Chronicles of Miss Miseria: 05/02/25

Friday, May 2, 2025

dear g—d, your voicemail is full.

[INITIATING MEMORY REBOOT]
status: unstable
consciousness status: fragmented
loading journal entries…

desperate, cosmic, glitchy transmissions for the endtimes

[entry 1: a junk email from g—d]

subject: URGENT: FINAL NOTICE (NO REPLY)
body:

my child,
you have been unsubscribed from the eternal newsletter.
blessings will no longer arrive in your inbox.
apologies for the inconvenience.
if you wish to contest your removal, please scream into a jar and bury it at the next crossroads.
under the automated signature, there was a line written by a real hand:
p.s. it's not your fault. it was never your fault.

i left it unread, floating, the way old songs hover in abandoned malls.
i did not reply.
i made no jar.
i made no crossroads.

[entry 2: i wanted closure but not like this]

november left bruises behind my knees.
the calendar ripped itself out of the wall and refused to be taped back.
i asked for a soft ending, something where i could at least fold my hands and say amen.
instead, closure arrived sharp and laughing, like a door slammed by a bad ghost.
i am not folded.
i am a wind chime, tangled, screaming through the empty air

[entry 3: i astral projected on a tuesday and accidentally bumped into him]

i was only trying to leave my body for a little while,
but i miscalculated the angle of my loneliness.
i drifted too far,
brushed up against a memory shaped like his smile,
and for a second
i thought i was going to be allowed back into the life where we made sense.
instead, i jolted awake on the kitchen floor.
spilled milk soaking into the cracked tiles.
the stove light blinking like a lighthouse losing faith.

[entry 4: a final broadcast]

subject: SYSTEM ERROR – REBOOT IN PROGRESS
[attached file: final_broadcast.log]

The message repeats.
The message repeats.
The message repeats.

Please stand by.
Please stand by.
Please stand by.

END OF TRANSMISSION.
END OF TRANSMISSION.
END OF TRANSMISSION.

it loops.
it loops forever, like the voice of an old radio station stuck between frequencies, screaming for a signal that never arrives.
sometimes, I try to turn the dial, but the noise just cracks, louder, until the static takes the shape of a face I can almost remember.
but it’s always the same message, always the same silence after.
i wonder if I’m the only one still listening.

[entry 5: echo detected in subsystem 12-A]

ALERT: your soul attempted a soft reboot at 3:33 a.m.
all systems returned null.
temporal coordinates not found.
g—d’s voicemail box is full.

I sat in the dark, waiting for a reply.
The sky blinked once, blue and broken.
I think it was trying to apologize.

>>> BEGIN TRANSMISSION [LOG #XXXX] / >>> END TRANSMISSION

ephemera: a Study in physical, surreal, body/mind split collisions

[entry 6: my head hurts. my guts are tangled.]

someone tried to rewire me in the dark.
they got impatient halfway through and left me sparking.
now the messages from my brain to my hands come in scrambled:

hold the knife like you love it.
forget your name at the grocery store.
run only when standing still.

sometimes i feel the knots tightening behind my ribs.
sometimes i think if i could just thread a needle with the right kind of pain,
i could stitch myself back into a shape the sky would recognize.

[entry 7: imagine a mirror]

it is 3 a.m. and the mirror refuses to lie to me.
i lean close.
my reflection leans closer.
we examine each other like two thieves checking if the other one stole the same thing.

my eyes are full of keys that don't fit any doors.
my mouth is a password i can't remember.

the mirror shrugs.
i shrug back.
we agree to forget what we saw.

[entry 8: a message to the hivemind]

dear everyone and no one,
if you're receiving this transmission,
i need you to know:

i was here.
i made noise.
i loved in ways that left my hands empty.
i do not expect rescue.
i do not expect forgiveness.

only —
if you find the bones of my name scattered across timelines,
sing to them.
even if it's off-key.
especially if it's off-key.

[entry 9: unraveling the fabric of thought]

i tried to hold on to the thought, to catch it before it vanished, but it slipped through my fingers like smoke, curling up and out of reach.
i thought, if i just concentrated—if i just willed it into being—this moment of clarity could last. but it stretched thin, a thread pulling apart as soon as i grasped it, until there was only air where something real had been.
i am holding nothing. i am nothing. the thought, now lost, still lingers somewhere inside, a shadow flickering behind my eyelids.

where did it go?

