Conclave Brooding

[conclavebrooding]

You bought candy floss,

Took some bites, then tossed the rest,

it was way too sweet.

- Obayifo

[conclavebrooding]

The joke writes itself

- Obayifo

[conclavebrooding]

I guess the puppies that aren't yours are more fun to play with.

- Obayifo

[conclavebrooding]

Hurricanes

For a moment, I stepped into the eye of a storm.

I wasn't expecting to find myself here. I was so used to the strong wind before. The light breeze felt foreign.

It was unexpected. It felt strange. But it is very much welcomed.

Then the eye moves on.

I hope the storm moves on with it. I want to clean up the mess it made.

- Obayifo

[conclavebrooding]

It's sore, it hurts, 

it fucking aches. God WHY???

WHY DOES IT CRUSH ME

- Obayifo

[conclavebrooding]

it hurts to become

there’s something incredibly poignant about seeing an old black & white photograph of my dad as a young boy, and he tells me he no longer remembers what he looks like at that age. and realising that he wasn’t always my dad — he was once a little boy in a kampong that doesn’t exist anymore. he was once a young adult like me finding his way in the world.

and watching a group of uni boys on a night out dancing and scream-singing their hearts out to music so loud I could barely hear myself think. and watching them excitedly get into a huddle whenever Their Songs came on and they jumped along to the beat. “boys will be boys” in the best way possible.

and receiving a letter from past me 1 year after I had written it in a foreign country, wishing for future me to slow down and feel my feelings and take care of myself. and realising that I’m still the same exhausted soul wanting to slow down and not taking care of myself, but yet I’m not exactly the same anymore. how is it that everything has changed but also not?

and watching the crowd at a bar way past my bedtime and having this sinking feeling that I am not the same person anymore, and I can’t keep trying to be the same person frozen in time. I can’t keep giving and not listen to my body and how it’s screaming at me to rest before it forces me to. there is always endless work to be done. and there is always tomorrow.

- Bäckahäst

[conclavebrooding]

Puzzle piece

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

[conclavebrooding]

Your flesh was my first taste of desire.

-Gwyllgi

[conclavebrooding]

I cut my heart out of my chest and gave you more for less.

-gwyllgi

[conclavebrooding]

The root of suffering is attachment and with each breath I take I realise my suffering has begun to take root.

-Gwyllgi

[conclavebrooding]

Promises

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

[conclavebrooding]

Life is hard, but it'll be worth when I attend your funeral <3.

- Obiyifo

[conclavebrooding]

If I told you.

I wonder—if I went back in time and told you

everything that was about to happen,

would you believe me?

If I warned you she would leave scars,

wage a war on your name,

fracture the way you saw connection—

would you have listened?

If I said he would turn his anger on me,

that your neglect would hollow him out,

that his presence would become a cage—

would you have believed?

If I whispered that he wasn’t ready,

that he could never truly understand you,

that he was lost in his own confusion—

would it have mattered?

Would I be there, crying,

pleading with you to trust me?

Maybe—if the future I painted was sweet.

If I told you you’d move,

open your doors to laughter and friends,

fall in love with food you once ignored—

If I told you you’d meet people

who gave you back your freedom,

that you’d see the animals you adore,

that you’d hear her sing—

If I told you you’d gather friends,

be remembered by so many,

and spend countless nights

in conversations with me—

would that truth be easier to swallow?

I wonder if I could bear knowing,

while powerless to change the fate ahead.

Even so, I wish I had been there.

I wish you could have bloomed without

piecing yourself back together from shards.

I wish I could turn back time.

But maybe that wish is selfish—

because perhaps,

what I really want

is just more time with you.

- Gwyllgi

[conclavebrooding]

Tick Tock

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

[conclavebrooding]

Landmine

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

[conclavebrooding]

eventually.

I used to be afraid of growing older. ever since I left the formal education system, I dreaded my birthdays. as a teen struggling with mental health, I never planned for a future. I could only take it one day at a time.

each birthday brought uncertainty at best, and panic at worst. I never felt like the age I was supposed to be — 18 felt like 16, 25 felt like 22. I think I clung to the past because it was easier than facing a future I hadn’t planned for. it’s hard to reckon with what I haven’t achieved. I don’t think I’m ashamed of not reaching certain milestones (yet), but I do wonder what another version of my life could have looked like.

I’ve started feeling like my age in recent years. I’m not quite sure when the shift happened — I suppose it happened gradually, so slowly that I didn’t even notice. the other day, I caught sight of the beginning of wrinkles on my face and felt… excited. it was kinda cool to see my age showing, like a story being etched into my skin.

there’s a filter on tiktok that’s been going viral for a while now that makes you look aged. when I tried it for the first time, I gasped. I saw my mum, and I saw my grandma. it’s been years since I’ve seen her. it made me sad, but also quietly excited. I can’t wait to see her again in the mirror looking back at me. I hope she’ll be proud of me when I get there. I hope I will be, too.

- Bäckahäst

[conclavebrooding]

Secondary

I hate the way I feel smaller than them

I hate that even though I love and adore them, I will constantly view them as competition for your attention

I hate how I always felt like I'm asking too much from you, even though we are doing EXACTLY what we agreed upon

I hate how limited your free time is, and how I have to blindly trust you to make time for me.

I hate how I can see the pecking order of your affection

I hate how I don't feel entitled to your time

I hate being so anxious about you.

I guess you hated it too.

-Obayifo