The Puppet Masters of Language

The world is taken over by individual utilitarianism. Relationships have become dismissive, and society has slowly turned empathy into a currency traded only when it benefits the self.

Individual gain defines usefulness, and gazes have turned toward self-preservation. The quiet trade between understanding and convenience grew louder, and relationships began to echo: “I’ll go with what’s useful.”

I used to think we didn’t need to question people’s intentions. That’s why I was often called naïve when I was younger. In time, it became the phrase I hated most, because people said it as if it were a flaw.

I didn’t see the point of questioning one’s intentions because, for me, words have always been sacred. That’s why I never understood the point of lying. Giving someone a reason to doubt the meaning behind my sentences felt like the greatest rupture that’d diminish my power. So I chose integrity over convenience.

Think of words as puppets. You can make them dance, plead, comfort, or wound. The same puppet can play any role depending on the hands that guide it. I never questioned the puppet master during a show; I only watched the performance. When someone threw big words at me, I rarely looked past the surface to the one pulling the strings. That’s where deception began, of myself and of the others who were speaking.

When people who said they’d always stay left, when love faded in a single day, and when friends and family drifted away, I began to question intentions. The questions I once asked out of pure curiosity and wonder slowly changed, and over time, I started to lose faith in people.

This morning, I woke up thinking about the words that echoed after I heard the song my favourite DJ played yesterday:

You are never ever alone.

In that moment, dancing my feet off, I realised I felt lonely when I was surrounded by many others; now I’m alone, but I do not feel lonely.

If life has taught me one thing, it’s that sometimes the presence of others brings more loneliness than solitude ever could.

Being alone used to feel like torture before, but what brought me freedom from the very thing that once felt like a prison was being present in that prison, holding every essence of my soul close, fully with myself.

My choice lies in stripping away the fear of what once felt detrimental, and in that choice, I remained true to myself. People come and go, that I cannot change but as one of the greatest Stoic minds once said:

“When someone’s attachment to another is broken, remember that nothing of your own has been lost.” — Epictetus, Discourses

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedPink hair,
Hazel eyes,
White heart.
Hands made of stars.

A liquid form,
Carried as a curse.
Loving too deeply
Was even worse.

Happiness of others
Became hers.
Too naïve,
Too easily deceived.

A soul tainted
By the greatest misery,
Woven into the fabric
Of everyday sleeves—
Each thread carrying
Its own disease.

Stolen pieces of one’s soul,
Every act of care
A fault.
A black stain
On a tainted soul.

The mother before mothers,
The keeper of the tides.
Blood and return.
Whispered silence.
The aching weight
On every full moon,
Under the eternal whiteness.

The moon
Became the compass.
Stars were rewritten in her name.
Home
Was not a place she could go.
It was becoming
With whatever’s left
After the breaking.

Eyes learnt to see
From a different gaze.
In sacred secrecy,
What once was
Was not—
And she
Never returned the same again.

The echo of her own becoming.
became the return itself.
Her power was forged in the fire,
and the fire learnt her name.

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