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  • Writer's pictureVaranta Aharonian Niziblian

A Glance at My Diary

Forever Child

I have been told that I am too much, and I need to grow up. I don’t want to grow up.

Once upon a timeless place, there lived a forever child, a girl who never grew up. With her were wondrous companions she cherished dearly. Her dearest friend was a fluffy creature, always by her side, purring and making cookies, a listener to her worries. Love filled her heart, a treasure she wanted to share.

In the mornings, she cooked for neighbors, but her overflowing love often burned breakfast. Throughout the day, she gathered flowers and potatoes, pouring love into each one, to give away. When the evenings came, she gifted them, but others had their own. Her gifts went unwanted, leaving her love spent, her offerings fading away.

Time marched on, everyone grew up. Flowers and potatoes lost their charm. Alone she stood, her companions gone. Hunger and heartache became her companions. Tears fell, nourishing wilted flowers and rotting potatoes, her only friends. In the heart of the city, she remained, a small figure in damp streets filled with decay.

Years passed, unchanging she stayed, a lone figure in a changing world. Her friend grew tired and left. She carried on, trying, until the day realization dawned. Like her flowers and potatoes, she too had aged. In the quiet of the city, she remained a tribute to enduring love, her story finding its end, a tale of unshared feelings.

Artsakh Is Home

A Love Letter to Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh), which is currently being occupied by Azerbaijani aggression.

Running in our magical garden in Artsakh,

The smell of roses and the branches of poison ivy growing slower,

Fresh water outside,

The hammock where my father took his long naps.

The little old pool that was filled with all kinds of twigs and plants.

Fresh fruits, picked by us in our small paradise garden.

We would climb trees, run after snakes, and feed the chickens at Gayane’s house.

The smell of the old house that used to shake when we jumped around.

My little tea glasses and pots for all my friends in my little paradise.

The mixture of herbs my mom hung on our old silver bed to keep the mosquitoes away.

The bee nest in the right corner window,

Which was so old and gentle but still steady.

The mountains.

The bats.

The khorovats.

The scary bathroom, which was in a little cabin-looking house, was not connected to the main house.

It was such an adventure to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I felt like I was going on a mysterious adventure.

With the cricket sounds and the wolf howls at midnight.

The pureness of the environment.

The beauty of it.

…a Message I Should Not Send

I really do not know how to let go. I’m a cancer.

When we were in love, it was so lovely,

You showered me with kisses endlessly.

You kissed the wounds I hid from the world,

And you healed the parts of me that you never even broke.

Oh, it was so lovely when we were alone together,

In our own little world, it felt like forever.

In the world where there was you and me,

Our love was a bond, forever free.

We would stare into each other's eyes and feel so safe,

Safe from the outside world, in your embrace.

But then we had to go back out there,

To the world of sorrow and pain, we had to bear.

Our sorrows and pain made us drift apart,

Our paths in life no longer aligned, it broke my heart.

I let go of your hand and took my own path,

Always looking back, wondering about your aftermath.

But you turned off the lights on your street,

Now, I'm filled with love for someone I can't meet.

I have to go on, but my heart wants to flee,

Into the darkness where you might still be.

Insomnia Part 1: Midnight Monologue

Talking to myself at night is a hobby.

Being awake in the night's darkness is the loneliest feeling, yet it's incredibly romantic.

In the quiet of the night, you hear everything – the wind, little creatures rustling outside.

Finally, there's no one around, and you can wander freely.

Your own movements become so clear – your sighs, your moans, your thoughts, your memories, both good and bad. You can envision your whole life – the joyful memories of playing in the garden as a child, hunting for worms.

And then the memory of your father's loud anger breaks something inside you. But you also remember all the times he hugged you, nurtured you, and made you feel like the most special daughter in the world.

Being a father must be hard, and not many do it, but my father does, and I love being his daughter. I'm his emotional reflection.

Then your thoughts shift to the present if there even is such a thing. You think about the wonderful memories you're making, and how lucky you are to have such beautiful friends who understand you, maybe not completely, but as much as one soul can understand another.

But then the scary thoughts start to come. Images of falling apart, of them leaving, of growing up. You try to push them away.

What if you find your true love soon? Someone who will love you gently, who will hold you at night so you can sleep peacefully.

She'll be so beautiful, and you'll be amazed that such beauty exists. But you wonder, does true beauty even exist? Are you beautiful? And what if you never find her? Will you be enough for yourself?

Or what if you do find her and end up hurting her the way you've hurt so many others? What if she hurts you as karma for your past mistakes? Or maybe she's the karma you've been waiting for. But then again, maybe she was never meant to be.

As you toss and turn, your mind goes through different scenarios, jumping from one universe to another. The noise becomes overwhelming, so you turn on some music.

Music is powerful, but will it be strong enough to drown out the noise, or will it just join the rest of the noise in your mind? Endless loops of loud conversations.

But if she were to look at you from the window, all she would see is someone lying in bed, just like everyone else.

Insomnia Part 2: Night Time Nightmares

I sometimes wonder if the nightmares we have at night are actual memories from the place we go when we sleep.

In the quiet of the night, a ruthless curse troubled her. Her body yearned for rest, but her mind refused to sleep. Memories, once hidden, now haunted her sleepless nights.

Two worlds synchronized within her mind. Dreams and nightmares blurred into a puzzling reality. Every painful memory, once locked away, now resurfaced. Her tired body couldn't protect her anymore.

Night after night, she re-lived these moments, as if they were happening anew. Morning brought no relief; the pain persisted, heart racing, skin scratched, eyes wet with tears. It all felt painfully real.

She pondered which world was her reality – the one where she could speak openly or the one where she had died many times. The cycle continued a cruel game in the quiet of the night.

Written by Varanta Aharonian Niziblian.

With illustrations by Amassia Niziblian.



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