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)]

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]

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.

Nothing Changes... Ever

I am still me. I am still scared. Still anxious. Hesitant. Shrinkingly worried. Rattled by everything, even the sound of my own typing. Everything just ruffling my feathers. Trying to get under my skin. Do we ever change? Does anything ever change like it does in television? How that one tired crone sips some luxurious tea and becomes the picture of health, epitome of beauty. I am still constrained by my own crippling fear of what will happen tomorrow morning. It keeps me physically captured. I cannot seem to shake it off and stop over-apprehending it. Maybe, when I seek change, I hope it to happen on molecular levels. Changes not only big, but changes that are so small that they slip past our conscious mind, forging themselves into the glass sheet between who I am and who I could be. And, when I don't have that, I feel the same. Remain the same. Rot the same. Cry the same. Live the same. And, that is probably my worst fear. Not failing in an exam, not unable to find a job, not not being able to quit a toxic job. But, not being able to change my construct. It is the same bricks and I keep building the same house. The doors keep slamming. And, the windows never open. Nor, they close properly. And, no one comes and rings the bell. No one comes looking for me. The world outside moves on, indifferent to the house I keep rebuilding. I wonder if it knows I’m here, or if I’ve become invisible, hidden behind these walls of my own making. The rooms are always so quiet and the walls are always stickily closing in. The emptiness is heavy and all the boxes feel hollow—reminding me of all the words I never said, all the doors I never dared to walk through. It’s not that I don’t want someone to come. It’s that I don’t know how to let them in without showing them the cracks, the places where the foundation buckles under its own weight. It's not that I don't want someone to help me. It's that what if the rubble reveals nothing worth saving, what if they tear it all down and find there’s no blueprint for something better? So, I keep playing with the same bricks. I sleep the same lie. I wake up to the same lie. I know the truth: it’s not the house that traps me. It’s the fear of stepping outside. Fear of being homesick or... not being homesick. Fear of unlearning myself. Fear of altering my code. Of leaving these bricks behind and learning how to stand under the open sky: unshielded, vulnerable, alive.

- Oizys.

P.S.: I don't know if I am making sense. I actually cannot sleep because I am dreading every single day of this notice period, and I do not want to wake up tomorrow morning to log in again. And I wish I had someone to crib about this with, but since I pushed basically every single person away, far away, with all these stubborn bricks, this corner of the web is the only place I have. 

I Resigned

I resigned yesterday. It was surreal and quick. I still cannot believe it. My body seemed to not be able to handle it, and I could feel red, hot, gaseous bile rising that kept me up and walking almost the entire night. Yesterday morning was colossally bad, and I could not seem to wait for the written offer for this new job, and everything was getting too scratchy with my skin and patience. And it just happened. All of a sudden. I got it, and I sent that heavily marinated letter of resignation. Then the barrage of messages and calls hit me. I just took them, answering with first thoughts with my mind. Did not think at all. No second thoughts injected by others' manipulation. I stood still. I have to. All of last year, I resigned every day from the joys of life (I cannot believe I am using phrases like 'joys of life,' though...), cribbed every single minute, and cried my eyes out thanking I have a remote job so my co-workers cannot see me cry. And, I cannot believe I was the one who decided to put an end to it yesterday. I felt capability seeping into my veins, invading with fear and cowardice. A pool of brave tremor? Courageous hesitation? When you live life starved of purpose and lack of prosper, any fresh air of change will send a chill down your spine. Trigger your gut. Open up your untapped marrow of life to possible infections too. The following hours felt blurrily bizarre. Like, I could almost hear the sound of my own pulse thumping in my throat, a constant reminder that this was real. I thought about how little of it made sense—how everything had felt like a long, drawn-out mistake that I had grown used to. Yet, here I was, making the decision that would set it all in motion. I had always pictured this moment, decided how it would feel, the exact words I would say, but reality never really follows the script you write. There’s no cinematic relief, no big dramatic pause where everything falls into place. It’s just... quiet. And in that quiet, I could feel something inside me starting to shift. It’s not peace, exactly, but a heavy silence. The kind that comes right before something profound changes. I thought I would feel stronger, like a person who finally figured it out. Instead, I felt small. A bundle of fear wrapped up in impatience, waiting to see what this “bravery” would lead to. Would it unravel me? Would I be someone completely different when it was all over? Or would I be just a mess, wandering in a new direction? Still, there’s a strange comfort in the mess. A feeling of being exposed, raw, vulnerable even, but alive in a way I hadn’t felt in months. I guess this is what they don’t tell you about breaking away from something that’s been draining the life out of you. You’re not met with instant relief but with a stark awareness of how long you’ve been in that space. It’s like stepping into daylight after a long, endless night—your eyes struggle to adjust, but you know it’s a good thing. So, I sit here now, waiting for the next wave to come, not knowing what will happen next, but understanding that I had to be the one to pull myself out. Even if it means stumbling, even if it means falling. At least I know I’m falling forward.

