So Much of Whatever-the-fuck Has Happened So Far

07th March 2026, 3:33 PM-5:16 PM

I have been pushing and dragging and coercing and compelling myself to write this. Write here. Come here and write. Open the incognito and log in to my alter self and write here. Every part of my being was begging me. Finally, I collapsed, and I am here. Let's see what we have been through... Apart from my very own excruciating and wretched existence, the Gaza genocide and Palestinian ethnic cleansing continue; Rafah continues to be erased; Iranians continue to protest, now bombs dropping over their head, being embroiled in the rock-and-hard-space-that's-perpetually-closing-in of the American, white supremacist, Zionist entity's age-old playbook; the world, we, shamelessly go on. How?

I actually had neck and shoulder pain, which started as a crick and snowballed into a full-blown, seized-up anchor dragging my entire head down like a molten lava lamp in my trapezius with its rusty hinge that refuses to turn. That tiny, angry knot of wire tightening with every turn, with its parasitic, icy dagger embedded between my shoulder blades. That concrete collar of bodily misery started from Mid-February and lasted till the end of February and beginning of March, which mutually took place over a weekend, which was last weekend. During the chokehold of the concrete collar, as you know, I kept spiralling over my inaction and inability to act. Apart from that, my period did not seem to come. My female reproductive system teased me with all the prior events, such as extremely localised bodily pain across the body, mass hysteria amongst all my selves, a ritualistic pimple on my chin that erupts and oozes out its volcanic lava puss, the stress of just wondering and calculating and understanding the "why" behind the lateness and hoping it is not pregnancy (AS IF!) and the existential, sadistic and masturbatory urge to remove my existence from the world. With that, the mounting pressure of my wretched hair just detaching everywhere, just quiet, traitorous shedding with its violent, silent secession. They say it is just a cycle, just the telogen phase, just a bit of extra stress. But it feels like a slow-motion unravelling, a quiet abandonment of myself, one wretched thread at a time. Finally, the day before yesterday, my uterine lining mustered up its courage to come out; it decided to break its own walls and march into the light with its fanfare of a sharp, uncompromising announcement that the kingdom was shifting. Obviously, the sense of relief did not settle right in, but eventually it did. 

The first week of March has been impounding, just seizing. It is a reservoir of heavy, trapped air. The mornings are deceptive, crisp and brittle as glass, only to break by noon into a thick, humid stillness that feels like a hand clamped over the throat of the year. It has acted like a dam built too quickly, holding back the remaining, bitter chill of February while the sudden, aggressive sun of spring tries to burst through. There is always this air that feels thick with unfinished business. Every breeze is heavy, burdened with the scents of dust and the first hint of rain-thirsty earth. It is an impatient waiting, a tension in the atmosphere that refuses to let the week be light.

So, on Tuesday, with a solid 90 minutes to spare, I was suddenly tapped to lead a funding presentation that we were researching and writing on; I’m still not 100% sure if she is my manager or my manager's manager, given the chaotic chain of command. I scrambled to pull it together based on a few hurried pointers. Then, the showstopper: I’m in the middle of presenting, and she starts firing off texts, demanding I completely pivot my approach on the fly. As I was busy actually presenting the last-minute material, I couldn't exactly check my phone, right? She eventually intervened, snatching the reins entirely. The kicker is what is still annoying me. After the smoke cleared, I was actually given feedback for the work, the very work I wasn't technically supposed to be doing, but took over in a panic because I was asked to, and I am an independent team player who knows how to work in a fast-paced environment, and I am a coward who fears being a spoilsport so I just took it and did not question just the way I took the feedback and did not voice all of this. It's safe to say it was a total, chaotic botch-up. With the contract renewal looming and no other prospects, I wish to escape into a daydream of illusory summer and betray my existence.

