February 2026 So Farrr...

Wow. It has been long, yet all it has been is a lot of ruminating, longing, yearning, guilting, depressing, daydreaming, waiting, intruding, and not a lot of change, huh? Since the last update in January. Which makes sense. And at the same time, it does not make sense. Every night I go to sleep daydreaming that things might change drastically tomorrow morning. And the next morning, I wake up with all the heaviness on my eyelids and clutch my painful soul, drag it along the day, daydreaming that things will change when I go to sleep and wake up tomorrow. But they don't. They have never. Maybe sometimes. A tiny little bit. But then, never. As time grows, the regret becomes fervent, and my desperation vehemently whips me, makes me turn back to see... see the time, all the time I passed, all the time that passed me, is just one, big, gaping hollow memory. Memories in a waiting room and nothing else. 

Reading Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice from Dear Sugar by Cheryl Strayed has just aggravated this process and nothing else. And I try to fill this hollowness with more hollowed daydreams, and the hollowness is like self-made quicksand. Rosa Luxemburg said while she was being murdered, “Those who do not move, do not notice their chains.” I feel as though I am stuck in an analysis paralysis like a scholar dissecting a map instead of stepping onto the road, or like a cartographer starving in the territory she already charted, or like a train revving in neutral, or like a courtroom where I am both defendant and judge, and the verdict is perpetually adjourned, or like a lighthouse debating light while ships wreck offshore. And so, to give myself the illusion of moving, I keep distracting myself from myself by talking about myself to myself in all different costumes and scenarios and timelines and settings and contexts and landscapes.

Like Anaïs Nin said, "I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me — the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living." [Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5: 1947-1955]. 

Like born in the shadow of the intergenerational ruins, the lonely child of the charnel house longed to escape the cold, relentless struggles of this mortal coil, prevaricating the indelible toska with flagitious paracosm.

Like Patti Smith once wrote in Woolgathering, “I always imagined I would write a book, if only a small one, that would carry one away, into a realm that could not be measured nor even remembered. I imagined a lot of things. That I would shine. That I'd be good. I'd dwell bareheaded on a summit turning a wheel that would turn the earth undetected, amongst the clouds, I would have some influence; be of some avail.”

But what follows in my mind after this are words of Dostoevsky written to Mikhailovich, "When I look back at the past and think how much time has been wasted in vain, how much time was lost in delusions, in errors, in idleness, in ignorance of how to live, how I did not value time, how often I sinned against my heart and spirit—my heart bleeds. Life is a gift, life is happiness, each minute might have been an age of happiness."

“Might have been.”

I feel like that is the small, closed waiting room I am stuck in, with the anticipatory living and a deferred agency, dosing myself on the fantasy as micro-dopamine, followed by some flagellatory regret as self-punishment with the hyper-reflection mistaken for progress. At the same time, the remnants of past abuse are balled up in my mind like a psychological gridlock ping-pong ball. And the restlessness caused by it is so combustible, causing a psychomotor agitation that breaks my paralysis only to drive me into a chaotic, aimless, and often self-destructive frenzy. The purposelessness in my movements only intensifies the underlying terror of the gridlock, offering no release, only exhaustion, and becomes a frantic, uncontrollable dance with my own self-destruction. 

~ Oizys.