Through the trees, a glimmer of orange light—like the first spark of change. Resigning was my sunrise. New beginnings of embracing change.

- Oizys.

The Best Endings Are Always Wrapped In Change (Or, Just The Anticipation Of It?)

Life is not concrete. Endings are not coherent. Is it supposed to make sense? Or it does not, but since it has already happened, we attribute certain sense to it so we can manipulate ourselves? Sometimes, all you need is one small beam of blurriness, and it can heal wounds that you thought never existed. Even if it unresolves itself later, it balms your red-coaled belly with all its layers turned inside out with somersaulting anxiety and panic attacks. The whole year I kept diminishing myself in size, in attitude, in mindset, in living. I erased myself so much that I felt more disappeared than I could. I shrank my existence. Kept my mind thirsty until it started scratching its own surface looking for droplets of survival. And all it took was one phone call. Few words to describe the verbal offer of a job for which I haven't received the letter. And it made me the picture of health and contentment. Made me shiver with all the happiness that I had buried deep inside my mother's old almirah. It made me question all of it at once. Is it real? Or am I dreaming? Since when have I started dreaming in high quality, though? I am still the same, but something just changed forever. Is this what change is like? So quietly seismic, like the moment you realise you’ve been holding your breath for a decade and now you can finally exhale. Does this mean I have come up with new fodder for my mental masturbation, by the way? Does this mean I have to move forward? Evolve? I have to grow. I have to be more. I cannot shrivel up under my three layers of blankets whenever things get difficult and not eat for a week. The last day of this parched year ended with getting absolutely gutted sick after eating some overpriced pizza, which was mildly tasteful. I cannot decide whether it was worth it or not. Because I cannot, until now, believe some things might actually be happening. To me. For me. In favour of me. For some reason, it is not an idea that is exactly chewable for me. Perhaps the indigestion? I keep thinking, why do I think like this? Am I truly not capable, or is it just a long year of nothingness and rejections that made my confidence starve to the brink of extinction? I just knew I had to write. Write something. So that I can store it, ink it forever. That at least one random anonymous account on the wide web will read and decide to leave an ambiguous comment underneath. Because I know this for sure: there are many more worse days to come in a life like mine, but such moments of giddy and childlike hope will perhaps keep me going, keep me grounded, keep me reminded that I was once capable of feeling worthy, happy, & sanguine… This is anyone who ever reads this (if anyone reading this): I sincerely distribute this meagre ration of hope amongst you that you get all of what you hope for this new year. Even if you are scared. Even if you are confused. Even if you are a bit inexperienced. Even if you fail after you get it. You are unsure. Indecisive. I hope you get it. And experience it. Experiment with it. Perhaps, just merely surviving is getting old now. Maybe it is time for enjoying the ride once in a while. I cannot, for my life, believe I am typing all of this. Words with scorching optimism. And maybe all of this gets undone when I wake up tomorrow. But I have recorded this moment forever with my words, and I will make it my point of return when things go haywire in the opposite direction.

- Oizys.