08th March 2026, 3:52 PM-4:07 PM

This is how I am coping. I close my eyes, and the grey room disintegrates, replaced by a sun-drenched, humming yellow. It is an illicit summer, a forgery of a season that exists only within the hollows of my mind, designed specifically to betray the dull, ticking reality of my existence. Here, the air is lazy; it doesn't move. It lazily hangs like a thick, balmy blanket smelling of jasmine and impending thunder. The sky is too blue, a vibrant, unrealistic hue that never fades into grey. I am sitting by a river that sings in a pitch higher than human ears should hear, the water a liquid sapphire that never grows cold. I have forgotten my name. That is the point. I have forgotten the chores, the ticking clock, the weight of responsibility. I have traded them for the sensation of white-hot sand between my toes and the taste of salt on my lips, even though I am nowhere near the sea. In this daydream, I am a creature of leisure, a ghost inhabiting a perfectly manicured afternoon. The sun is a radiant orb that paints the landscape in golden, impossible light. Trees sway in a wind that only carries the scent of honey, a constant, soothing rustle that whispers, stay, stay, stay. I feel a profound, treacherous joy in this betrayal. I am turning my back on the "real" world, leaving it to crumble behind me while I bask in a sun that never sets. The longer I stay, the more the illusion becomes my only truth—a fleeting, brilliant, dishonest paradise. Tick. Tock. A phone rings somewhere in the distance. The sun flickers. The yellow fades. I open my eyes, and the room is grey again. I am here. But a part of me, a very happy part, has stayed in the sun.

But this Limerence is the fire inside, a fever-dream muse that consumes as it creates. It is the architect of a million unsent letters, the sculptor of a fantasy world so vivid it makes reality seem a shade of dull grey. It is the relentless, humming hum of a mind that takes an ordinary face and paints it with the brushstrokes of perfection, turning a passing glance into a symphony of longing. It is the terrifying, beautiful addiction to a ‘what-if’ that feels more real than ‘what-is,’ fueling a desperate need to turn pain into poetry and longing into art. To be in its grip is to be a ghost in your own life, haunting the memory of someone who barely knows you, transforming the agony of unrequited hope into the highest, most feverish form of human obsession.

In the intoxicating quiet of the morning, the Limerent Object (LO) crystallises my current being, transforming the amorphous haze of my existence into a sharp, brilliant image of desire. It is a moment of profound, involuntary fixation; a crystallisation where all extraneous noise fades, and the world is reduced to a single, mesmerising point of focus. My thoughts do not just wander; they orbit, fueled by the agonising, sweet uncertainty of whether this intense longing is returned. I feel my own identity beginning to fracture, or rather, to harden around the idea of them, absorbing their imagined essence into the marrow of my daily routine. In this state, I do not just see them; I perceive a curated, pedestaled version of themselves that acts as a mirror for my deepest, unfulfilled longings. It is a creative, albeit reckless, construction of a soulmate, an obsession that dictates my moods, turning the mundane into a thrilling scavenger hunt for signs of reciprocation, while the reality of the person remains comfortably distant, safe from the imperfections of everyday life. This crystallisation is the peak of the fever dream, a beautiful, fragile structure that feels more real than my own skin.

I am suspended in that precise, terrifying moment where the fantasy hardens into crystal, a statue of my own making, frozen at the absolute apex of admiration and despair. I sometimes wish the end to come as a LO: not with the slow, grey decay of fading affection, but with the sharp, crystalline brilliance of a final, consuming obsession. To be at this peak, crystallised LO is to exist in a state of exquisite agony, where every passing thought of them brings both a blinding, heavenly light and a cold, sharp, paralysing ache. To be imagined, idealised, and then gently surrendered to the void, a snapshot in a mind that no longer needs to possess me to love me. It would be a departure untainted by mundanity, a sudden, breath-stealing crystallisation where the pain of separation becomes, for one fleeting moment, a beautifully suspended, untouchable form of longing. I am in the centre of the web I spun, unable to move, unwilling to shatter the sculpture, yet drowning in the weight of its perfection. Sometimes, I whisper a secret wish for the end to come, not out of malice, but from a desperate longing to be released from this "high" that is slowly turning my reality into a ghost. I crave the crash, the slow, agonising, but necessary return to the grey earth, just to feel the blood flowing in my limbs again, rather than this still, breathless, manufactured bliss. Alas, a perfect ending, frozen in time and bathed in the bittersweet euphoria of never truly knowing how it ends.

