There will always be a person who looks like a poem the earth wrote to keep you alive.

Juansen Dizon

Love should be easy, like sunshine on a summer day, like peeling oranges. It should be easy, but it isn't.

Some nights I still love the boy I loved when I was 13 even though I never think about him. He wrote me letters every time he missed me and played Panic at the Disco a little too loud. A girl I once held hands with all night told me that a full moon means the sun was happy that day and I still try to make the sun smile every time I look above. And it shouldn't have hurt when I told her I didn't love her anymore, I didn't. But some days I still do.

Love should be easy but it's old photographs, it's love letters that I still keep in a black box by my bedside table. It's puzzles whose pieces don't exist in my memory anymore. Love should be easy. It isn't.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

I was a gifted child. Until I wasn't. I was the golden girl. Until I couldn't burn anymore.

My parents expected me to build wings of gold and fly further than anyone could ever try. I don't blame them, having a child to raise is like sculpting a clay pot, you can shape it the way you like, paint it the colour you fancy. To raise a child is to play God. To raise a child is to be God.

But to be a child is to fall, to make mistakes, to fail. The thing about being too bright at an early age means you burn out by the time you're 16 and suddenly the world around you becomes more gray and terribly, terribly lonely. The fire is never warm enough, nothing is ever enough. And one day you find yourself begging to a godless sky, begging for a new spark.

I was a gifted child once. I was the golden girl. And one day, I burned out.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

"I think that's what soulmates are, moments of your life that you want to keep forever."

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The Flesh I Burned

(read full excerpt)

Το μαγικό μου σπίτι

Το σπίτι μου είναι μεγάλο. Κρύβει μέσα του μυστικά και λύσεις. Έχει μια μαγική ιδιότητα, τα βράδια μεγαλώνει περισσότερο. Το σπίτι μου έχει ψηλό ταβάνι, για να χωράει τις σκέψεις μου, ενώ τα παλιά φωτιστικά που έχουν κρεμαστεί από αυτό προσπαθούν να ακουμπήσουν το πάτωμα. Το σπίτι μου είναι φωτεινό . Τα πρωινά , το φως της ημέρας μπουκάρει πρόσχαρο από κάθε τζαμί και χαραμάδα . Με αγκαλιάζει. Όταν απλωθεί το σκοτάδι έξω απ’το σπίτι , τα φωτιστικά μου, προσπαθούν να αντιγράψουν το πρωινό φως αλλά χωρίς επιτυχία . Καταφέρνουν όμως να μου δείχνουν την σκιά μου . Μου αρέσει να χαζεύω το σπίτι μου. Έχει όμορφες λεπτομέρειες και αντικείμενα . Εγώ τα έβαλα εκεί . Τα ακούμπησα διστακτικά γιατί δεν κατέληξα ποτέ στην μοίρα που τους αρμόζει . Το σπίτι μου έχει απ’τα ομορφότερα πατώματα . Τα σχέδια χορεύουν πάνω τους ενώ κρατάνε τα πόδια μου στην γη , άλλες φορές, η διχρωμία προσπαθεί να μιμηθεί τα σύννεφα με μια αισιοδοξία . Οι Τοίχοι με ακούνε , φορτίζονται με τις σκέψεις μου χωρίς να βγάλω άχνα . Μερικές φορές καταβάλουν να γίνουν ένα , ενώ άλλες, απομακρύνονται σαν να κουβαλάνε το ίδιο φορτίο . Το σπίτι μου είναι πολυμήχανο . Προσφέρει απλόχερα άπειρα δωμάτια που αρκούν για να χωρέσει μέσα τους όλη μου η ζωή και κάθε μου επιθυμία . Εγώ όμως , έχω κλειδώσει τις πόρτες και έχω βολευτεί στην γωνιά μου, με συντροφιά τον φόβο για την αποσυμπίεση . Φοβαμαι . Φοβαμαι να τις ξεκλειδώσω . Αν μεγαλώσει κι άλλο θα με φάει.

Αυτό το κείμενο είναι μια απελπισμένη έκφραση του εαυτού μου . κατέληξα στο ότι απευθύνεται σε εμένα ... με το συμπέρασμα ότι «είμαι πολύ μικρή για τον μεγάλο εαυτό μου»

Έλενα , 30/5/22

1:49 π.μ

titlos akoma den exei vrethei, alla nomziw tha dextoume protaseis oi stixoi apo mena, h mousiki kai h ermhneia apo tin kopela mou (katerina suggnwmi pou anevazw kati diko mas xwris na se rwtisw alla an se rwtaga tha eleges oxi kai an eleges oxi, pos tha katalavainan oloi oti esu gia mena den eisai kati sunithismeno?)

“I mean, say that you figure that everything is senseless, then it can’t be quite senseless because you are aware that it’s senseless and your awareness of senselessness almost gives it sense. You know what I mean?”

— Charles Bukowski, Pulp

So he gave me : ✨anxiety✨

There'll be a moment when you realise you're 27 when yesterday you were just 17; and you wouldn't be able to tell how a decade passed away and your life got divided into before and afters. The fury of youth will subdue and nothing will really change but everything will feel different when you look at old photographs and blurry videos taken on cheap mobile phones. Scents will remind you of childhood and certain friends you don't talk to anymore, hangouts will become reunions and mom's burnt pie will become the best food you ever had. And I know on some days you won't be able to show anything of those 10 years but I hope you remember to breathe, and let go of the knot in your chest. I hope you go out in the sun and live a little, because tomorrow is 37.

Edit- I added the visualizer for this piece on my YT, check it out here

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The Flesh I Burned

Εγώ στον εαυτό μου: Ρε συ μην αγχώνεσαι ολα καλα

Επίσης εγω:

My brother cracked my rib one morning and gave me half of his orange in the evening.

I remember being younger and sometimes wishing to be a single child, to have all the attention and gifts and time but when he was away from home for the first time, I remember crying and stroking his side of the sofa as if blurting out my first wish- for him to be home, without thinking twice, without a shadow of doubt. Even the genie cried. Growing up with a sibling is like being the only people on a stranded boat, constantly figuring out how you can live with them and questioning how you could ever live without them.

One evening, in a fit of anger, I told him how I never wanted him to be my brother and he yelled that he didn't ask for it either. The air smelled like kerosene and my chest was filled with arsenic. I was raging and threw his favorite toy aeroplane down the window, 7 stories of guilt and shame. He cried all night and I wanted to cut off my right hand, the hand that hurt my baby brother. I didn't know if he was ever going to forgive me or even talk to me. The next morning at breakfast, he didn't look at me or say a word, I felt like my chest was about to explode and guilt clouded my vision. But then, I felt a hand quietly holding half of an orange my way.

The only people on a stranded boat. How do you live with them? How could you ever live without them?

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire