NaPoWriMo 2025 (April 3rd): Why I Am a Poet and Not a Park Ranger

From NaPoWriMo 2025: And now for our (optional) prompt. The American poet Frank O’Hara was an art critic and friend to numerous painters and poets In New York City in the 1950s and 60s. His poems feature a breezy, funny, conversational style. His poem “Why I Am Not a Painter” is pretty characteristic, with actual dialogue and a playfully offhand tone. Following O’Hara, today we challenge you to write a poem that obliquely explains why you are a poet and not some other kind of artist – or, if you think of yourself as more of a musician or painter (or school bus driver or scuba diver or expert on medieval Maltese banking) – explain why you are that and not something else!

Why I Am a Poet and Not a Park Ranger

I could’ve been a park ranger,
but I don’t like to wear hats
and the trees don't answer me when I talk to them.
I tried once, you know—
stood in front of a birch,
asked it how it was doing,
if it needed anything,
but it just stood there, rooted,
looking like it had a million years to think about things
and didn’t feel like sharing any of them with me.
So I became a poet.
I’m much better at listening to things
that don’t speak.

I could have been a sculptor—
but I don’t trust clay.
It’s too soft, like it knows it’s going to be something
but can’t quite decide what.
I tried to shape a face once—
ended up with a blob that looked like
a melted marshmallow on a bad day.
It sat there, glaring at me,
and I couldn’t decide if it was disappointed
or just indifferent.

I could’ve been a chef—
but the kitchen smells too much like work,
and I prefer when my ingredients are sentences,
not onions.
I once tried to make a cake,
but ended up with something more like a question
than dessert.
So I write—
I’m good with words,
better at letting them be messy and soft,
letting them rise without rules.

I could’ve been a librarian,
I do like rules about silence
and I really do like when the dust settles.
Books, though,
I could’ve worked in a bookshop.
Ah, books.
I think I was born in one.
Like the words just folded around me
and I came out blinking.
Books are my map,
my compass,
but in poetry—
the pages are still wet.
The ink spills,
and I get to say,
“See, this is how it feels to live inside a story.”
No dust, just the warmth of the next page.
So instead, I steal a bit of their rhythm
and make them talk back to me,
a poem is like a conversation,
except you don’t need to know how to cook
or use a Dewey decimal system.

I’m a poet because I’m in love with confusion,
with things half-said,
half-finished,
half-forgotten,
and because there’s no need to make them neat—
I can just scribble them out,
and maybe later—
they’ll look like something you can’t quite touch
but will never forget.

So, here I am,
writing about things that can’t be touched,
but need to be known.
A poem has no expiration date,
and you don’t need an oven or a telescope
to make it work.
All you need is a quiet place to sit
and a pen that doesn’t complain.
I can handle that.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo 2025 (April 2nd): To the Moon, I Guess

From NaPoWriMo 2025: And now for our daily prompt – optional, as always. Anne Carson is a Canadian poet and essayist known for her contemporary translations of Sappho and other ancient Greek writers. For example, consider this version of Sappho’s Fragment 58, to which Carson has added a modern song-title, enhancing the strange, time-defying quality of the translation. And just as many songs do, the poem directly addresses a person or group – in this case, the Muses. Taking Carson’s translation as an example, we challenge you to write a poem that directly addresses someone, and that includes a made-up word, an odd/unusual simile, a statement of “fact,” and something that seems out of place in time (like a Sonny & Cher song in a poem about a Greek myth).

To the Moon, I Guess

Moon, you are a glimmerous thing,
like a piece of silver that forgot it was
meant to be a coin,
tossed somewhere between two worlds,
shining and unsure,
the way I feel when I step outside
and see your face in the sky.
You, who were once a goddess in a toga,
now stuck in my playlist,
like “I Got You Babe” on a Sunday morning,
the kind of love song that gets played
while the world still sleeps.

I think you know this fact, Moon—
you have forgotten how to be human.
You don’t cry. You don’t blink.
You just hover there,
looking down at us like a mother
who no longer cares about the dishes,
but will always remind you
to wear a coat in the winter.

Tell me, Moon,
does it feel strange,
to be this old and still
so obsessed with light?
When you used to be fire,
now you’re just a reflected dream.
And yet, you glimmerous,
flickering like a lonely flame in a dark room,
still worthy of songs we don’t know how to forget.

- Oizys.

I Got You Babe, Sonny and Cher, Top of the Pops 1965

NaPoWriMo 2025 (April 1st): Legato with Tecpatl

From NaPoWriMo 2025: Here’s our optional prompt! As with pretty much any discipline, music and art have their own vocabulary. Today, we challenge you to take inspiration from this glossary of musical terms, or this glossary of art terminology, and write a poem that uses a new-to-you word. For (imaginary) extra credit, work in a phrase from, or a reference to, the Florentine Codex.

I decided to go with the word “legato,” a musical term meaning "smoothly" or "without breaks," often used to describe a style of playing. It fits well with the idea of flow and connection. Florentine Codex intrigued me. The Florentine Codex, compiled by the Franciscan friar Bernardino de Sahagún, contains rich descriptions of Aztec culture, religion, and daily life. Here is the Digital Florentine Codex if you want to dive in. One concept that stands out is "tecpatl," the word for a flint or stone knife, often used symbolically for sacrifice, both in a ritualistic and metaphorical sense. Here is a picture, if anyone is interested.

Legato with Tecpatl

The morning hums, a legato rhythm—
the soft, flowing pull of light
through the narrow slats of the blinds,
no interruption, no harshness,
just the slow weaving of daybreak
as though the sky were carved with a tecpatl—
cut with a blade that leaves no jagged edge,
a perfect line, smooth, purposeful.

I watch you,
your fingers tracing the rim of a cup,
the motion like the brush of a flint knife
against stone, carving space
in the quiet between us.

Outside, the wind is allegro,
sharp and sudden, but inside
the world moves with intention,
like the precise stroke of an artist,
each moment a curve drawn softly
as if to honor the sacredness of this day.
As if each breath, like the tecpatl,
was once a sacrifice
offered to the gods of time.

Perhaps we live like this—
smooth and careful,
the sharpness hidden beneath
the quiet rhythm of existence,
where every pause is a prayer
and every song a sacrifice
we don't yet know how to name.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo 2025 (31st March - Early Bird Prompt): Portrait of M.

From NaPoWriMo 2025: And now, here’s an early-bird prompt for those of you who want to write a poem, whether it’s April or not – and for those of you for whom it’s April already, even as poets in other places around the world are still in March.

Maybe one of the most common subjects in art is a portrait – a painting of one, singular person. Portrait poems are also very common. To get a sense of the breadth of style and form that these poems can take, take a look at Anni Liu’s prose poem, “Portrait Of,” John Yau’s, “Portrait,” and Karl Kirchwey’s “The Red Portrait.” Now try penning a portrait poem of your own. It can be a self-portrait, a portrait of someone well known to you, or even a poem inspired by an actual painted portrait. (If you’re looking for one to inspire you, why not check out the online collection of the Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery?)

Portrait of M.

She wears the world like a faded coat,
edges frayed from years of laughter,
but still, in the pockets, there’s warmth.
Her hands move like rivers—slow, sure,
the palm open to let secrets drift through.
Her eyes catch the light sideways,
like she’s not sure if she wants to be seen—
but when she does look, it’s all there,
a quiet honesty that makes the air feel safe.

Sometimes, she hums while peeling apples,
and I wonder how the sound of it
never quite escapes, lingers between us
like a memory we haven’t yet named.

- Oizys.

Scream is my father tongue.

Scream is my father tongue,

a jagged thing, sharp as splinters,
rooted deep in the marrow of bloodlines
that are too loud to be silent.
It starts in the chest, reverberates in the throat—
no softening, no apology.
It is a language woven in fire,
a tongue of anger and pride,
of warmth and war,
too thick for my mouth to swallow whole.

I hear it in the rustle of my mother’s apron,
in the crackle of old radios where his voice is more than sound—
it is history, the echo of a man still trembling
in the space between words and silence.
I inherit the sharpness of it,
the unspoken weight it carries.

But what of my voice?
A river too shallow to carry the same depth.
What do I say when words feel
like stones, heavy with the past?
When his voice looms behind me,
my own too light to fill the air between us?

In the face of his storms,
I learn to speak in whispers—
quiet, careful, as if my words are fragile glass,
afraid to shatter against the roar of a history
that was never mine to tame.
It’s not rebellion, not yet.
It is distance,
a distance like a mountain between my tongue
and his.

