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I am tired of creating metaphors like a cashier trying to explain quantum physics to a customer who only came for milk while the line behind them slowly ages into grey dust. My ideas explode in my head like popcorn in a microwave set on high, each kernel a thought I did not ask for, and somehow now everyone is watching. Every sentence crawls out like a confused cat on a treadmill, tripping over its own tail while I try to catch it with a net made of patience I do not have. Writing a metaphor feels like folding origami from wet spaghetti while someone judges your technique and your life choices.

Every time I try to be subtle, the words crash through like a toddler on a sugar high, knocking over furniture, memories, and any hope of coherence. My coffee is a metaphor for regret, but also for survival; my spoon is a tiny witness to crimes against taste, and yet I stir and pretend it makes sense. Ideas leap from my brain like neon signs in a city that doesn’t sleep, flashing messages I barely understand while I run behind in flip-flops and hope for clarity. Conversations become roller coasters where I am strapped in, screaming, while everyone else eats cotton candy and laughs at the absurdity of my panic.

I am a tightrope walker on a streetlamp, juggling flaming expectations and broken promises while the wind whispers things my ego refuses to translate. My notebook mocks me like an ex who still knows too many of my secrets and refuses to keep them quiet. My metaphors sprout wings only to fly into the void of procrastination and return with postcards from countries made entirely of awkward silences and half-remembered dreams. I try to write clean sentences, and they rebel like teenagers, smudging ink and spilling chaos across the page.

Even my phone looks at me like it’s silently judging my life choices, reminding me that my metaphors are just long excuses for texting instead of living. My apartment smells faintly of ambition and old chai, and every line I write drips like ketchup over Maggie noodles I never wanted. My thoughts spill into the room like an overflowing laundry basket, tangled and smelly, impossible to sort, impossible to fold neatly. I try to catch them, one at a time, and they laugh like water running over concrete, disappearing before I can grasp anything.

Ideas are tiny roller coasters spinning on rails I did not lay, tipping over each other, spilling glitter, anxiety, and old memories onto the floor of my mind. I plant metaphors in the garden of my brain, water them with coffee and exasperation, and somehow they grow into trees that lean sideways, cracking my ceiling with their ambition. My soul dances like a street performer who knows the crowd is ignoring them but keeps going anyway, hoping someone notices, hoping someone claps, hoping someone finally understands the chaos inside a simple sentence.

And yet, even in this amusement park of disasters, I grin like a raccoon on a Ferris wheel who has just realised the ride never ends, and that is precisely the point.

“I was kidding about quitting.”

I will continue to write metaphors like cities made of thoughts stacked one atop the other, streets winding through absurdity, rivers of nonsense flowing into oceans of imagination. Even when the rides collapse, when the popcorn explodes, and the roller coasters derail, the performers of my mind will keep juggling, tiptoeing, spinning, because a pen cannot resist the pull of words that taste like chaos.

I will try to write not just metaphors, but entire universes of them, because even exhaustion bows to the strange, beautiful, terrifying music of creation.

No More Metaphors

STORIES BY RUUSSSHIK

No More Metaphors

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