[entry 10: fragments of conversations]

did you hear that?
was that a voice?
no, it wasn’t.
but it sounded like a voice.

i am trying to piece together the words, but it’s all just a blur of sentences that don’t fit together, like i am listening to someone speak in a language I used to know but forgot.
i think i remember something about windows.
there was definitely a window.
and someone was supposed to be on the other side of it, but they aren’t.

is this real?
are you real?

i am not sure I know the difference anymore.

[entry 11: internal warning: body not synced]

the doctor said my symptoms were “non-specific.”
the mirror said “same.”
my knees keep bending toward places i’ve never been.

every dream ends with a hallway that won’t let me in.
every breath feels like it’s already been exhaled.

someone forgot to calibrate this version of me.
and now the floor tilts with every thought i try to stand on.

:: RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC : BODY/MIND CONNECTION : FAILED

bitter, humorous, strange junk memos from heaven and elsewhere

[entry 12: i don't know why i am sending this email]

subject: RE: something is wrong (urgent)
body:

i keep thinking about the woman i was supposed to become.
the one who laughs without checking the exits first.
the one who doesn't dream about empty rooms.
have you seen her?
please advise.
attachment: corrupted.
opening it crashes the heart a little.

[entry 13: someone made a paper angel out of my discharge papers]

hospital corners.
hospital fluorescent buzz.
hospital signatures, blue ink shaking across forms.
when i left, someone folded my diagnosis into a little angel,
left it swinging from the rearview mirror.

wings made of "chronic," "recurring," "manage with medication."

it blesses every pothole i fall into.
it waves when i drive into sunsets i have no business surviving.

[entry 14: heaven's answering machine is full]

"thank you for calling.
heaven is currently experiencing a higher-than-average volume of prayers.
please hold. your call is very important to us."

[hold music: a broken music box, playing something that might have been lullabies once.]

after two hours, the machine hangs up on me.
i throw the phone into the river,
watch it sink like an offering nobody asked for.

[entry 13: a coded message from the void]

subject: RE: CODE #1249875X (URGENT)

Transmission received
... --- ...
... - .- -.- . ...- .
END OF MESSAGE

i stare at the symbols, tracing them with a shaking finger.
there’s something about the way the dots and dashes sit in the void, something familiar and alien at the same time.
i’ve tried to decode it. i’ve tried every key i know—morse, binary, even a dead language i once read about in a book i can’t remember the title of. nothing.
it’s not a message. it’s a question with no answer.
maybe it’s not even meant for me.

[entry 14: the afterlife on hold]

thank you for calling. the afterlife is currently experiencing higher-than-usual volumes of souls seeking access. Please remain on the line, and an operator will be with you shortly.
the hold music is a loop of forgotten lullabies, a song that seems to come from somewhere just past the end of time.
i’ve been holding for what feels like centuries now. the minutes stretch, a tangle of waiting and sighs.
finally, a voice comes through. “please, hold for an eternity.”
i throw the phone into the river, but it sinks slowly, as if it’s unwilling to let go of me, even in death.

[entry 15: divine spam folder]

subject: “YOU’VE BEEN CHOSEN”
body:

congratulations! you’ve been selected to receive:
— infinite forgiveness (conditions apply)
— one (1) divine redemption, expiring yesterday
— commemorative mug that reads “world’s okayest soul”

Click here to ascend.

Click here to delete your shadow.
Click here to unsubscribe from longing.

I clicked nothing.
I saved it to drafts.

[entry 16: psalm for the permanently logged out]

they say heaven is a place with no passwords.
no verification codes. no locked doors.
but i keep dreaming of gates that ask for my mother’s maiden name.
i type: "forgot."
they say: you are not authorized to enter.

-- forwarded message -- click here to unsubscribe from sorrow [link broken]

inbox (unread) • last accessed: 3:33 a.m.

tender, tired, self-facing notes to a fractured self

[entry 17: the night kept my letters safe]

i wrote you a letter every time i survived something i shouldn't have.
folded them into paper cranes, hid them under my bed,
fed them on dust and forgotten songs.
the night cradled them for me,

whispered, not yet, not yet,
when i tried to burn them all.
someday, when i am braver,
i will read what i wrote in the language of bruises and breathlessness.