But within me, there grows a need,
a hunger to find the language
that is uniquely mine,
not dictated by the past,
not bound to the weight of his rage or silence.
I search for a word that feels lighter,
that can glide like feathers across the skin,
that can breathe without carrying
the weight of a hundred years of wars,
of things never spoken aloud.

Some days, I feel the urge to break free—
to toss the old language aside like a garment too heavy,
too stifling.
Other days, I carry it,
wrap it tight around my chest,
like a blanket passed down from grandmother to mother to me,
uncomfortable yet familiar,
a shield in a world where my voice often feels too soft
to make a mark.

I carve my identity in fragments of language,
in words stolen from books,
in laughter shared with friends who understand
the complexity of this inheritance.
I do not discard it; I adapt it.
I twist it, bend it to fit the contours of who I am becoming,
a voice that knows when to rise
and when to rest,
a voice that is soft but not without strength.

I stand before him,
knowing that I will never be fully free
from the weight of his tongue—
but in that freedom, I find my voice.
It is my inheritance, my heritage.
Not in the scream,
but in the quiet courage to speak in a way
that belongs to no one but me.

My words are the bridge
between past and future,
silent yet singing,
a new tongue forming in the spaces
between his shout and my whisper.

- Oizys.

IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, WHO I HAVE BEEN

I was fascinated by this poem called IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, WHAT I WANTED TO BE WHEN I GREW UP, and I was inspired by it. You know that kind of inspiration that leads you to create an identical piece of art in structure and thematics but replacing it with your own essence, but you end up just rewriting the same thing in your own handwriting? Well, thank god, I am typing. And I tried threading this light thread. Perhaps some warm-up for the upcoming Glo/NaPoWriMo 2025!

IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, WHO I HAVE BEEN

Fearless / a pirate with a plastic sword / the kid who never lost at hide-and-seek / the best artist in second grade / a scientist mixing shampoo in the sink / the hero of every bedtime story / a magician who still believed in magic / quiet / the girl who never raised her hand but always knew the answer / the one who wrote letters she never sent / a poet before she knew the word for it / the best friend, but never the favorite / the one who tried to make people laugh / the one who made herself disappear / an echo of someone else’s expectations / an unfinished sentence / the voice in the background of someone else’s song / a missed call at midnight / someone who leaves first so she’s never left behind / the girl at the train station, waiting for something unnamed / the passenger seat of too many cars / the apology that never came / the playlist no one listens to anymore / a wishbone waiting to break / the feeling of déjà vu in a city she has never been to / the one who always comes back / the story still being written / a dreamer, still / a lighthouse without a shore / a punchline without a joke / the taste of metal in a mouth full of words / a storm warning no one took seriously / the unavailable extra chair at the dinner table / the sound of footsteps behind you that aren’t really there / a burning house and the last person inside / an open tab with no intention to pay / the ghost in someone else’s memory / the first sip of coffee at 2 a.m. / the aftermath of something that could've been beautiful / the echo after the door slams / the person you think about but not enough to give a call / a dream you wake up from too soon / a body that belongs to everyone but herself / a firework that never went off / a secret she never meant to keep / a name said like a question / the message typed but never sent / the first to say sorry even when it wasn’t her fault / a Sunday afternoon that feels like mourning / the laugh that covers up the silence / the girl who was always just a little too much or never quite enough / the voice shaking but speaking anyway / a collection of almosts and what-ifs / the loose thread in the sweater someone keeps pulling / the ghost of every version of herself she promised she’d be / the bridge between who she was and who she is / the sound of footsteps walking away, and this time, it's hers

Insomnia Lamentation

The human body is a machine that won’t power down. I close my eyes, but I cannot sleep. Overthinking knots my thoughts into a noose—each loop a whisper of something I should have done, something I should have said. My chest feels heavy, my lower back aches, and it feels like something is stuck in my throat—grief, maybe, or just the weight of being awake too long.

I take a deep breath. Again. Again. But still, I can’t fall asleep.

In this sleepless night, I echo the ancient laments, my soul a desolate city, walls crumbled under the weight of unspoken sorrows. The book of lamentations is what I sought in the library of night.

In the solitude of night, melancholy wraps around me, a familiar shroud. I search for things to help me sleep, but my mind is a labyrinth of introspection and contemplation. Misery has characters, and I play them all: burned out, waking up with headaches every morning, falling asleep after eating, only to wake up choking on ghosts. My pain has a library, a scripture of suffering—seven hidden emanations, the hidden parchment of my soul, the chronicles of mystery.

I ask the search bar what the ending of Lost means, as if understanding fiction will help me go forward. As if knowing who the Roman goddess of love is will teach me how to love myself.

I miss the misery, Halestorm screams through my headphones. Nazareth hums somewhere in the dark. I think of Elliott Smith, and I am sad. But no pain, I whisper. No pain.

The weight of my body sinks into the mattress, the ache in my back humming like a hymn. I dream of Oizys, the Greek goddess of misery, her hands pressing my chest like an absolution. She does not take the sadness away, but she holds it, gently.

In this reverie, I find solace. Vulnerability becomes my strength, and catharsis washes over me. The angst and apathy dissolve, replaced by a yearning for serenity.

And in the quiet, I sleep.

- Oizys.

[Johannes Brahms - Op.49 No.4 Wiegenlied / Lullaby (original composition)]

Somewhere Between "Perfect Victim" and "Perfect Survivor"

I grew up in an environment where victimhood was a narrative that was not only recognized but emphasized. I was always told I wasn’t the victim—they were. Those around me wore their pain like badges, their suffering almost serving as proof of their existence, while I was encouraged to suppress mine, to push past it. I was taught that to be a victim was to be weak, to be incomplete. The word ‘survivor’ didn’t come into my world until much later, and when it did, it felt like a foreign label being shoved down my throat. It was politically correct, they said. It was stronger, better, the story you should tell the world—because survival, after all, is something we celebrate. But the word felt almost as constricting as ‘victim,’ as though it demanded a neatness, an end to the struggle. Yet, I was neither of these things—I wasn’t simply a victim of what happened to me, nor was I some perfect survivor whose wounds had been neatly tied up in a bow. The reality was far messier, a place where I had to unlearn the labels I’d been given, and find a language for my journey that felt truer to who I was becoming in the process.

There’s a place between perfect victim and perfect survivor—a grey area where identity is not so easily defined, and healing doesn’t follow a straight line.

You see, the perfect victim is the one whose pain is visible to everyone. The one whose suffering is clear, whose hurt is almost celebrated in its purity, because it fits into a narrative people can understand. It’s a story with a beginning, a middle, and a clear point of trauma—something you can hold, something you can point to and say, “This is where I broke.”

But what happens when you’re not just broken, but fragmented? What happens when the story isn’t that simple? The perfect victim is an image of raw, unhealed pain, and yet, some days, we crave to be seen through that lens—to be recognized in the depth of our wounds. There’s comfort in being understood, in being pitied or given space to grieve. It’s a place where you can simply exist in the aftermath, unburdened by expectation.

Then, there’s the perfect survivor. The one who has transcended, who wears the badge of resilience like armor. They’ve risen from the ashes, carried their scars with pride, and stand tall with an unshakable strength. The perfect survivor is admired, even revered, for their triumph over adversity, their ability to stand firm despite what they’ve been through. But even the survivor’s strength comes with its own kind of pressure. There’s an expectation of unrelenting perseverance, a belief that to survive is to be without fragility, without moments of doubt. But survival, real survival, is not a perfect thing. It is messy, it is uneven, and sometimes it feels like you're fighting against yourself more than the world.

And somewhere between those extremes, there’s the real story—the one that doesn't fit neatly into either box. It's the space where your wounds haven’t fully healed, but they’ve also started to form new contours. You’re still grieving, still healing, still broken, but you’re learning how to move forward with those broken pieces. You’re not the perfect victim, but you’re not yet the perfect survivor either. You’re somewhere in the middle, in the messy, uncomfortable, beautiful space of being both. And maybe, just maybe, that place is where true healing lies. There’s an odd sort of pressure when you exist between those extremes, isn’t there? It’s like being caught in the gravitational pull of two forces that constantly pull you in different directions, and you’re left suspended, not quite fitting into either. The world loves labels—victim and survivor—because they’re easy to digest. You can box someone in, define their entire experience with one word, and move on. But what about the middle ground, the in-between space where you aren’t fully one or the other? This space isn’t often talked about. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and real in a way that both perfect victimhood and perfect survival can’t quite capture. The middle is the raw, untold part of the story—the one where healing doesn’t mean perfection and survival doesn’t mean strength all the time. It's where you’re allowed to falter, allowed to fall apart, allowed to not have all the answers. In this space, you can feel the weight of your past pressing against your future, both pulling you in different directions. The trauma hasn’t entirely faded; it’s still there, like an invisible scar, sometimes deep and sometimes just a faint reminder. But that doesn’t mean you’re stuck in it. It just means you’re still living with it, navigating your way through the world with a complicated mix of wisdom and vulnerability. Sometimes you feel strong, other times weak. Sometimes you feel like you've come so far, and other times you feel like you're right back where you started.

