The poison talcum powder.

How are you creative?

Lately, I’ve been trapped in a strange sequence of déjà vu moments, as though an unexplainable aura clings to my existence. I find myself asking, “Is there an energy here? How many presences do I sense at the entrance of the room?” The answer is always the same: five—four women and one man.

To confirm their reality, I’ve turned to my holy string beads, a spiritual compass guiding me through the unseen.

One night while driving, the distinct scent of burning camphor smoke, mixed with the sharp sting of dried chilies, filled the air. The sensation was fleeting, a mere whisper of something intangible, yet powerful. It didn’t harm me physically, but it struck me deeply. Was this a form of telepathy from the other side?

Whoever orchestrates such schemes, cloaking their malicious intent under layers of deception, is nothing but a coward. I know exactly who it is. I have long severed ties, unwilling to invite trouble into my life again. Yet, this person persists, their venomous actions aimed at pulling me down, oblivious to the fact that he  will ultimately be consumed by his  own poison.

It’s not revenge I seek but acknowledgment of their harm. He has  disturb lives, not out of necessity, but to feed his  egos, to revel in the gossip and attention he  so desperately crave.

His  actions remind me of “poisonous talcum powder”—seemingly harmless yet deadly when the truth surfaces. This same powder will suffocate them, just as the chaos they’ve unleashed will destroy them.

The cigarette smoke they conjure through telepathy is visible to me. At first, it felt like déjà vu, but it carried something darker—his insecurities, hia jealousy. Over hours and days, this smoke appears and fades, like an unwanted specter.

There are days when I feel invisible insects crawling on me, crickets or mosquitoes I cannot see, leaving phantom itches all over my body. Initially, I thought they were real, searching for these pests. But then it dawned on me—this was something else. Scratching these phantom itches only worsened my wounds, landing me in hospitals year after year.

I’ve learned to stop scratching, to let the sensation pass. This too shall pass. Yet I wonder, what drives their insecurities and jealousy? Does he believe no one can rise above the pedestal he placed himself on? If so, he is gravely mistaken. I had long forgotten them, but he insisted on dragging me into  chaos.

To the one I’ve long forgotten, what gives you the right to invade another’s space? Is it your own inferiority? Your inability to tolerate those who strive harder and succeed despite the odds? You’ve been handed everything on a golden platter, yet you seethe with envy. You are the embodiment of cowardice.

Your black magic, your futile attempts to haunt and manipulate, are meaningless. I’ve moved on from you and my past. You are a relic of forgotten bitterness, irrelevant in the life I now lead.

Your chaos will be your undoing, your lies crumbling under the weight of scrutiny. While you cling to the past, I stride forward, untethered by your shadow.

This morning, my fully charged phone suddenly died, its battery inexplicably drained. Isn’t that another déjà vu? How ironic. It feels like a warning, a reminder to remain vigilant. I’ve learned a hard lesson—never trust blindly and always be aware of my surroundings.

I’ve forgiven myself for enduring that painful chapter. But you, who still lurk in the shadows, peering into my space, are indeed a practitioner of black magic, aren’t you?

Your poison will consume you, just as your talcum powder lies will suffocate you. I will no longer be your victim. This is my story now, and you are but a fading whisper in its pages.