Somebody Stop The Clock

Things have been ricocheting lately. It is a hair bundle of 'could be worse' and 'this is the worst I can take.' Amidst this, every day I carry this delusional hope in my head that my life will change tomorrow, and a part of my brain knows it is not going to and stops me from sleeping. And, I juggle. Like a failed clown. Started this year with a constipation so bad I needed someone to excavate it and ending it with a belly so empty, so acidic, my hunger is gutted. With days and nights filled with snot and tears and piercing headaches and ending it with absolute nonchalance tripping over clumsy reality every now and then with empty, itchy eyes. People keep saying things will change; change is the only constant. Then why is it that constancy is the only thing that doesn't change? I have been a stagnant pond. No one visits, no one loves, and no one even bothers to fill me with sand to put an end to it. Reminds me of a woman who lay on a hospital bed for almost half a century in a vegetative state because no one was there around her to pull the plug for her. I see such things, and I contemplate. I try to predict regret. Or, is the prediction itself the first act of it? I review my daydreams and try to measure my tics. I shovel within me, deeper and deeper. And yet, I cannot seem to go back. To pinpoint the past. It all seems burdensome when added up, but when I break them into small, mullable pieces, it doesn't give me that divine richness of spice of life. I chain myself to bed with my blanket and freeze my legs with my taxing thought process. I think of how different I am. How disgustingly I eat dumplings. How common I am. How obscenely mediocre I am. How shamefully hungry I am. How suppressingly faster I am. How full of hate I am. How much love I carry in the attic of this thunderous household of my mind. How upsettingly prepared I am. How bafflingly out of touch I am. How anciently adult I am. How crudely childish I am. I wish to stop all of this. This prolonging train of thought is the worst form of self-flagellation in the fourth circle of hell. It keeps running. On time. No stops missed. And it will keep running. In the same town. Stuck in the same track. Again and again. Again. Until I am completely numb. And incapable of processing a new piece of the world. 

I cannot even think of words to write anymore. Wow, I am adding this part as I edit what I have written in this entry. And... Have I lost it? My ability to write? Is this my final act of bedrotting? I am done... for life? Is this the end of me? The blank pages have always stared back, drafting mocking testaments to the void in my mind. It's not just writer's block, but this? This is a complete and utter shutdown. The words, once my trusted companions, now sound like trapped echoes in the labyrinth of my miragey mind. Even the act of trying feels like a monumental task, each attempt at stringing together a coherent sentence resulting in a humiliating tangle of disconnected literacy. It's as if the very language I've relied on has abandoned me, leaving me under the heavy rocks of silence. I have watched the cursor blink, persistently reminding me of my failure many times. But this is an insult to injury; I catch myself adding this very passage, a desperate attempt to acknowledge the very thing I'm failing at while attempting it for the last time? Am I unraveling? Has the well of my creativity finally run dry? Is this it, then? Only a house of snakes and lowly anger. The slow, silent surrender to the pull of inertia, the final descent into a life lived on the periphery? I'm frozen, caught in this moment, a prisoner of my own mind. Time feels heavy, each tick of the clock a crushing blow. If this is the end, someone, please... Please, somebody stop the clock. Uh, irony?

- Oizys.