There’s a fundamental tension in this space, isn't there? The space between "perfect victim" and "perfect survivor" is where the real conflict lies—the kind that doesn’t just affect how the world sees you, but how you see yourself. It’s where trauma isn’t just a momentary event; it’s something that reconfigures your entire sense of self, your identity. It’s where you carry the weight of everything that’s happened to you, but it’s not just about the trauma—it’s about who you are becoming in the wake of it. In this space, there’s a sense of unfinishedness—not in a bad way, but in a way that says, “I am still in process. I am still discovering the pieces of me I didn't know existed.” It's the place where every story of survival feels like it's only half-told. It’s the quietest paradox of all: you’ve survived, but not without deep scars, and yet, you’re not a perfect survivor because you're still carrying those scars. They're still part of you, and maybe they always will be. The idea that healing is some neat package of triumph over adversity is something the world tells us. But the truth is, healing doesn’t look like anything. It’s messy. It’s intangible. It’s both explosive and quiet. When you're in this in-between space, there’s a profound sense of reclamation that starts to surface. But that reclamation doesn’t necessarily feel like strength at first. It feels like vulnerability, like uncovering layers of yourself you were never ready to see. And that’s where the tension lives. You’re still holding on to a part of the "victim" you once were—the part that needs validation, the part that wants someone to acknowledge how deeply you’ve been hurt. You’re not ready to just let that go, because it’s your history. It’s your truth. And there’s no way to pretend it didn’t happen, no way to shut it down into a neat story of survival.

Because healing isn’t linear. It doesn’t look like a clear path from victimhood to survival—it’s a winding road with setbacks and progress in equal measure. It’s about accepting the complexity of who you are in all your contradictions: the parts of you that are still hurting, the parts of you that are still growing, and the parts of you that are already stronger than you think. Healing doesn’t happen in one great moment. It’s a process, a slow unfolding of layers that you didn’t even know were there. And those layers aren’t all neat or pretty. Some of them are jagged, some of them make you angry, and some of them make you laugh at how absurd life can feel. The journey is nonlinear. Some days you’ll feel like you’re climbing a mountain, only to wake up the next day feeling like you're buried under a pile of rubble. In this space between victim and survivor, you’re allowed to be a contradiction. You’re allowed to be strong and weak in the same breath, to carry both pain and joy without feeling like you have to choose. You don’t have to have it all figured out, and that’s where the magic happens—when you let go of the need to fit perfectly into a box, when you embrace the mess of who you are and who you’re becoming. You are the product of every experience, every moment, and every decision. And none of those moments exist in isolation. They all blend together, shaping you in ways that can’t be boiled down into something simple or neatly packaged.

- Oizys.

Mother-Daughter Dance

12/03/2025

It has been a handful of days. It seems like I am falling into the pattern of my old habits. Bad habits. Destructive habits. But with something different. There is a whole lot of thinking. Not just ruminatory thinking. But, contemplation. Planning. Actionable thinking. And, as usual, I am scared. Because, whatever has happened has changed something within me. It has broken me in a manner I have to restructurize myself. I don't know where to begin. It has been so painful today. I have medicated all a lot of my distinct pain with three different medications that put me to sleep for 6 hours but my gut is still in a twist. The panic attack has not seen a full stop. It keeps springing. Like it is in a marathon. Sometimes, it jumps and sometimes just crawls. It has been going on since yesterday. It is too much. I can't ignore but accept the fact that the worse might be yet to come. The fact is when your roots are rotten, how much can you heal above the ground? The screams I screamed that evening, is still vibrating within me. Like a echo that refuses to fade. The sound of my voice, raw and filled with desperation, lingers in the air of my mind like an endless reverberation. It’s as if the night itself has absorbed my agony, and with each passing second, it presses deeper into the corners of my thoughts, echoing over and over again. No matter how far I run, those screams follow me, pulling me back to that place. It’s a sensation I can’t escape, a haunting that refuses to release its grip on me. And, I don't know how to stop it. It has taken over my body now. I would wish to alter every thing but I cannot afford that level of delusion right now. The weight of it presses down, suffocating me with every breath I take. My mind is a battlefield, torn between the desire to escape and the realization that no matter how much I wish for things to change, the reality is far too unyielding. I can’t outrun it. I can’t silence it. And yet, I’m stuck—stuck in this web of overwhelming emotion and endless turmoil. To pretend it’s not there, to try and ignore it, feels like a betrayal of myself. But facing it head-on seems impossible. How does one fight something that’s already taken root so deeply inside? I wish I could wake up from this nightmare, but the truth is, I don't even know where the dream ends and the nightmare begins anymore.

And, I wish, us, mother and daughters could escape it but we are stuck in the eternal loop of being one entity revolving around him and trying hard to establish our own individualities leading to conflicts between us. It's as if we are tied together by some invisible thread, tangled in a web of shared pain, yet each of us trying so desperately to break free. The three of us, mother and daughters, caught in this eternal struggle for space, for identity, for something that’s our own, yet always tethered to him. Each of us pulls in a different direction, but the force of his presence keeps us bound together, no matter how far we try to go. It’s like we are all orbiting around him, struggling to break free from the gravity that keeps pulling us back. But every time one of us tries to step away, it feels like we are being yanked back into the same pattern—this cycle of expectation, of sacrifice, of needing to fit into roles that never truly belonged to us. I can feel the weight of the tension between us. The constant push and pull. It’s suffocating. We love each other, but sometimes, love is not enough to break free from the chains that bind us. The fights, the misunderstandings, the silent resentment—it all stems from the same root: a shared history that we can't escape and can't seem to rewrite. And so we continue, trapped in this loop, each of us yearning for independence but finding only conflict instead.

It, I think, starts with my mother. Mother, before she becomes a mother, is first turned into an extension of the father. Extension of a man. Not a woman anymore. Just an agent of man. And, when she is made to borne daughters, the daughters inherit that same fate, the same pattern. We are born into a world where our existence is shaped by what others see us as—extensions of him, reflections of what he needs, what he wants. It’s like our identities are already written before we even take our first breath. And my mother, who once was her own person, now exists as a mere agent of his desires, his expectations, a vessel for his continuation. She doesn’t know where her own needs and desires end, because they’ve been swallowed by the role she’s been forced to play. The role of mother, of caretaker, of sacrifice. But underneath it all, I can sense her lost pieces, the parts of her that used to be full of life, of rebellion, of dreams that didn’t fit into the mold of “wife” and “mother.” I wonder, was she ever allowed to simply be herself, or was she always just the extension of him, as if she was never allowed to exist beyond his shadow? And then, the daughters. We come into this world knowing no other way but to carry the same burden, to be raised in the image of what he needs. We're taught to be extensions of him too, not allowed the space to form ourselves, to find our own voices, to stand as individuals. Our identity is given to us by default, and the struggle is already there from the start—the quiet understanding that we are not meant to be whole, but pieces of something else. Each generation becomes a little more fractured, a little more lost, as we try to carve out what’s ours amidst the pressures, the expectations, and the roles that are thrust upon us. And with each passing day, I wonder if my daughters will feel the same weight, or if they’ll find a way to break free from the cycle we’ve been trapped in for so long.

