Jaanuu
Favoured Frenzy
13 June,
Midnight again.
Rain tapping. I can’t sleep.
Maybe writing will still the noise.
Choice.
Such a simple, small word,
But it feels like a canyon inside my chest tonight.
Choice. Choosing. Being chosen.
Three stages of a cycle I never fully understood,
But always lived within.
I look back at the choices I’ve made:
The strange night I opened a sex chat window,
hoping not for lust
but perhaps just not to feel invisible.
The times I clung to friends,
Thinking maybe closeness would mean--
Permanence.
(It didn’t.)
I’ve walked away from comfort,
Thinking discomfort meant growth.
But sometimes, all it meant was ache--
A long ache that settles in the bones
And never quite leaves.
Choice has always been a riddle.
A question mark curling at the edge of my days.
Choosing, on the other hand, feels like a sudden exclamation:
Loud, urgent, full of sensation.
But being chosen…
Being chosen was the period.
The end.
The hope.
The lie?
I’ve often chosen with my mind,
Convincing myself that logic could quiet
the noise inside.
But it didn’t.
It only taught me to speak my regret
in clearer sentences.
I used the mind when the soul trembled.
I called it intelligence,
But maybe it was fear disguised as reason.
As for being chosen,
That elusive moment when you are no longer
The seeker but the found.
I longed for it.
Chased it like a ghost across years.
To be the one someone stays for.
To be a full stop.
Not a pause.
Not a placeholder.
But I was always temporary.
The intermission.
The soft echo before the next act began without me.
It’s not sorrow, actually.
More like a quiet acceptance,
Like standing by the sea
And realizing it never wanted to remember your name.
There’s a kind of silence that wraps around those of us
Who live too much inside our own heads,
Who think too long before each choice,
And wonder if the world would be any different
had we taken the other path.
I burrow into myself sometimes,
Not out of weakness,
But because the outside world feels like a language
I was never taught to speak.
Still… I choose.
Even when the outcomes burn.
Even when no hand reaches back.
Not out of hope.
Not out of belief.
But because even doing nothing is a kind of choice.
And maybe that’s the most I can say,
that I moved,
that I reached,
that I asked.
Not to be answered.
Not to be seen.
But to know I hadn’t disappeared entirely into silence.
There is no triumph in it.
No transformation.
Only the dull ache of existing
with your hands half-open
and your name unspoken.
And maybe that’s where it ends.
Not with meaning.
Not with light.
Just with me.
Still here.
~Jaanu
(Illmidnightthoughts)
Midnight again.
Rain tapping. I can’t sleep.
Maybe writing will still the noise.
Choice.
Such a simple, small word,
But it feels like a canyon inside my chest tonight.
Choice. Choosing. Being chosen.
Three stages of a cycle I never fully understood,
But always lived within.
I look back at the choices I’ve made:
The strange night I opened a sex chat window,
hoping not for lust
but perhaps just not to feel invisible.
The times I clung to friends,
Thinking maybe closeness would mean--
Permanence.
(It didn’t.)
I’ve walked away from comfort,
Thinking discomfort meant growth.
But sometimes, all it meant was ache--
A long ache that settles in the bones
And never quite leaves.
Choice has always been a riddle.
A question mark curling at the edge of my days.
Choosing, on the other hand, feels like a sudden exclamation:
Loud, urgent, full of sensation.
But being chosen…
Being chosen was the period.
The end.
The hope.
The lie?
I’ve often chosen with my mind,
Convincing myself that logic could quiet
the noise inside.
But it didn’t.
It only taught me to speak my regret
in clearer sentences.
I used the mind when the soul trembled.
I called it intelligence,
But maybe it was fear disguised as reason.
As for being chosen,
That elusive moment when you are no longer
The seeker but the found.
I longed for it.
Chased it like a ghost across years.
To be the one someone stays for.
To be a full stop.
Not a pause.
Not a placeholder.
But I was always temporary.
The intermission.
The soft echo before the next act began without me.
It’s not sorrow, actually.
More like a quiet acceptance,
Like standing by the sea
And realizing it never wanted to remember your name.
There’s a kind of silence that wraps around those of us
Who live too much inside our own heads,
Who think too long before each choice,
And wonder if the world would be any different
had we taken the other path.
I burrow into myself sometimes,
Not out of weakness,
But because the outside world feels like a language
I was never taught to speak.
Still… I choose.
Even when the outcomes burn.
Even when no hand reaches back.
Not out of hope.
Not out of belief.
But because even doing nothing is a kind of choice.
And maybe that’s the most I can say,
that I moved,
that I reached,
that I asked.
Not to be answered.
Not to be seen.
But to know I hadn’t disappeared entirely into silence.
There is no triumph in it.
No transformation.
Only the dull ache of existing
with your hands half-open
and your name unspoken.
And maybe that’s where it ends.
Not with meaning.
Not with light.
Just with me.
Still here.
~Jaanu
(Illmidnightthoughts)
