relationship within just 4 months, which was a huge mistake as I did not complete the lessons that I should have learned from my relationship with Alpha. This new boyfriend I would call him Zen. We were best friends from class 9 and when I reached class 11 I had a break up with Alpha and Zen had his chance with me. He was the sweetest boyfriend ever. Yes, we broke up but the way he treated me the whole time was magical. No one can ever adore me the way he did. He treated me like a literal baby. He would do just anything to impress me and make me happy. In the process, I got spoiled and messed things up, somehow I had some mental problems where the symptoms were very dangerous.
By Phoenix9 months ago in Confessions
The Morning I Missed the Bus—and Found My Way Instead
The Morning I Missed the Bus—and Found My Way Instead I was 17, late for school, and flying down the block in the middle of winter with half-frozen hair and a burnt piece of toast in my mouth. Classy. The yellow school bus came around the corner just as I was reaching the stop. I waved frantically, breath clouding in the air, but the driver didn't see. Perhaps he did, and just decided it was too late.
By Amzad Rahid9 months ago in Confessions
The Scam That Taught Me More Than a Classroom Ever Did
I was in 12th grade when I first decided to order something online. Back then, online shopping wasn’t common in my family. In fact, it was strongly discouraged. My parents believed it was risky, and every time I mentioned it, they’d look concerned. They thought everything online was a scam waiting to happen.
By Takbir Hasan9 months ago in Confessions
Butterflies and Bruises
In 2021, I fell in love for the first time with my childhood crush. I will call him Alpha through the whole series. I never expected him to take notice of me until he confessed that he too liked me . We started talking and sharing everything we possibly could. He was a very nice person and also a little guarded about his feelings and thoughts. He did not talk much about how the relationship made him feel. We used to spend a lot of time together and he used to love listening to my yapping and was very understanding. He used to guide me so nicely through my hardships and always wanted the best for me. He adored me!
By Phoenix9 months ago in Confessions
When the Red Room Closed In: Loneliness, God, and the Quiet Ways I Keep Breathing.
“Some stories don’t end with answers. Some end with breath. That’s enough for today." -M. McGinis There are days when I can’t talk to people. Not because I don’t want to—but because I don’t know how to bridge the gap between what I feel and what others expect me to say.
By Test9 months ago in Confessions
Word of the day: 嘘
I have been thinking of my first boyfriend lately. I mean I still have him on Instagram so I sometimes see his updates though he lives a pretty active life and doesn't post often so it isn't like always in my face. Probably like once every 2 months or something like that.
By Kayla McIntosh9 months ago in Confessions
Mind-Spelunking:
I’m sitting here trying to write and it’s hard. Wait a minute, I just wrote that! And that! Whoa… I’m doing it, I’m writing. Haha! I’m writing! I am a writer! I - am - a waiter! Stop! Rewind. Error detected. I’m certainly not a waiter, not anymore. From now on, I will be the one getting waited upon as I sip expensive coffee and write! Yes writing, what’s more fancy, more impressive than being a writer? You have your table and your things and you sit and, after a while, words just come out of the ends of your fingers like magic - or sometimes out of other places. As I am now a writer, I know these things you see. Oh, wait a minute, what’s this? I’m getting this feeling, it’s bubbling inside of me. I don’t like it. It feels like, like - existential terror. This sudden fear envelops me that I long to shrug off like wet clothes on a cold day. What will I write about? What stain will I smear across the literary world that no amount of censorship could ever remove? Do I use these powers bestowed upon me at birth/after 18 years of standard English education, to shine a light on the darkness of our world? I immediately imagine all of the journalists, like those at Charlie Hebdo in Paris in 2015, who have been eternally silenced for writing about dangerous topics. Hmm, I’m not sure I want a madman bursting into my overpriced cafe scene and murdering the waiter and myself because of some words i’ve written. A blood-stain on the literary world is not exactly what I had in mind. So what then? Perhaps I should write fiction and create new worlds for people to escape to - immigrants of the imagination seeking a better distraction. I have tried this, I am trying this. After all, it’s not only readers who need to escape. Who do you think dug the tunnel? It was the writer! They imagined it, they thought it possible and they built it (wrote it). Knock, Knock. Oh wait, what’s that at the door? A concerned friend or relative wondering where I am? I haven’t been seen in days, or so they say. One cannot live in two realities at once you see. It is inevitable then, that some of the present moment is traded in when crossing the interdimensional veil of the imagination. To write fiction, really good fiction, it’s not simply about manifesting alternate realities - you have to climb inside of them. Knock-knock again at the door, like pulling at a diver’s tether - another attempt to bring me back to the surface to a reality more familiar, but not entirely less strange. I open the door and begin the usual robotic roleplay, whilst closing my laptop and covering up my notes - my stories, like ugly children, hidden away to be spared from ridicule. The inevitable line of questioning then begins, so how’s the writing going? Like an exploratory probe wrenched out of a literary anus, I stare back covered in sweat and confusion. It’s going well, I eventually reply. If I were to projectile vomit a beat by beat synopsis detailing the current state of my current story, a dark soup of thoughts swirling around like a nebula inside my head, two things would most likely happen - simultaneously. Their eyes glaze over as they become lost almost instantly, in either confusion or boredom - most likely boredom. Whilst I stand there jabbering like a madman about mushroom men and carnivorous blackberry bushes, wondering why they even bothered asking in the first place. So let’s close that book. Fiction is fun but I’m a writer now, I need to be taken more seriously. Aha! I’ve got it! I’ll write books filled with serious words about facts and instructions - commentary on the already conceived. I’ll give instructions on reality, on real things like fishing and baking, history and science. Bicycles, barnacles, building materials, the list goes on. So much knowledge to impart, so much information to regurgitate! Oh no, it’s that feeling again, like the impending doom of a stampeding, screaming horde charging up inside of me from the dark depths of my soul - existential terror! With the visitor now vanquished/departed of their own accord, I move towards the mirror on the wall and stare at the reflection. It’s not long before the dishevelled man gazing back at me, possessed of all my doubts and fears asks - What do you know about anything anyway? Fuuuuck!! He’s right! I’m a fraud! Sshh! Someone (my ego) might hear you/me! I scurry away from the mirror back to my chair to allow this revelation to either sink in or dissipate like a foul smelling fart. As usual, it lingers. Isn’t that why you wanted to become a writer in the first place? I ask myself. Because you suck at everything else? This internal provocation echoes within the cavity between my ears, poking at me - with the shit-covered stick of truth. I want to write because I already know how to - because it doesn’t require the acquisition of new skills. Is that really the story I'm writing for myself? One in which the main character is a figure fraught with fear - the fear of facing new challenges. Or is writing the ultimate challenge? Like cold water-therapy - only you’re submerged in the sticky amniotic fluid of the imagination, or mind-spelunking, writing is for the brave and reckless. Like a man who knows’ what he’s doing, I stand up on my chair and tighten my dressing-gown cord like I’m about to spelunk the hell out of my mind!
By James Spencer-Briggs10 months ago in Confessions
I tried to be heartless, and here is what happened. Top Story - April 2025.
You know when the shit hits the celing and life is an absolute mess everywhere, yeah that is what I am talking about. My existence has had 22 years on this gorgeous - gorgeous mortal realm and in the recency of my being, my life has sucked a lot. I have had my share of darkness since forever, but of late, my desperation for light has been at its zenith. I have wanted my life to look like the glorious lives of Rory gilmore, an academic scholar, while being the perfect 4.0, a beautiful boyfriend( maybe not necessary), a great deal of money, a stellar institute I go to, a high qualified job in writing or journalism, and parents being super proud of me.
By Hridya Sharma10 months ago in Confessions
Breaking the Cycle
Breaking the Cycle: How to Heal and End Generational Curses Generational curses aren't just the stuff of superstition. In today's world, they’re real, tangible patterns—cycles of pain, trauma, and dysfunction passed down from one generation to the next. These “curses” often show up as emotional neglect, addiction, abuse, poor communication, financial instability, or toxic belief systems. And while we may not be responsible for the trauma that shaped our families, we *are* responsible for what we do with it.
By Gabriela Tone10 months ago in Confessions
Generational Curses
The Hidden Cost: What Happens to Children When Parents Don’t Break Generational Curses In every family, there are patterns—unspoken rules, emotional wounds, survival tactics, and inherited beliefs that get passed down like heirlooms. These are often what people today refer to as *generational curses*. Unlike mystical superstitions, these "curses" are deeply psychological, emotional, and behavioral patterns rooted in trauma, unhealed wounds, or outdated worldviews. And when parents choose not to confront or heal them, the impact on their children can be profound, lasting well into adulthood—and sometimes, an entire lifetime.
By Gabriela Tone10 months ago in Confessions
Journey out of the dead
Hi, I am Phoenix. This is not my real name but i would like to keep it private. I am 18 years old and this is a series related to my life and the experiences that I have gained so far as a teenager. I love to write specially about my feelings and the things that I learn from life and incidents.
By Phoenix10 months ago in Confessions