And, if the daughters harbour thoughts of freedom, the mother's heart splits into two. She is both secretly happy and covertly angry. Yes, because the desire for freedom in her daughters is a mirror, a reflection of what was once denied to her. On one hand, she feels a flicker of joy, a quiet pride, because part of her—deep down—wants them to break free, to live lives that aren’t tethered by the same chains that bound her. She sees their potential, their strength, their ability to dream beyond the roles she was forced to play, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like a redemption. Like, through them, maybe she can live out the freedom she never had. But then, there's the anger, the bitterness that rises like bile in her throat. Because in her daughters' yearning for freedom, she sees what she was never allowed to have. She sees what she gave up, what was stolen from her. There’s the deep, unspoken ache—the guilt that she didn’t fight harder for herself, and the resentment that she was forced to sacrifice so much, just to survive, just to fulfill her duty as a mother and a wife. And then the truth settles in: as much as she loves her daughters, as much as she wishes for them to soar, it is terrifying. Terrifying because it brings up her own regrets, her own feeling of being trapped in a life she never truly chose. Seeing them chase freedom is like confronting the life she could have had, but never will. And so, she feels torn—both proud and resentful, both loving and bitter. The complexity of it all weighs on her, and it spills into the way she reacts. The contradictions of her emotions play out in the smallest of moments—her advice, her silence, her expectations, and the way she can never fully let go. Her heart is split in two, forever caught between wanting more for them and being afraid of what their freedom will mean for her.

Then, the daughters have to fight the battle of whether to set themselves free or stitch their mother's hearts. And so, the daughters stand at a crossroads, torn between the desire for their own lives, their own paths, and the weight of the unspoken burden to protect their mothers from the pain their freedom might cause. The battle is silent, but it's constant—a war fought in the heart, in the quiet moments when they look at their mothers and see the cracks, the quiet sorrow, the sacrifices that have shaped her into who she is. How can they walk away from that? How can they break free without leaving her behind, without shattering what little is left of her? They know that every step they take toward their own lives feels like another cut to her heart. And yet, to stay bound to her—to live the life she lived, to carry on the cycle—feels like a betrayal of everything they could be. It is a cruel paradox. To love her is to feel the pull to keep her whole, to stitch her heart back together with the threads of their own dreams, even if those dreams are fragments of what they could have been. But to set themselves free is to risk tearing that fragile bond even further, to risk the pain of separation that could break them both. They are caught between wanting to honor her, to make her proud, and the knowledge that, in the end, they can never truly be free until they break away from the expectations she never got to escape herself. In the quiet of their own minds, they wonder: Is it possible to break the cycle without breaking her? Can they be whole without causing her to unravel? The cost of freedom feels so high. And yet, the cost of staying the same, of stifling their own desires, their own selves, is even higher. The question remains—can they find a way to heal her wounds, to stitch her heart, while still setting themselves free? Or will the very act of their liberation be the thing that drives the final wedge between them?

14/03/2025

It is the story of every mother and her daughters. They exist as roots entangled in a barren soil, each one yearning to stretch upward, to reach for the sun, but held back by the weight of the earth beneath them. The mother, weathered and worn, is the deep root—the one that has been buried for so long, its once-strong branches now twisted and bent, struggling to grow free. She tries to guide her daughters, offering them the nutrients of love, but her own roots are so tightly bound to the darkness of the past that they cannot escape, and neither can her daughters. The daughters are the fragile shoots, pushing through the soil, eager to reach the light, but with every inch they rise, the roots above them constrict, pulling them back, dragging them into the earth’s suffocating embrace. They are desperate to bloom, to become something more than what they were born into, yet the mother's shadow looms large, and the weight of her silent sacrifices presses down on them like an unyielding stone. They exist as thorns in a vine, each trying to pierce through the pain of the past, but unable to break free of the vine that holds them together, each one cutting into the other as they try to escape. The deeper they struggle, the more the blood of their shared history stains their hands, yet the vine keeps pulling them back, forcing them to remain entwined, even as their hearts scream to be free.

I fantasize for a happy ending. But, we all know how this curtain falls—slowly, quietly, as the weight of untold stories sinks in. The dreams of freedom, once bright and vivid, fade into the haze of compromise, of quiet resignation. The mother's hands, once full of hope, become trembling, fragile from years of holding on to what could never truly be hers. The daughters, too, become shadows of what they could have been, their wings clipped by the invisible ties that bind them to a past they cannot escape. The curtain falls not with the final note of a triumphant song, but with a sigh—a breath held for too long, now escaping in a rush. The space between them, once filled with possibilities, now sits heavy with unspoken words, with the ache of love that could never be fully realized. They are all still standing, still bound to each other in the dance they never asked for, playing their parts, but never fully free. The curtain falls, and with it, the hope that someday, the weight of the past will lift, that someday they will find their way out of the darkness, only to discover that perhaps, this is all they can ever be. And, in the silence that follows, a quiet truth lingers—sometimes, survival is the only way paved for us. Even when it feels like the ending was never quite what you imagined.

Here I am again. Counting the tablets in my hand. The pain is back. Because, the panic is coursing through my veins. The body is throttling with all the bottled up screams. I am unable to contain it. Tired to having my panic attacks on mute under a thin blanket. Squeezing out the screams from the eyes to not wake up anyone. To not be an inconvenience. I have ended up with a soul that is chock-full of headaches. And, a throat that feels like it’s constantly on the verge of choking—tight, constricted, as if every word I’ve never said is stuck there, unwilling to escape. It burns, the weight of unspoken things, and I can’t find the relief. My mind is foggy, tangled in a mess of thoughts that race, but never reach clarity. Every inch of me feels like it’s on the edge, always fighting to stay composed, yet constantly being pulled apart from the inside.

- Oizys.

Faultlines of Writlurk

She wakes from the dirt,
claws at the bones of this rotting empire.
No soft hands here.
These hands,
they pry the sky open like a mouth, make it spit its secrets.
and count the threads of broken promises.
And, the truth that lies buried
Beneath the pavement, forgotten, rotting.
On your streets that are your mouths that swallow hope whole
The world spins around her like a butcher's wheel—
but she doesn't look away.
Doesn’t blink.
You tell her to smile,
but she shreds that too,
a map to nowhere in her teeth,
a galaxy of blood.
You call it history—
but it's just the dust in her throat
and the light that flickers when she breathes.
Don't ask her to dance with you.
The floor is on fire and her boots are made of revolution.
She does not bow,
she stands
and the earth cracks beneath her.
You see her?
Good.
But your eyes—
they are not enough.
The moon?
Her reflection,
a mirror to the fractured silence she shouts from.
Watch her rise.
You can't drown what was never meant to stay under.
The cage rattles.
She sings,
and you call it: chaos!
It’s not chaos.
It’s creation.
You hear her?
No?
Good, you’re not supposed to.
She speaks in tongues you can’t translate.
She doesn’t need your translation.
You tell her to be quiet,
but her silence?
It’s an inflicted weapon.
You’re afraid of what you cannot hear.
She spits into the sun,
and it flinches.
A flicker of light trying to burn her back
but she wears shadows like a second skin.
You thought she’d fade,
but she tastes the sky and it’s sour,
a memory of men who thought they owned it.
The sky is now a bruise, bloated and waiting to burst.
Her mouth is a graveyard,
her teeth, shards of forgotten gods,
and when she smiles,
it’s not for you.
It’s for the wind that hums like a hungry ghost
sweeping through the ruins of what they thought they built.
You called it civilization—
she calls it a coffin with a velvet lining.
She turns it inside out and wears it like a cape.
Who needs wings when you’ve got roots
that drag the earth with them?
She bleeds ink and fire,
writes in the veins of her mother,
her grandmother,
her great-grandmother,
and each word is a knife that slices through time,
through your idea of time,
through your neat little boxes.
She gnaws on the neck of silence
and swallows the dark whole.
You told her to speak sweetly,
so she carved a tongue from razor blades
and let it taste the salt of their tears.
She wears the pulse of a thousand broken promises
and hums through the ruins of your comfort.
Her breath is made of glass shards
and razor blades dipped in the blood of gods you’ve forgotten.
She doesn't ask for your forgiveness
because she knows better—
you don’t have the hands for it.
She doesn’t make sense.
She never will.
And that’s the part that cuts you the deepest—
she refuses to be understood.
You want her to fit in your neat little boxes,
to wear the labels you’ve stitched into the seams of your own rage.
But she is the thunder
before your storm
and the one that eats your sky.
You don’t see her—
not really.
You never have.
You only see the idea of her,
and the idea of her burns you.
She is not your idea.
She is the nightmare you wake up screaming to,
the one you wish would leave,
but she is already in the walls.
So scream,
scream all you want.
She isn’t listening.
She doesn’t need to.
She is not the one who’s been silent.
You have been.
She is the scar on the horizon where the sun should have risen,
a thousand forgotten cries stitched into her skin like tattoos of violence,
each one a story you never bothered to hear.
Her body—
a map of erasure,
the imprints of every hand that reached
and tore,
twisted,
pulled,
and never let go.
She is the hollow echo
of what was stolen,
the thing you covered with sweet words
while her blood watered the roots of this world.
They called it conquest,
but it was theft.
Every inch of her was mined,
plundered in the name of something holy—
a religion that didn’t see her,
a god that never whispered her name.
Her hands were shackled with the promises of progress,
her mouth gagged with the silence of centuries.
Still, she spoke,
but her voice was a thunder you couldn’t understand,
a crack in the sky where the storms of history rained down.
You marked her,
branded her like cattle,
and called it civilization.
But her scars?
They are pins,
stars on boards etched in blood
that trace the journey of every woman
who was never allowed to breathe without submission.
She is the soil turned to ash
beneath the boots of your armies,
the crushed hands of those who built your temples
and never saw the light.
Her pain was the oil you burned
to light your mansions,
and you drank from the well
of her tears without ever seeing her thirst.
She is the stone you tried to carve
into something you could own,
and when you failed,
you burned her body
and called it the funeral pyre of progress.
You think you erased her.
But her name is the soil you stand on,
the air you breathe,
the pulse you ignore in your chest.
She is the dark beneath the skin of your city,
the rust in the gears of your machines,
the echo that shatters your glass towers
and makes your foundation tremble.
She is the truth you bury in your backyard
while you laugh at your own reflection.
Her revolution doesn’t need a flag.
Her revolution doesn’t need a name.
Her revolution is in the cracks,
the fractures where you never looked,
the silence that grows louder the more you ignore it.
She will rise,
but not from the ashes you think you’ve left behind.
She rises from the things you refuse to see,
from the hands that were never allowed to touch
and the mouths that were forced to swallow their own rage.
And when she opens her eyes,
they will burn brighter than the lies
you built your empire on.
Those lies of yours that hang in the air like smoke,
choking the breath out of the world.
The air smells like burnt paper and broken promises.
She is already here,
and you will never stop her.
She is the skin scraped raw by the weight of forgotten years,
the quiet ache beneath every cry
that was never acknowledged.
She is the broken foundation of your “progress,”
the cracks you erased to keep your structure upright.
Progress by roads that are paved with her stolen teeth.
Her breath is made of all the lost moments,
and when she inhales,
the world shudders in regret.
But you never see her—
you only see the shadow of your own reflection
dancing in the chaos.
You thought she was a whisper.
But her whisper is the sound of walls cracking
under the weight of your good intentions.
Every word she spoke was another bruise
you inflicted in the name of change.
Her body is not your project,
it was never meant to be your territory.
You used her with your systems,
pulled her apart with your rules,
stole the fire from her eyes
and made her bow to your vision.
The laws of your sovereign are chains,
forged in silence, rattling with every step she takes.
You stole from her with your ideals,
and made her work for the dreams of others
who never bothered to ask.
You planted your flag in her soil
and watched her bend
while you stood back and called it progress.

Your progress is nothing but a slow rot,

eating through the skin of the earth.

She is the girl you buried under piles of indifference,
the one you swore to forget,
the one you buried without her story.
But herstory was never meant to be erased.
It is the cry that will break your walls
and turn your structures to dust.
She is the cracks in your perfect image,
the fracture in your narrative,
the one you tried to suppress
and thought you could silence
with every promise you never kept.
She doesn’t need your forgiveness,
she doesn’t need your pity.
She’s already swallowed your excuses
and spit out your blame.
She wears the skin of every woman
who was told to shrink,
to stay still,
to fall into line,
to stay quiet under your gaze.
But her skin is not fragile anymore—
it is the shield made from every setback,
every slap,
every taunt,
every prejudice,
it's thick with rage
you thought would break her,
the shield that turns every hurt
into something stronger.
You tried to bury her with your silence,
but she is the echo that rattles your walls.
She is the cry that follows you in your sleep
and tugs at your breath.
You thought you quieted her,
but every lock you put on her voice
only made her words bolder,
like a warning you couldn’t ignore.
Her fire is the storm you never anticipated,
the wave you never prepared for,
the light that will expose everything you’ve hidden.
She will not be the calm after the storm—
she will the storm now.
She will become the spark that lights the match
and burns away the things you thought would last,
you proudly built on her backs,
your property.
your world.
You cannot control her,
you cannot erase her,
you cannot make her forget.
She is the truth coded deep
in the fabric of your structure,
and when she decrypts,
it won’t be with your permission,
it won’t be with your consent.
It will be with the power
of every person
who has ever been held back,
ever been forgotten,
ever been silenced
and told to be still.
But she will not be still.
She will never be still again.
Her rage is not a roar—
it is the flicker of a dying candle
just before the flame gives out.
It is the last breath you take
before the tide pulls you under
and you realize
she was never drowning.
She was always the water.

- Oizys.

Some thoughts: Okay, happy International Women's Day. Things are still bad, in a simmering stage after a lava explosion. It might get worse, who knows... At home, I am talking about. Of course. I kept thinking about writing something, a poem maybe, for today. But, I was unable to track down a theme, a particular focal point to nail it. So, I went on with the wonky flow of my mind. And, this is it. My goal is the journey of fight. And, I am merely picking this day up to depict it. Throughout this journey, every fighter's battle is to impart the truth, the absolute truth that the way human life instils autonomy in you as a form of dignity in civilized society, the same way, that same human life instils that same level of autonomy in her as a form of dignity in civilized society. And, the struggle is of some people unable to swallow this pill. We have the date marked, celebrations organized but is your mindset aligned? That would be the question to ponder. When you ponder, you'll realize that if it has already aligned there would've been no need of marking such dates, celebrating such days. Since it is not, people glorify it to reach audience, seek people's support. Make it pink and pulpy and shiny. The gore is yet to touch you because you sit your rosy bubble of life. Such is the inequality in life.

Burning Eyes, Retch, That Itch in the Middle of Left Foot and Another Pitch of Melancholy

Burning eyes. The kind of sting that comes from too much screen time or a sleepless night, but this feels different. Like a fire in my mind, a heat that won’t burn out. It’s strange how everything else around me feels blurry, but this discomfort is sharp—always there. I close my eyes for relief, but there’s no escaping the irritation. Every blink makes it worse. And then there's that damn itch—right in the middle of my left foot. Always dormant but acts up during the weirdest of times. I’ve scratched at it so much now, it’s more a dull ache than anything else. It’s maddening, that feeling of something crawling under the skin, but there’s nothing to see, nothing to touch. Just that sensation, gnawing at me. I can’t even get comfortable. Even the most innocent movements trigger it. Ah, the retch—that feeling. You know, the one that rises up in your throat, uninvited, like a wave that threatens to spill over but never quite does. It’s almost like a reflex to everything that’s going on in my body. The burning, the itch, and now this—just the body’s way of saying enough. The sensation comes and goes, like it’s trying to get me to choke on whatever's bothering me, but there's nothing really there to spit out. Just the discomfort lingering in the back of my throat. Somehow, as if my body is conspiring against me, my mind spirals, too. That pitch of melancholy, sudden and deep. It’s like a shadow that falls without warning. I was fine, or at least thought I was. But now everything feels weighed down by a sadness I can’t put a name to. It’s not the kind of sadness that comes with loss, but more like a low hum beneath everything—quiet, steady, and relentless. It’s all a bit too much today—eyes burning, the endless itch, and this deep-seated melancholy that creeps in and makes everything feel heavy. It’s a subtle kind of torture, a reminder that something’s off, but it's never clear what. A mental overload, maybe? A signal my body is sending, telling me that something’s wrong and I just can’t quite catch it. It’s like the body’s language for all that’s unsaid. And today, it's speaking loud. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe not.

There were days where my need to leave, need to escape was fantastical. But now, it has changed. Something has changed. The tone, the edge of the feeling to escape has now become a need. Almost, psychological. It’s wild how that shift happens, isn’t it? How the once-distant fantasy of running away, of escaping, becomes something more urgent, more visceral. It starts off as a daydream—this place or that place, a different life, a different story. You picture it in flashes, in fragments, almost like it could be a movie reel of “what ifs,” something you could step into if the moment ever arrived. But now? Now, it feels like a pull, a weight in your chest. The kind of thing that claws at you in the quiet moments. The kind of feeling that goes beyond the romanticized escape and becomes an almost necessary impulse. It’s not about the fantasy anymore, it’s about survival. It's like the walls are closing in, the world’s edges are pressing too hard, and the only way to breathe again is to leave—physically, mentally, emotionally. It’s not just the thought of leaving; it’s the need to escape from the inside. The noise, the pressures, the routines, the same everything, all of it becomes too much to bear, and there’s only one way to get relief. Maybe it’s not even a place you want to go, just anywhere that’s not here. What changed? Maybe the fantasy turned real, or maybe you’ve reached the point where the discomfort of staying outweighs the fear of the unknown. Either way, it's more than just wanting to go somewhere else. It feels like needing to be somewhere else to even begin to feel okay again.

It makes sense, doesn’t it? The itch in the foot—small, nagging, always there. It’s like the body’s way of reminding you of everything that’s trapped inside, that you can’t quite get rid of. The itch never fully goes away, no matter how much you scratch at it. And the retch? That feeling that rises but never quite releases? It’s as if there’s something in you that needs to escape, to be let go, but you can’t find the release. It’s trapped there, stuck in your throat, or in your mind, and the more you try to push it out, the more it festers. You can’t scratch the itch, and you can’t purge the retch. Both are the body saying, something’s wrong, and I need a way out. The eyes, the windows to everything you’re trying to escape, but they only show you what’s in front of you. They can’t turn away, can’t look anywhere else. It’s like they keep seeing the same walls, the same reality, and it’s suffocating. No matter how much you want to escape or move beyond, the eyes hold you captive in the now. They refuse to let you see anything but what is, and in that, the reality of can't sinks in. That’s where the melancholy creeps in—the space between what you want and what you can actually do. It's not just a sadness, but a kind of quiet resignation, the acceptance that the escape isn’t coming, and the discomfort has nowhere to go. It’s a deeper sadness, born from that feeling of helplessness, from the realization that things can’t change just by wishing them to. The weight of the unmet need, the tension without release, piles up in the soul and spills out as melancholy. It’s like the mind and body are screaming for relief, and the eyes just keep telling you no, and in that silence, the sorrow grows. You end up stuck in that space between desire and impossibility, where there’s no clear way out. That’s where the heaviness settles in.

That’s a raw feeling, isn't it? A kind of weariness that stretches deeper than just physical exhaustion. It’s the kind of fatigue where you’re not just tired of your body, but of the whole process of trying to keep up, to push through. The mind keeps racing, the body keeps aching, and it all just builds until you wish for any kind of release. A full stop, a breaking point, just for everything to end. Not as a desire to escape to something better, but to finally, finally let go of the constant tension. The scream, the need to just release, but then there’s only silence afterward. A silence that promises nothing but an end to the noise, to the struggle. Then, darkness. As if everything around you can finally just collapse, like a theater show that’s reached its final act, the curtain falls, and it’s over. No more thoughts. No more weight. Just... nothing.

- Oizys.

International Women's Day, Maught, and Post-Rage Melancholy

04/05/2025

There is a Scottish word, maught. It means might. My father told us today over tea and some puffed rice. His organisation is giving its female employees an amount to spend on Women's Day, 8th of March. I often think, what will I do? What will I get on Women's Day as a woman? Even though I took a long journey to accept I have become a woman. Being a woman has become important to me more than ever. And I have grown closer to my mother. Is it a result of the former? Or is the former the result of this new closeness? Who knows which came first? I find it tautological. As mother and daughter, our talk, by and large, revolves around food. Not the surface-level dinner-table conversation. The hunger, the cooking, the process, the lack, the glut. We both are vegetarians in a family where some others are overt non-vegetarians. And some, covert. The hunger is so vicious, stuck in our chests forever. The cooking has bound us forever in the little soaked kitchen. Outside of which, we have no escape, so we cling on to each other. I often think how much strength she must have conjured up over the years to cook while keeping her hunger shut. How many scraps she must have had to gather to pay her debts to the glut. All while burdened with the responsibility of plenty. The lack that isn't lacking. The glut that isn’t gluttony. Because in a world that offers too much but never has enough—that is what being a woman is like. Could it be that Eve came out of her mother's rib after a long-drawn hunger stuck in there, a vortex is born? And Adam was angry.  He was angry because, after all, how could he, the first man, fall short of a rib? And so, he cursed her. Out of malicious frustration—a sort of tragic possessiveness. He cursed her to give birth from her belly, not from her ribs. And the rib was forever lost, buried under layers of flesh and blood, tangled up in a woman’s womb.  The belly, hopeless belly, on its knees, has to cradle, not the freedom of glut, but of the burden Adam chose to place. And that is, in all likelihood, why I took so long to accept being a woman. The world will never let us be (just) women. It will never free us from the weight of what it means to be womanly. Womanly—to be both a source of life and a symbol of sacrifice. A force of nature wrapped in skin. Cursed to be both tender and unbreakable? I wish this Woman's Day, not for a token of privilege, but for the space to be—unburdened, no qualifiers. Some space to lay this hollow one-rib-less chest bare. Let out this vortex of layers of glut and hunger without feeling like a culprit who released a poison in the city. Give up the echo of cursed expectations dragging me back into the kitchen of my ancestresses.

05/05/2025

I fell asleep writing all of this last night, cramped up in a corner. And woke up in my own pool of blood. The excruciating pain was no stranger, but its hellish outburst today was especially of Mark. It ended up being so bad, I gave into the despair and fell into medication. Oh, the magic of medication. It lets you live, numbly and dizzyingly and drowsily.

06/07/2025

The day was almost good. I don't think I ever had a second day of my periods without any pain. We all have a first. It was so good that it all felt like a dream. An illusion. Or, one of my fantasies. Retrospectively, I prayed it should have been one of those days. Because what followed this lack of pain left a scar so deep, broke a chasm so hard. There is no point of return. The lack of pain brought the flurrying rage that was simmered by being unheard, spat at, humiliated, and disrespected. The rage burst in nerves and defiled my silence. Silence that was embedded in every bit of my woman, my mother's woman, my sister's woman. That look on his face, his voice, and his manipulation churned my stomach and accelerated my bile. The audacity, the gall of him, declaring that I had no right. We had no right. It is the singularity and open-endedness in his statement that forced us to lay our odium bare for him. It is the threat of us having no right but also, in the same breath, the accusation of us being the upper hand. It is the threat of burning us down but also, in the same breath, an accusation of us doubling down on him. It is the threat of stripping us of anything we have but also, in the same breath, the accusation of us taking everything away from us. It is the threat of being a disenfranchised daughter in his life but also, in the same breath, an accusation of never having been enough, of never having measured up to some invisible standard he sets, an expectation that seems to shift and bend with his moods. It is the threat of erasing us, yet the accusation of us trying to erase him, as if we are both the victim and the villain in the same twisted dance. It is the threat of silence, the absence of warmth or presence, yet the accusation that we seek to silence him, to remove his voice from the narrative of our lives, as if we ever had the power to begin with. The evening branded a paradox on us, mother and daughters—we are disempowered, never allowed to fully exist in the way we wish—neither here nor there, neither fully seen nor fully free. The whole night, each breath felt like we were swimming in the tension of impossible expectations, and each blink towards sleep felt like a betrayal, no matter which side we turned.

See, the thing about a woman speaking up is it changes every card on the table. In this time or era, if she endures and silently complains while sobbing and enduring some more, you will still have the whole room to acknowledge her, patronise her, guide her, and make her endure some more. But if she speaks up. Oh. The entire room shifts and turns, and suddenly she is the problem. She is the disruption. She is the threat to the carefully curated peace, the one who dares to unravel the illusion of compliance, of quiet suffering. In her voice, they hear not the plea for understanding but a challenge to the status quo, a defiance that makes them uncomfortable, makes them question their own complicity. She becomes the loud, the aggressive, the unreasonable, the one who can never be satisfied. And yet, in her silence, she is expected to be grateful for the crumbs of acknowledgement, to be content with the scraps of respect that are given to her, as though her worth is only validated in her suffering, in her submission. But when she speaks, when she stands tall, she is no longer the meek recipient of pity. She becomes the one who demands, who claims what is rightfully hers. The room no longer welcomes her voice but fears it, for it exposes the cracks in their own carefully built narratives. And in this fear, they try to silence her, not because she is wrong, but because her truth is too loud, too raw, and too real for them to ignore.

Standing up for yourself as a woman is a double-edged sword. On one side, it’s an act of liberation, a reclaiming of your voice, your autonomy, your power. It’s the breaking of chains, the finally vomiting out of the ancient rage that binds you to expectations, to roles, to histories written by others. It’s the moment when you decide that your worth isn’t up for negotiation and that you won’t be silenced any longer. In standing up, you are showing the world that you will no longer be defined by its narrow and shrewd ways, but by the expansive nature of your own truth. But on the other side, that same act of standing up is almost always like a knife pointed towards your own belly. You are stamped as "too much," "too loud," "too demanding"—as though your assertiveness is an affront to the world. It’s a tightrope walk because the very qualities that are celebrated in them are seen as threatening in us. The same strength that would earn them admiration might lead to our vilification. The same self-assurance that’s revered in others might be twisted into accusations of arrogance, aggression, or selfishness when it comes from you. It’s exhausting, this delicate act. To be strong, but not too strong. To be independent, but not isolated. To speak your truth, but not be twistedly perceived as a threat. And even when you walk this razor-thin line, you’re left wondering: If I’m punished for being myself, is it worth standing tall at all?

My mother's words brought a balm for these cut-inflicting thoughts. She said this was long overdue. She was shocked; I could scream in front of him. She remarked, My screams were just like his, and that would be his rude awakening. She also said this might bring forth a change. She has always been a hopeful realist. And, I think, that is what kept her going through all those days and all those nights, all those slaps and all those screams. But my stomach keeps churning. I keep thinking, what if it gets worse? Because, perhaps, that's how life has been for me. Whenever something bad happens, it is followed by some more horrible happenings and then some more with the seven circles of hell freezing over me.

I lay on my bed in a dark and hot room beside my mother. I searched for her palm while I was splitting into two. One, desperate for comfort, for the familiar warmth of her hand, yearning for the simple reassurance that she would hold me steady, grounding me in a world that felt like it was crumbling. That part of me, still a child in many ways, wanted to sink into the softness of her presence, to feel protected from the chaos swirling both inside and outside of me. Scared, shivering, and feverish child me. The other, sharp and restless, like a larva coming out of a cocoon, itching to break free, was fighting against everything she endured—against the silence we had both learnt to endure, against the passive submission that had become a second skin. This part of me felt suffocated by the unspoken, trapped in the weight of expectations that came with being her daughter, being a woman, being expected to keep things together even when I was falling apart. It was as though my very being was being torn between the need for her and the need to escape with her, to break free from the cycle of quiet acceptance that had defined my life. Our lives. I reached for her hand, and for a fleeting moment, her warmth was unsettlingly welcome—but even then, the internal conflict raged within me. In that touch, I felt the comfort of familiarity and the pain of knowing that, just like her, I might one day come to accept the very things I was rebelling against now.

Anyway, happy International Women's Day in advance for us. Could there be a more poetic ending than this?

- Oizys.

[The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love by Bell Hooks]

Can't Daydream While I Shit?

I have been wondering this for a while now. Been almost a year, since this thought has been swirling around inside my mind. I am a very dedicated daydreamer. No matter what, I can daydream forever. And, some more. Nothing can stop me. Except while I am on the can. I’ve pondered this too much now, you know. Why is it that the bathroom—the one place where the world outside your door seems so distant—becomes a no-go zone for daydreams? It's almost like an unspoken rule of the universe: Daydreaming? Sure. But not here.

I mean, think about it: most other places, your mind runs wild. You can drift into other realities while you're walking, doing dishes, or even sitting through an awful Zoom call. But the second you plant yourself on the throne, something shifts. Your mind, usually so free to wander, suddenly seems tethered to... well, bodily functions. It’s like your brain decides that the realm of the mundane must match the context of your current situation. You're supposed to be focused on the present moment—literally, the present moment.

There’s this paradox too, isn’t there? We’re trained to think of the bathroom as a "break" from everything. Time to relax, right? But relaxation doesn’t always mean daydreaming. It’s almost like your body needs to remind you that it's there, holding the reins for a while. And perhaps that's what blocks your mind from drifting into those fantastical spaces.

But maybe it's a deeper thing. Daydreaming requires a certain kind of creative energy, doesn't it? And when you’re on the can, it's like that energy is siphoned into something else—something more... primal. It’s almost like the act of doing one thing, like attending to your body, leaves little room for the mental chaos of imagination to unfold.

Or maybe, just maybe, the bathroom is the one place where you’re supposed to be here and now—your mind and body synchronized in a singular task. You can’t escape it, so you sit there, aware, instead of floating off into the clouds.

Then again, this doesn't stop me from trying. Maybe that’s the next frontier—daydreaming while I shit. And if anyone can do it, surely it’s the world-class daydreamers like us. Maybe the trick is to find that balance, to learn how to keep your mind wandering while being fully present in the moment.

More? Alright, let’s dive deeper into this. There’s something almost sacred about the act of daydreaming, isn’t there? It’s the ultimate escape—your brain goes off on its own little adventure, weaving stories, conjuring worlds, or just drifting into thoughts that are sometimes too random to even put into words. It’s like a mini-vacation for your mind, a place where anything is possible.

But when you’re on the toilet, it’s like the universe itself says, "No, no, not here." It's as if there’s a force field around that space, a gravitational pull that drags your brain into the Now, instead of letting it float off into the ethers. What is it about this place that blocks that natural flow of thoughts?

Maybe it’s the physicality of the act. You’re in it—the sensation is so immediate, so rooted in your body, that it demands your attention. The feeling of relief, the strange rhythm of it all—it’s like your body takes control and forces your mind to be in the moment. You can’t escape the awkwardness or the rush or the urgency, so your thoughts get stuck on it. Your body is screaming, “Hey, pay attention to me,” while your brain, your creative, drifting, free-thinking brain, is like, "But I was just about to go on an adventure!"

And yet, when you’re at your most vulnerable, when you're at your most exposed, there's still a part of you that craves that mental space. You want to break free, let your thoughts wander, and imagine, but it’s like the world is reminding you that this part of life is so simple, so... necessary. It’s a place of grounding, of routine, where the mind doesn’t need to do anything else but focus on the task at hand.

Perhaps there’s also something profound about the very idea that we try to escape even the most basic of moments. It’s like our minds, so full of distractions, are always chasing after the next thing—always thinking we should be doing more. But when you’re on the can, you’re not supposed to be doing more. You’re supposed to be doing less. And that’s what makes it such a struggle. Your mind is screaming for freedom, but the moment is telling you, “No, just sit here. Be still. Let this simple thing be enough.”

It’s the one place in life that doesn’t ask for your imagination. You can’t just let your mind wander off into fantasy when your body is literally reminding you to stay grounded. It almost feels like a betrayal of your true daydreaming nature. And yet, when you’re done, you’ve given your body exactly what it needed. Isn’t that a kind of mental release too, though?

Maybe we need to stop fighting it. Maybe the bathroom, this oddly mundane, yet intimate space, is trying to teach us something. It’s teaching us that it’s okay to be present sometimes. We don’t always need to be creating, imagining, or escaping into the fantasy world. Maybe there’s magic in letting go of the need to daydream in that particular moment and just... be. The daydreams will still be there when you finish.

Still, though… I’m not giving up entirely. I’m determined to find a way to daydream while I shit, even if I have to carve out a new form of daydreaming that can thrive in that space—one that doesn’t demand too much mental energy but still lets my mind roam free. Maybe it’s not about escaping the experience, but learning how to live in it while still finding a way to drift. A hybrid of the mundane and the marvelous. It could be the next frontier in my daydreaming journey.

Until then, I’ll keep wondering why the toilet is my only creative black hole. Maybe I just need to relax and let the daydreams sneak in, like they always do when I least expect them.

- Oizys.

Interstellar, Regrets & Mocktails

Spoiler Alert: If you haven't watched the movie yet.

Today, I watched Interstellar again. There’s something about the film that always feels like it reaches into my chest and probes for something deep inside me. It’s like being caught in a vortex of emotions that, for a fleeting moment, leave you grappling with the vastness of space and the fragility of time itself. This time, it struck me even harder. Maybe it's because lately I've been so acutely aware of how time feels like something slipping through my fingers these days. Always too slow in making decisions, always regretting what I didn’t do, and always a casualty of time. Always a step behind, like life is moving forward and I’m watching from a distance, helpless to catch up. I suppose that’s why Interstellar hit so hard today. Its unsettling dance between the infinite and the finite made me reflect on my own life and the moments I’ve let slip by.

Time. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? The way it stretches and bends, sometimes moving so slowly and other times rushing past without warning. Something I couldn't shake after the movie ended. The scene that really got me this time was when Dad Cooper ends up in the fifth dimension. It's where time itself is the physical space, and Cooper is trying to make sense of the very thing that has kept him away from his children for so long.