So, more often than not, I am thrust into the grey reality. The air here is toxic, thick with the damp rot of a thousand unfulfilled promises, yet it is the only air my lungs know how to process. Every day I wake up with the frantic, desperate thought of running; of tearing away from this stagnant, suffocating existence and finding a place where the light doesn't feel like a spotlight of judgment. But then comes the paralysing paralysis, the cold realisation that I am like a deep-sea creature hauled to the surface; my survival depends on the very pressure that is crushing me. I have become part of this crumbling, familiar architecture, and to leave is to evaporate. I am trapped not by locks or bars, but by the terrifying certainty that I cannot breathe anywhere else. It is like being a tree that has grown its roots deep into rocky soil, choking on its limitations but unable to rip itself free without dying in the process. I dream of the open air, of standing in fertile ground, but my very essence has adapted to this arid, unforgiving space. I wither in the thought of transplanting, knowing I am destined to thrive only in this cage I call home. Or when the cage door is open, it has been for years, but I remain perched on the cold metal bar. To fly out is to face a sky I don't understand, a wind that might snap my wings. The familiar, suffocating safety of this cage is better than the unknown, fatal freedom outside. So I sing the same sad tune, waiting for a liberation I am too afraid to embrace. And, other times, I feel like a creature of the deep, stranded on a rocky, dry beach. My survival depends on the very pressure that used to crush me. The idea of navigating the vast, open ocean again is more terrifying than the loneliness of this sand. I will continue to crawl along this shore, wishing for the sea, but terrified to jump back in.

08th March 2026, 7:00 PM

So, when will this end? The hours have stretched into a relentless, grey continuum, a slow-moving river where every tick of the clock is a heavy stone sinking to the bottom of my endurance. I find myself standing in a dense fog of uncertainty, straining to see a horizon that refuses to take shape, wondering if this suffocating weight is destined to become the new, permanent shape of things. Every fibre of my being screams for the release of "next," for the sharp, clean break of a new chapter, yet I am anchored in this "now," watching the candle of my patience burn down to the wick. "When will this end?" is no longer a question I ask aloud; it is the rhythm of my breath, a silent, desperate prayer that the storm will finally break and leave behind not just wreckage, but a sky cleared for something new.

Oh, it is Happy International Women's Day. 

09th March 2026, 12:20 PM

“And this urge to run away from what I love is a sort of sadism I no longer pretend to understand.”

― Martha Gellhorn, Selected Letters

“Sometimes, when I lie awake at night, I wonder whether I've lived at all. Is it the same for everybody? Do some people have a greater talent for living than others or do some people never live, but just exist?”

― Autumn Sonata, Charlotte Andergast

“I wept and wept. I had come to believe that if I really wanted something badly enough, the very act of my wanting it was an assurance that I would not get it.”

— Audre Lorde, from “Zami: A New Spelling of my Name,” published c. 1982

“What is the source of our first suffering? It lies in the fact that we hesitated to speak....it was born in the moments when we accumulated silent things within us.”

― Gaston Bachelard

“Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting”

― Clarice Lispector, A Hora da Estrela

To have spent my life holding my hands in tightly hidden fists. To try to understand what it would mean, now, to hold them open. I have always felt ashamed at being witnessed in the act of wanting something I could not have.

― So We Must Meet Apart, By Gabrielle Bates & Jennifer S. Cheng

Raja, I wish I knew

the cause of that malady.

For years I could not accept

the place I was in.

I felt I should be somewhere else.

A city, trees, human voices

lacked the quality of presence.

I would live by the hope of moving on.

Somewhere else there was a city of real presence,

of real trees and voices and friendship and love.

― "To Raja Rao" by Czesɫaw Miɫosz

“The worst part about anything that’s self-destructive is that it’s so intimate. You become so close with your addictions and illnesses that leaving them behind is like killing the part of yourself that taught you how to survive.”

― Lacey L.

“I’ve noticed before that if you go too long without anyone seeing you, really seeing you, it’s easy to start wondering if you’re really there.”

— Maggie Mitchell, Pretty Is

“I never tried to be anything other than a dreamer. I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to be full of poetry. The only thing I ever loved was pure nothingness.”

― Fernando Pessoa

“I am obsessed at nights with the idea of my own worthlessness, and if it were only to turn a light on to save my life I think I would not do it. These are the last footprints of a headache I suppose. Do you ever feel that? — like an old weed in a stream. What do you feel, lying in bed?”

― Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vita Sackville-West dated 18 August 1929

“But then what of me remains here? 

A sense of tiredness.

I was always tired.

There was never a time I was not tired.

Not when life had its claws in me, or when I escaped from it.

I did not live with intent, I only lived.

But that’s over.”

― Yu Miri's Tokyo Ueno Station

“Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I’m one of them.”

― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine

 

~ Oizys.