[entry 18: what i told myself to keep breathing]

you are not lost.
you are not broken.
you are an archive of every light that didn’t go out when it should have.
you are a body full of doorways.
some locked.
some swinging open just because you dared to knock.
you are not here to be understood by everyone.
you are here because even ruins bloom under the right kind of rain.

[entry 19: somewhere, a version of you is already free]

maybe she's running through an open field,
no scars, no alarms, no maps.
maybe she's laughing so hard she forgets to hold onto anything.
not even the hurt.
especially not the hurt.
maybe she's looking at the stars and thinking,
i don't owe them anything.
i don't owe anyone anything.
maybe she's singing.
maybe i will hear it in my sleep tonight,
like a compass calling me home.

[entry 20: a self-portrait from the edge of despair]

i try to draw myself.
i try to paint the lines of who i am, but the image refuses to form.
what I create is not me, not at all.
it is a twisted version of myself, an abstraction i can’t place.
the eyes are too wide. the mouth is wrong.
even the hands—those hands that should have known my skin—are foreign, distorted.
i don’t know who this is, but it stares back at me, grinning like it knows something i don’t.
maybe i don’t want to know.

[entry 21: when the pieces don’t fit]

i stand before the puzzle, the one i’ve been trying to piece together for years.
the pieces are all here. they’ve been here all along.

but they don’t fit. they never fit.
i twist and turn them, pressing them together, but the image remains incomplete. a jigsaw of a life that never was.
i wonder if it’s supposed to fit.
i wonder if I’m supposed to fix it.
but the pieces never align. not today. maybe not ever.
and for a moment, that feels okay.

[entry 22: affirmation, corrupted]

you are not too much.
you are not too little.
you are just right, but in the wrong language.

translate yourself as needed.
repeat until you believe it.
even if the words arrive misshapen.
especially if they arrive misshapen.

[entry 23: on days i forget]

when the names stop making sense,
when the mirror won’t answer,
when the light feels like a language i can’t speak—
i read the letter you wrote in sleep,
the one sealed with heartbeat and static:

"still here. still trying. still mine.”
“these are notes left in the margins of my survival. crumpled, but never discarded.”

epigraph

and still, somewhere, a version of me survives.
send no rescue. i have learned how to build fires alone.
the transmission ends, but the signal keeps leaking through the stars.
this is not the end. only a different way of singing.

and still, somewhere, a version of me survives.
send no rescue. i have learned how to build fires alone.
the transmission ends, but the signal keeps leaking through the stars.
this is not the end. only a different way of singing.

- Oizys.

P.S. —
a compiled memory dump of the spirit,
a soft reboot that failed gracefully.
this isn’t a poem. this is a diagnostic report.
a series of corrupted transmissions written for the ones
who tried to unsubscribe from sorrow
but found it still marked “important.”

inspired by writing prompts vi by @sammie.jpg333—
whose list wasn’t a prompt, but a crash log.
not instructions, but coordinates.
not fiction, but revelation-by-static.

this piece was logged at 3:33 a.m.,
somewhere between insomnia and divine packet loss.
every entry a half-saved draft,
every metaphor a glitchy correspondence with the divine helpdesk.
please hold. your prayer is very important to us.

we wrote “i made no jar” and meant:
i didn’t bury the scream because i am the scream.
we wrote “temporal coordinates not found” and meant:
time collapsed, and i’m still standing in the rubble.

here is a stove light blinking like a weary prophet.
here is spilled milk, holy and unclean.
here is a mirror that knows too much.
here is the memory of a voice that maybe never spoke.

this piece is fragmented on purpose.
so is the author.
so are you.
this is not a flaw in the system.
this is the system.

we tried to write a resurrection.
we ended up with a changelog.
and still: somewhere, a version of us survives.

this is not a closing.
this is not a kaddish.
this is a status update.

status: still here.
signal: weak, but present.
transmission: ongoing.

Addendum // marginalia // תוספת:

in tractate bava metzia 59a-b [oven of akhnai], a rabbi makes a table float and gets overruled by a heavenly voice.

this poem is the table.

this poem is the scream that got ignored because it didn’t cite its sources.

in sefer yetzirah [the book of creation], the world begins with letters.

this one began with a typo.

the aleph stuttered, the bet was corrupted,

and yet we built meaning anyway.

this is a talmud of error messages.

you will not find g—d here: only footnotes.

only the comment section beneath a divine post that never loaded.

like the shekhinah [divine feminine] in exile, we speak in lowercase because