The fifth dimension scene, where Cooper is in that strange, endless space, is obviously a stunning visualization of the layers of time. The moment he realizes that he's not just looking at physical objects but at moments, memories—fragments of time itself—is so shuddering. It struck me because I’ve often thought about time like that, if it's a thing we could touch or shape. I could feel this need in the scene: Cooper’s desperate need to communicate, to somehow make up for the lost years and choices that were never made. As he frantically tries to send a message through gravity to Daughter Murph, it feels like regret is getting embodied in front of his eyes.

Watching that scene felt like staring at a mirror. How many times have I wished I could go back and change a decision? How many times have I looked at my life and felt like there was something I missed, something I didn’t do or say in time? It’s an overwhelming feeling. The film shows time is not just a linear force—it’s something that can be manipulated, something we can control or be controlled by. Not sure about actuality. But Cooper’s desperate attempt to alter the past mirrors how I often feel. Maybe not in such an extraordinary way, but there are moments when I wish I could turn back time, fix mistakes, or have the courage to seize opportunities I let slip away.

It’s this paradox of time that makes me belly-churningly uncomfortable that forces me to rethink: How much of the past can we change? How much control do we have over our own time, and when do we have to let go of the regrets that haunt us? Especially when it comes to human relationships? And, love? Cooper’s love for his children, especially for Murph, his guidance through the vastness of space. Love is the reason he can’t let go of his mission, love is the reason he went on this mission, and love is the reason he reaches out across time to communicate with her.

Gut-wrenching it is when Cooper watches the video messages from his children, spanning 23 years. Son Tom expresses his frustration and eventual acceptance of Cooper's absence, turning the funerals of his granddad and child into his father's as well, while Murph shares her birthday message, revealing that she is now the same age Cooper was when he left. "But today's my birthday. And it's a special one, because you told me... you once told me that when you came back, we might be the same age," hit me like a ton of bricks. She has grown up without him, and that he has missed so much of her life is a powerful testament to the fact that being a casualty of time makes you gain a lot of distance between you and the people in your life.

I’ve often heard people say that time changes things, but does it really? Or does it simply ingrain those connections even further? I’ve experienced moments where I let time slip away thinking I would reach out later—years of distance between friends, family, and even romantic relationships. I wonder: Does time heal wounds? At the end, when Cooper and Murph finally reconnect, she tells him that she always knew he was out there, that she never gave up hope. The sheer emotion of that moment, the weight of all those years of separation, is something I can’t quite put into words. I can’t help but think about the people I’ve drifted away from—what would it take to reconnect? And would it be worth it? Time is fleeting. Every second I spend regretting the past or worrying about the future is one I lose in the present. We can make choices that affect our future. It made me think about how I navigate my own life. Am I really making the most of my time? Am I cherishing the relationships I have? Or am I constantly chasing something that’s just out of reach, like Cooper chasing time in that fifth dimension?

- Oizys.

Turning Point [of Weather] — Winter ends, Sun shines

It has been a roller coaster. I do not have the zeal to write. But I kind of have to. There is a weird cosmic energy called "annoying thoughts and pecking memories" that is making me. If I don't, they will keep swirling in this porta potty of vegetable brain of mine. Metaphors and jibes will keep the hurricane around and destroy my focus. 

The first job has ended. Closed that whole book, but not before making me have a full-blown and final settlement of breakdown on the 28th of January. It made me cry my brains out, which almost made it sound like I was praying. On my knees in a temple, begging for someone. [Hah. Begging to have someone I could turn to. Begging to have someone I could lie beside. Begging to have someone hold my hand. Begging to have someone who would be a non-judgemental pair of ears. Begging to have someone who would not pick my wounds but just silently bandage them. Begging to have someone who would not ask me to stop crying but contain all my flowing tears. Begging to have someone who would not pry further into what's wrong but just acknowledge something is wrong. Just someone. Anyone. Oh.] As the last working date crawled closer, everything just felt like it was dragging me around. It reminded me of those days when I would return home walking or cycling after a long, hard day with a full bladder about to explode, and the nearer I would get to home, the longer the distance would get. The more and more I would understand the importance of Kegels.

Finally, 31st of January. The whole day went by quite busy. It was all the very same or more strenuous, I would say. Until the end of the business day. Then, we had a final call. Ugh. This ugh is a mixture product of awkwardness, guilt, rotten anger, and some unjustified, irrational, unwillful sadness. All in all, each and every component is capable of making me hurl [both ways]. Everyone said nice words. Some said nicer ones. And some were just nice to keep my bile at bay. No matter what, it was an experience that is now forever etched in the geological record of my career. Doesn't matter if I remove it from the ol' resume or delete it from LinkedIn. It is here to stay forever. Even though I spent the last few weeks, in particular, sewing some distasteful comments to use in order to successfully burn the bridges, I could not. I like to believe it is because, underneath it all, I am a polite person. Some might argue it is just plain cowardice.

Anyway. Dreamy, unemployed weekend passed by. The 1st of February was sweet. The sun came up and shone like a good, obedient boy. My mother & I are suckers for sunny infant days. The initial rays of warmth hitting the stone cold and melting you just change your perspective. Even for half a day, it does. The winter is gone.

And the 3rd of February arrived quite quickly. I waited and waited. The new company seems to be on some retreat in a faraway coastal city. Some person did reach out for a bit of onboarding but only gave the ticket and asked me to wait in the line. So, I did. But while waiting, I fell asleep. And, might I say, I had the sweetest sleep in a long, long time. Actually sweet. It did not leave an aftertaste of guilt and regret, nor did it give me headaches. I woke up feeling refreshed. Woah. It almost feels blasphemous writing such things.

4th of February woke me up in a pool of blood and passed by with some side dish of anxiety of whether they remember me and if I exist or not. Not before fixing it with some fantastical made-ups. The night wrapped itself up with the pondering of whether fantastical make-believes are still fantasy if they become real. Is it still fantasy after one becomes reality and I still spend myself in woolgathering, or does it transform into setting next goals? Hmmm... 

5th arrived knocking on doors with some reassurance from the other side that I will surely be onboarded tomorrow as the retreat wraps up today, so I should also take chill. I spent my day repeating to myself to remind myself to take chill and did heaps of laundry while doing some pre-work prep. As the day ended, I could feel a bug of fear making itself known. Maybe that's why I am still awake. Do I want to sabotage this too? Do I not trust myself? Believe in myself? Yep, right. How could I forget? Nothing ever changes. I think my mother is giving me that look. I should retire. Good luck to me for tomorrow. Hope I am strong enough to contain whatever shit hits the fan.

- Oizys.

Something that has always stayed with me is this bit from Cabaret. Love Liza's and Natasha's versions. And, Stevie from Schitt's Creek (attached below) as well. The energy built up and then exuded is what brings me back to this bit the most.

[Schitt's Creek - Stevie Sings "Maybe This Time"]

My Hunger, My Starvation :: My Shame, My Salvation

My hunger was long dead. I remember. It was prolonged and deliberate. Died when I was a single digit. I killed it with my mother's hatred and father's anger. It took its time to depart, and I made sure it was silent. It whinged a little during the nights under the low lights. I remember how the hunger fought back, clawing and howling, begging to be fed. It had small, short-lived moments of victory. 

As I grew, the starvation anchored me. The emptiness kept me up. And with it, I killed my appetite. I thought that was victory. I received compliments too! The absence of hunger and indifference towards consumption felt like control, like I’d finally tamed the wild beast inside me. But now, when I eat—when I let the smallest morsel pass my lips—it’s not hunger that returns. It’s something worse. 

It’s shame.

I went out to eat today. The emptiness inside me opens like a vortex, and the food tumbles into it, disappearing before I even realise what I’m doing. There’s no pleasure, no satisfaction—just the raw act of filling a void that never truly fills. And after I finished, I could not help but notice how beastly it was. Reflected in the knife’s edge or the gloss of a spoon. My gut, crouching behind my ribs, its jaws smeared with shame. I looked around, and it’s like suddenly a different world, one where I’m an outsider. I am sat at the table, the empty plate in front of me a gaping wound. 

The act of eating. Mechanical and humiliating. Like I unlearned how to eat when I killed hunger.

I killed my hunger, but I didn’t bury it. I starved my appetite, but I didn’t forget how to consume. Now I devour like an animal, and when I’m done, all that remains is the shame. It seeps into my skin, into my breath, into the very air around me.

Maybe now, all that’s left is the hunger and the shame. And me, somewhere in between. Or, right in the core of the vortex.

I starve because I think it will save me. I eat because I’m still human. But when I do, I remember why I stopped. I don’t know how to stop this cycle. I starve. I eat. I am ashamed. I starve again.

- Oizys.