Perpetually Late to the Table of Life

You know, they say life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death. But somehow, I’ve managed to be the one perpetually late to the table. It’s almost comical in a dark, twisted sort of way. While others are diving into the feast of experiences, I find myself wandering around the edges, observing from a distance, clutching a plate that’s perpetually empty. As I reflect on this, I can't help but feel a deep sense of sadness. It’s not that I lack opportunities; it’s more like I’ve built a fortress around myself, complete with walls of self-doubt and a moat of anxiety. Each day, I can see the table, beautifully spread out with vibrant colors and enticing aromas. Friends laughing, lovers sharing secrets, and strangers forming new connections—all of it feels so vibrant and alive. And yet, here I am, drowning in a pool of retrospection, feeling like a ghost haunting my own life. I often find myself indulging in dark thoughts, tracing back to my childhood, when I seemed to be always a step behind. Remember that time in elementary school when I hesitated to raise my hand, only to hear the teacher call on someone else? It’s a small moment, but it echoes in my mind like a haunting refrain. The feeling of standing still while life rushes by has become a theme, woven throughout my existence with threads of regret. The irony is not lost on me. In a world that glorifies hustle and speed, here I am, the slowpoke. While my peers race ahead, I’m left standing at the starting line, watching as they gather experiences—relationships, careers, adventures. I often wonder if there’s a cosmic clock somewhere, ticking away, reminding me that I’m behind schedule. Is it too late for me to catch up? As I sift through these thoughts, I recognize that my retro-introspective nature is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it grants me the ability to reflect deeply. I can analyze my feelings, my choices, and the paths I’ve taken—or, more appropriately, the paths I’ve avoided. I can sit on the sidelines and observe the world’s chaos, extracting life lessons from the stories of others. It feels like watching a movie; thrilling yet painfully distant. Today, I took a long walk to clear my mind. As I strolled through the park, I couldn’t help but notice the vibrancy around me. Children played, couples strolled hand in hand, and friends gathered for picnics. It was a microcosm of life unfolding in real-time, and I felt oddly disconnected. I found a bench under a sprawling oak tree and sat there for a while, allowing the sun to warm my face. In that moment, I contemplated the beauty of life, yet I felt like an outsider gazing into a world I just couldn’t penetrate. What holds me back? Fear? Indecision? Or perhaps an overwhelming sense of inadequacy? Each of these feelings weighs heavily on my heart. I find myself questioning my worth, doubting whether I have anything valuable to contribute to the table of life. It’s hard to join in when the voice in my head constantly whispers, “You don’t belong here.” I returned home with a heavy heart, burdened by the realization that I’ve spent too much time in the shadows. The retro-introspective spiral often leads me to question whether I’ve wasted my potential. Have I let opportunities slip through my fingers while I lingered in self-doubt and hesitation? But as I write this, I also recognize a flicker of hope. Maybe being perpetually late has its own unique charm. It has provided me with a different perspective, one that allows for deeper contemplation. Perhaps I can learn to maneuver around the table, picking up nuggets of wisdom from those who are already seated. Maybe it’s time to embrace this late arrival. Rather than viewing it as a setback, I can see it as an opportunity to craft a unique narrative. There’s a certain beauty in being a late bloomer, right? Those who arrive fashionably late often bring stories, laughter, and fresh energy that can ignite the atmosphere. I could be that person. Taking a deep breath, I allow myself to daydream about what it would be like to join the table fully. To engage in conversations, to share my stories, and perhaps even to find joy in the experience. I realize I don’t need to rush; each moment has its own value. As I sit here, pen in hand, I commit to taking small steps towards the table of life. I’ll start by reaching out to a friend I haven’t spoken to in a while. Maybe a simple hello-

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Back home. I’m sitting here, a cup of lukewarm coffee in hand and a swirl of thoughts in my mind, trying to sort through this feeling. The air is thick with the weight of another day that feels like a rehearsal for a play I never auditioned for. You know that feeling when you show up to a party and realize you’ve missed the best part? Well, I feel like that—perpetually late to the table of life, watching the laughter and the joy unfold without me, a spectator in my own existence. It’s a sad, dark kind of irony, isn’t it? I’ve always prided myself on being observant, on noticing the little details that others overlook. But here I am, observing my own life from the sidelines, feeling trapped in a retro-introspective loop that seems to play over and over again. The laughter echoes, but I can’t quite reach it. What does being “perpetually late” even mean in the grand scheme of existence? For me, it’s not just about physical tardiness. It’s about missing the moments that matter. It’s about watching friends move forward while I feel stuck in this strange, timeless void. Life seems to be moving at lightning speed for everyone else, while I’m left fumbling with the buttons on my watch, desperately trying to catch up. I often find myself diving deep into reflection during these quiet evenings. Each thought pulls me into a spiral of nostalgia, where I sift through memories that both comfort and haunt me. I remember the times when I felt vibrant, alive, and present—those moments when I was at the table, sharing stories, laughter, and dreams with friends and family. But those memories often fade like old photographs, leaving behind a stark contrast to the present. There’s a darker side to this introspection. It exposes fears I try to keep at bay—the fear of never quite fitting in, of being the outlier that no one notices. I constantly compare my journey to others, and it often feels like I’m running a race where everyone else has already crossed the finish line. Their lives are bursting with adventures and milestones, while I’m left tracing my fingers over the lines of my own muted story. Today, I decided to dig deeper. I pulled out my old journals, the ones filled with dreams and aspirations from years past. It was an emotional journey, flipping through pages filled with hope, excitement, and the occasional doodle. Each entry resonated with a sense of possibility. “I will travel the world,” I wrote. “I will create something beautiful.” I thought. It’s sobering to realize how those dreams sometimes drift away like whispers in the wind, leaving me feeling disenchanted. As I sat on my bed, surrounded by the scattered pages of my past, I couldn’t help but wonder where it all went wrong. Did I grow complacent? Did I let the pressures of life drown out my ambition? Or was I simply too afraid to take that leap of faith? There’s a tension between reality and nostalgia that pulls me in two directions, and it feels like a tug-of-war for my soul. But perhaps this is where the opportunity lies. Maybe being late to the table isn’t just about missing out; maybe it’s about taking the time to reflect, to reassess what truly matters. What if I could use this introspection as a catalyst for change? What if I could rewrite my narrative, shift my perspective, and embrace the journey instead of fixating on the destination? I can almost hear a voice whispering to me, urging me to take that leap—to challenge the notion that I’m a spectator in my own life. Each moment, no matter how quiet or mundane, holds potential. I might not have been at the table when everyone else was, but I can carve out my own seat. I can invite new experiences, new people, and new adventures into my life. So, what’s next? I think it’s time to focus on what I can control. Instead of lamenting the past, I’ll set small, achievable goals. I’ll start reaching out to people—friends I haven’t spoken to in ages, new acquaintances I’ve been too shy to approach. I’ll explore my interests, dive into creative projects, and dare to step outside my comfort zone. I can choose to be present in the now, rather than ruminating on what I’ve missed. Sure, I might be late to the table, but that doesn’t mean I can’t contribute to the feast. The world is vast, and while I might feel lost in the shadows, I can still find my own light. As I close this entry, I remind myself that life is not a linear path; it’s a winding road full of jostles-

