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.

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.