Conclave Brooding

- Obayifo

- Obayifo

- Obayifo

- Obayifo

- Obayifo

- Bäckahäst

I was fifteen, clutching my scratched-up MP3 player like a lifeline, drowning in emo songs that no one else in my class even knew existed. I read books buried in the forgotten corners of second-hand stores—stories that smelled like mildew and sadness. I thought maybe if I just grew up, the world would finally have room for someone like me. But at twenty, I was still the same creature. My music, my books, my thoughts—they’d only grown sharper, stranger, heavier. The politics I consumed, the poetry I wrote, the things I desired—they all felt like splinters I couldn’t pull out. Every conversation felt like walking barefoot over glass. I started to think maybe the world wasn’t made wrong—maybe I was. Maybe I was born crooked in a place that only loves straight lines. I kept trying to find people like me—eccentrics, outsiders, artists—but even there, I felt like a ghost. We wore the same armor but fought different wars. And the more I searched, the more I realized how terrifying it is to be surrounded and still be alone. Sometimes I look at my country like an old photograph—faded, familiar, but no longer mine. I love it, but it doesn’t love me back. I’m the splinter in its palm. The one it keeps trying to shake loose. I want to talk and be understood, but here everyone speaks in shallow waves while I drown in depth. I crave connection the way the dying crave air. I want words that sting and soothe, that fill the silence like rainwater—but instead, I get small talk that dries my tongue. So maybe I was born in the wrong place. Or maybe I was born wrong. I keep circling that thought like a vulture waiting for it to die. Because if it’s the first one, maybe I can leave. But if it’s the second… then what’s left to fix? I tell myself I can move somewhere new, start over—but even that thought feels like dragging my roots through concrete. What if I leave and still can’t breathe? What if the problem isn’t the soil, but the seed? What if I’m doomed to bloom wrong everywhere I go? At twenty-three, I met people who understood me a little better. They weren’t from here. They carried warmth that didn’t belong to this air. And yet, every time I found comfort, I also felt the countdown ticking. Every connection had an expiration date—every belonging felt borrowed. I want to leave. I ache to leave. But I’m terrified that I can’t. That I’ll stay here forever, rotting quietly in the same air I can’t breathe. And the thought that keeps me awake at night isn’t failure—it’s the idea that maybe this is it. Maybe this ache, this searching, this endless hunger—is all I’ll ever have. Maybe I was never meant to find my puzzle. Maybe I’m just the extra piece—sharp-edged, misplaced, and still pretending it belongs somewhere. - Gwyllgi

-Gwyllgi

-gwyllgi

-Gwyllgi

I had a dream. Everyone came to my house for dinner. The people I love most, the ones I expected — and even people who shocked me just by walking through the door. Your friends were there. They came in, and I hugged them like they were my own. But you weren’t. And the worst part is, I didn’t even wonder why. It felt natural, like my mind and my heart have already adjusted to your absence. Like I’ve already accepted that you don’t show up for me. You’ve always been good with words, but words don’t hold me, they don’t arrive at my door. And you never do. When I woke up, I had tears on my face. Because the dream was warm — warmer than reality. And I grieved it the moment I opened my eyes. I cried because I finally admitted to myself what I’ve been avoiding: you will never be there. And I have already let go of the hope that you ever will. - Gwyllgi

- Obiyifo

- Gwyllgi

I stared at the clock today. The sun went down, and I realized I’d been sitting still for hours — four, maybe more. Where did the time go? Where did I drift off to? Sometimes I wish I could turn back time, Go back to when I was lighter, when I felt happier. I wish I could change some things — undo some choices, not meet some people, meet others sooner. I wish I had better control, controlled my eating when I was younger, stood up for myself earlier, spent more time alone instead of chasing those who weren’t meant to stay. Another hour passes. Time doesn’t stop. Maybe it’s time for me to stand up. -Gwyllgi

Must I always be the one to hold up the mirror? The one who stirs the waters when silence grows thick and still, like fog over a swamp? Why is it always me who has to name what’s simmering beneath the surface — the things nobody wants to see but everyone feels? People say I’m too loud, too much, always too something. But when I keep quiet, everything changes. The air shifts. People pull away, like the tide going out, and I’m left stranded on wet sand, watching footprints vanish. I don’t like pointing out problems. I don’t like being the one who asks the hard questions. But no one else does. No one else steps up. I just want honesty. Is that really so much to ask? To be told the truth when decisions are made. To be seen — not as an afterthought, but as someone who actually matters. I’m tired. It’s not just one thing. It’s the heavy weight of always caring enough to speak up. I want to rest. I want to stop caring so much. But how do you stop caring without losing the things you love? I don’t want to be lied to. I don’t want to be left outside in the cold, staring through frosted glass, while others make choices in rooms I wasn’t invited to. I want respect. I want to know what’s happening — not because I want control, but because I’m tired of being blindsided. Because honestly, I’m scared. Scared of being left out. Scared of being misunderstood. Scared of all the things people won’t say out loud. They say I overreact, that I should sit with my feelings and let the storm pass quietly. But inside, it feels like wildfire. And all I keep thinking is: Why do I have to be the one to light the match, just so everyone else can see the damage? I’m angry — not just at the silence, but at how I always have to be the one to break it. Why is it my job to start the hard conversations? Don’t I matter enough for others to bring up the truth when it affects me, too? I hate this version of myself — the one who makes people uncomfortable, the one they get tired of. The one who turns smiles into discomfort, who ruins the mood, who breaks the illusion. It must be hard to stand next to me. Maybe that’s why people let go. Maybe that’s why they walk away. Because in the end, I’m the one left behind — the echo in a room that’s already gone quiet. Like a landmine buried under soft earth — harmless until you step too close. -Gwyllgi

- Bäckahäst

-Obayifo