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Today, I find myself reflecting on the peculiar notion of time. Time—an ever-flowing river in which we all swim, yet somehow, I always seem to be paddling against the current. It’s as if life has set a table, lavishly decorated with opportunities, joy, and connections, and I perpetually arrive late, missing the feast. Being late to the table of life is an uncomfortable existence, a bittersweet dance with both sadness and retrospective contemplation. I can hear the laughter from the gathering, the clinking of glasses, and the warmth of shared stories. But I stand outside, peering in, feeling like a ghost at a party meant for the living. I wonder if the others can sense my presence, this strange mix of longing and resignation. Do they notice the way I linger at the edges, just out of reach, contemplating whether to pull up a chair or quietly drift away? It’s sad, really. Perhaps this feeling of being “late” isn’t merely a matter of minutes or hours. It’s a deep-seated sensation that I’ve been trailing behind in life’s grand race. While friends celebrate milestones—birthdays, promotions, love interests—I often find myself lost in the shadows of my own thoughts, a retro-introspective soul reflecting on what could have been. It’s dark here, in these thoughts, where I dissect my choices, my hesitations, and the moments that slipped through my fingers like grains of sand. Remember that time when I hesitated to join my friends on that spontaneous road trip? They were all excited, laughing about the adventures that awaited them. I hesitated, caught in the web of “what ifs.” What if I didn’t fit in? What if I became a burden? The fear of being late to the party, both literally and metaphorically, paralyzed me. They made memories without me while I remained in my cocoon of self-doubt—perpetually late. Yet, in these moments of darkness, I sometimes find unexpected glimmers of insight. The retro-introspective journey allows me to understand myself better. I often write about these feelings, pouring my thoughts onto the pages of this diary, trying to make sense of the late arrivals in my life. The late-night revelations, the early morning epiphanies—they hold a beauty of their own. There’s something deeply human about being late, I remind myself. Life is not a race; it is a series of experiences, some hurried, others slow and meandering. Perhaps, in this perpetual lateness, I discover a nuanced appreciation for the world around me. I notice the subtleties that others may overlook—the way the sunlight dances on the leaves or how laughter echoes in the distance. As I sit here in my cozy corner, sipping on a warm cup of tea, I think about the times I did arrive just in time. The laughter shared over dinner with old friends, the adrenaline of a last-minute adventure, the comfort of finding solace in someone’s company. Those moments remind me that life’s table can be approached at any time, even if I feel like I’m running late. The dark clouds of doubt may linger, but they can’t overshadow the light of companionship and warmth. I also consider the silver lining of my retro-introspective nature. Being reflective has allowed me to grow and evolve. I’ve learned to embrace my emotions, to understand that sadness doesn’t equate to weakness; it is merely a part of the rich tapestry of existence. I am learning to share these feelings with others, to finally pull up a chair at the table and engage in conversations about vulnerability. So, dear diary, I promise to work on my relationship with time. Instead of viewing it as an adversary, I shall approach it as a companion. I might be late, but that doesn’t mean I am unwelcome. The beauty of life lies not in punctuality, but in presence. I’ll take a deep breath and remind myself that every moment is an opportunity to engage with life, to savor the experiences yet to come. As I conclude this entry, I feel a sense of hope blossoming within me. I may have arrived late to the table before, but I hold the power to change that narrative. I’ll set my intentions for tomorrow, to step out into the world with renewed energy and openness. I want to embrace the next invitation, to say yes to spontaneity, to understand that it’s okay to arrive at my own pace. So here’s to me, the one who’s often late but is learning to dance with time. Here’s to the moments yet to come, the laughter that awaits, and the connections that are just waiting to be made. I will no longer be a ghost at this feast; I’ll be-

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[Part 1: The Weight of Time] Every morning, the alarm buzzes obnoxiously, jarring me from the comfortable embrace of sleep. I roll over, half-heartedly hitting the snooze button, and as the minutes slip away like grains of sand through my fingers, I am reminded of the curse of being perpetually late. It’s not just a habit; it feels more like a burden, an unwelcome companion that shadows me through life. Each day begins with the promise of productivity, yet I find myself trapped in a cycle of procrastination and excuses. The feeling is sad, dark, and oddly fitting for my retro-introspective existence. Looking back, I’ve realized that I’ve always found myself at the periphery of life’s great table. While everyone else feasts on opportunities, I’m left picking at the crumbs of my own indecision. I find myself reflecting on missed moments, lost connections, and the nagging sensation that I’m one step behind where I should be. [Part 2: The Ripple Effect of Delay] As I sit here, I can’t help but think about the ripple effect of my lateness. It’s not just my own experiences that suffer; my friends and family bear the brunt of my tardiness too. I’ve bailed on dinner plans, missed celebrations, and arrived late to the most significant events of their lives. Each apology feels like a rusty key trying to unlock a door already closed. There’s a heaviness in my chest as I consider how my actions—my choices—have created distance between me and those I care about. In my mind, I visualize them gathered around tables, laughing, sharing stories, and creating memories while I remain an outsider looking in. It’s a haunting thought that lingers in the corners of my mind, reminding me that life continues to move forward, even as I remain stuck in a loop of hesitation and regret. [Part 3: Embracing the Dark] But why dwell on the sadness? Perhaps there’s something profound in this darkness I keep encountering. Maybe my perpetual lateness is a reflection of a deeper struggle—one that intertwines with my identity and shapes the way I perceive the world. In moments of solitude, I’ve begun to embrace the shadows that have followed me for so long. It’s in these quiet times that I confront my fears head-on. I explore the reasons behind my procrastination, peeling back layers of insecurity and anxiety. I acknowledge that I’ve often allowed the fear of failure to paralyze me, leading to a paralysis of action. It’s a dark realization, but it’s also liberating. By naming the beast, I can begin to reframe my narrative and take steps toward change. [Part 4: The Retro-Introspective Hallucination] This retro-introspective journey feels like diving into a time capsule. I rummage through the emotional artifacts of my past—old journals, photographs, letters—each piece narrating a different chapter of my life. I find solace in nostalgia and the bittersweet memories that come flooding back. They remind me of who I’ve been and the times I’ve felt like I was truly living. Strangely enough, in my quest to understand my relationship with time, I’ve started to perceive it differently. Each delay, each missed moment, has contributed to the tapestry of my story. So, instead of resenting my lateness, I choose to honor it. It’s an integral part of my journey, a testament to the lessons I’ve learned along the way. [Part 5: Seizing the Moment] Today, I made a conscious decision to seize the moment. I put my phone on silent, silenced the incessant noise of social media, and focused on the present. I brewed my favorite cup of coffee, savoring each sip as I sat in the sunlight filtering through my window. I began writing down my thoughts, a cathartic release that grounded me in the now. While I may still occasionally miss the mark, I’m learning to embrace the beauty of spontaneity. Life isn’t always about arriving on time; sometimes, it’s about being fully present in the moments that matter. I remind myself that not every experience has to be perfectly orchestrated. In fact, some of the most meaningful connections happen in the unplanned spaces of life. [Part 6: Getting A Perspective] As I reflect on my journey, I’m starting to see the world through a new lens. I’m learning to let go of the guilt that often accompanies my lateness. Instead of viewing it as a flaw, I now see it as a unique aspect of my personality. It’s an invitation to explore, to appreciate life’s unpredictability, and to embrace the lessons buried within each experience. I am beginning to commit to change-

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I give up.

- Oizys.

Current Fodder for Mental Masturbation

My resignation letter. Marinating it in the drafts.

- Oizys.

Things Are Getting Hard Again

Things are getting hard again, and I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go. My belly is juggling coals. My skin is crawling to escape. And my mind is rotting. I am so tired of being scared. Being judged. Being fearful. Being less. Being mocked. Being excluded. Being looked at. Laughed at. Sneered at. And all I do is beg in disguise of fantasies. I sit here in a corner and make up castles that are filled with nonsensical hope and delusion. I have limited myself so much to a point of complete erasure that it is almost a crime. And I am just sad. Sad to be. It pains so much. To be lack of something. To be looked at and not accepted anywhere. To be not allowed to dream. What is it that smells so much? What is wrong with me? Why me? And why not me? I have dreamt so much to a point of praying to God knows who that it is almost a shame. And I hear back nothing. I get back nothing. More exclusion. More limitation. More nothing. I have lacked so much to a point of loneliness that it almost feels natural. To be unloved. To be understood. To be not believed. And it is cold. Lonely. Dark. 

It’s as if the walls are closing in, each brick a reminder of all I’ve lost and all I can’t reach. I want to scream, to break free from this suffocating silence, but the words twist in my throat. Silence chokes me. I watch life unfold from a distance, a spectator in a world that seems to move on without me. Life excludes me. Each day blurs into the next, a disposed thread of longing and despair. I search for a glow—a thread of connection—but it slips through my fingers like sand. Why do I keep trying when every effort feels futile? I think of the castles I build, elaborate yet fragile. They’re my refuge, but they crumble at the slightest breeze, the slightest connection with reality. Hope feels like a joke, a cruel trick played by fate. What is it that I truly want? Love? Understanding? A voice that echoes back when I speak into the void? I ache for the simple comfort of being understood, yet I feel like a ghost haunting my own life.

I hide myself underneath these flimsy covers and end this to force myself to fall into sleep with yet another delusion of the possibility of not waking up tomorrow morning. Please. If anyone is listening...

- Oizys.

A Collage of Micromanagement and Masquerades

Last week was a whirlwind. One of my professors finally defended his PhD, a momentous occasion that left everyone in awe. Meanwhile, another killed his father for being debt-ridden. The contrast was stark and unsettling, setting the tone for the week. It has been painting thoughts in my mind lately, filling my head with vivid images.

I decided to take a leave from work, my first in a long time. The reason? My new team lead. Once a close colleague, her promotion had transformed her into a micromanaging tyrant. She insisted on hovering over me or sometimes having me on her lap, her breath hot on my neck, as she nitpicked every detail of my work. Our relationship, once cordial, had soured. Her yellow highlighter slashed through my mistakes, while her use of a whitener to obscure my hard work and hardships felt like a cruel joke.

My family does not know I am on leave. I lie and sit in front of my computer, acting like I am working. I have been hiding a lot of things. Each click of the mouse the moment I (fake-)clocked in felt like another step deeper into the labyrinth of my hidden truths, where every corner held a secret begging to be screamed out. A week of leave passed by, which began with thoughts of accomplishing tasks and ended with the burden of being unable to accomplish them, with a garnish of regret for procrastination, of course!

But I did not entirely waste it. I fed corporations my same details again and again that I have been feeding since time immemorial to get a job. Inducing action verbs into my personality while keeping it compact and one-page since it is only an infant in profesh terms. Making it parse-able for the AI to grab it as someone exciting yet oppression-worthy. I did make one of those rejection email collages* to end this ephemeral week off. But I do not have an offer letter at the end to add the effect of success. Just a museum of failures. Normally, I delete one as soon as I receive one. I had a few lying around. Revisiting them was... fun and a masochistic ritual. The wounds are surprisingly fresh. It is good to keep picking up those past reminders of being unachieved and underqualified.

Amidst the chaos, there was a brief moment of joy. On Wednesday afternoon, I made sandwiches with my mother and sister. It was a rare, serene interlude. But even in that moment of nicety, my inner critic, the animal within, roared in disapproval.

- Oizys.

*Here it is: