Some musings on 'no miracle exit' [29th April 2026 - 9th May 2026]

29/04/2026, 19:50 PM
the body being trapped in the present
The shadows in this room have begun to whisper, mapping out a layout that defies Euclidean geometry. I have checked the door. It’s just a painted mural on cold concrete and the windows are only flickering screens showing a sunny day that never shifts, never changes. If teleportation were real, I’d be in a field of wild lavender right now, feeling the actual sun. Instead, I am just waiting for the final flickering, wishing I could simply will myself elsewhere. A blink. A breath. The sensation of tearing through the air. But there is only here. And I am not going anywhere.
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30/04/2026, 01:56 AM
teleportation as escape
The morning tea still tastes like the long, tedious, beautiful commute it took to get here. If only teleportation were possible. If only I could step into a glass booth in New York, exhale the scent of rain on concrete, and inhale the salty, impossible air of a cliffside in Santorini, all in the time it takes to click my heels. To cease to be here, and instantly be there. To tear the tapestry of space-time and skip the messy, dusty threads in between. But it is not. Instead, I am bound by the laws of thermodynamics, by the agonizing, beautiful, slow-motion truth that to get to a new place, I must physically inhabit all the old places in between. I must watch the scenery blur, feel the weight of a suitcase, and endure the anticipation. If teleportation were possible, we wouldn’t have postcards. We wouldn’t have the desperate, sweet longing for a destination. We wouldn’t know the joy of arrival. We’d only have perfect copies of ourselves, appearing at our desks, at our dinners, in our lovers’ arms, forever wondering if the "us" who woke up this morning actually survived the commute. But it is not. So I will keep my atoms right here, in this chair, and I will be grateful for the slow, messy journey. I will let the world exist at a distance. I will let the space between here and there remain, filled with everything I am not yet, but might become.
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30/04/2026, 01:57 AM
the space between here and elsewhere
I am so scared. he is screaming out loud. I can hear the walls vibrating. Why is he doing that? It’s not just noise, of course, that is a primary issue, but it is also like tearing paper in my brain. My heart is acting like a trapped bird, beating against my ribs, just thump-thump-thumping so hard I can feel it in my throat. Why is it so hot in here? I can’t catch my breath, it’s like there’s not enough air in the room, like someone is squeezing my chest. My knees feel like water. I just want to shrink, to shrink into nothing, to crawl into a drawer and lock it. Stop it, stop it, stop it. I can feel my hands shaking. I am trying to hold onto my own hands but they are still shaking. Why is he screaming? Did I do something? Is it my fault? No, please, it is not my fault. Everything is too loud. The air feels thick. The walls are closing in, they are literally moving closer, I swear I can see them. Why is my face wet? Oh, I am crying. I need to breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe. The sound feels like a physical weight, pressing down until there is nowhere left to turn. Every nerve is on edge, waiting for the silence that won't come. It’s hard to focus on anything else when the air is filled with that sound, making it impossible to find a steady thought or a moment of peace. Please, just let there be silence.
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09/05/2026, 01:19 AM
teleportation is not real
I am writing this days later, but my body does not understand dates. It still thinks it is trapped in that room. It still checks the walls. It still listens for the next raised voice the way people listen for thunder after lightning. There is a cruelty in the ordinary continuation of things. The fan keeps turning. The phone charges. Someone somewhere is chopping coriander. A dog barks, a pressure cooker whistles, a neighbour drags furniture across the floor, and the world has the audacity to remain functional. Meanwhile, some part of me is still standing there, small and alert, waiting for silence to prove it is real. I keep thinking about teleportation. Not the glamorous kind. Not glass booths or blue light or arriving in Santorini with perfect hair and no luggage. I mean the ugly, desperate kind. The kind where the body says: remove me. Not tomorrow. Not after explanation. Not after I have packed a bag, justified myself, made arrangements, behaved sensibly, thanked everyone for their concern. Just remove me. Please. One clean tear in the fabric of here. But there is no such mercy. There is only the body, stubborn and biological, refusing to become mist. There is only the long route out: one breath, then another; one room survived, then another; one morning coffee after a night that did not end properly. Maybe that is why travel feels holy to me. Because distance has to be earned. Why? Because the road proves that leaving is possible, even if it is slow. Why? Because every train platform, airport gate, bus window, and tired suitcase says the same old thing in different accents: You were there. Now you are here. Maybe teleportation would rob me of that evidence. Maybe I need the road because the road leaves witnesses. Ticket stubs. Bad tea. Dust on shoes. A song overheard in a cab. The absurd dignity of dragging luggage across broken pavement. The proof that I crossed something and remained myself. Or maybe I am romanticising inconvenience because the alternative is admitting how badly I wanted to disappear. Both can be true. Please...? Tonight, I do not want lavender fields or Santorini cliffs. I want a room that does not pretend to be a trap. I want a door that is a door. I want windows that do not perform sunlight, but allow it. I want silence without waiting for it to be broken. I want to arrive inside my own life and not flinch. Until then, I will stay with the slow laws of matter. No vanishing. No perfect copies. No miracle exit. Just this body. These atoms. This breath. Still here. Not going anywhere yet.
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09/05/2026, 01:19 AM
the long route out

Tomorrow my sister will come back home. Or that is the version of the sentence I am allowed to write. According to my mother, she left. According to my mother, she is in the country. According to my mother, many things are true if said firmly enough and repeated near the kitchen sink. But I know she is not. Do not worry. I will not tell anyone. Especially now, when I am not speaking to my mother. There is a strange discipline in silence. People think silence is empty, but it is not. Silence is a room full of labelled boxes of things you know, things you suspect, things you were told not to repeat, and things you figured out anyway because families are terrible at hiding the shape of their own lies. I keep my mouth closed and somehow still feel accused. The house has its own intelligence. It knows who is missing. It knows which slippers have not moved. It knows the difference between a person travelling and a person being edited out of conversation. Tomorrow, she will return, and everyone will behave as if geography is a minor clerical error. Maybe there will be tea. Maybe someone will ask if she ate. Maybe someone will say, “You have become thin/fat,” because that is how love enters cultured homes for the women when it has forgotten the front door. I will not ask where she was. Not because I do not care. Although, I know. But, because I care enough to know that sometimes the truth arrives tired, carrying its own luggage, and the kindest thing you can do is not inspect the baggage at the door. Still, I am angry. Not the loud kind. The clean, cold kind. The kind that sits upright at the dining table and remembers every contradiction. The kind that does not shout because shouting would make it too easy for everyone to call it emotional and move on. I am not speaking to my mother right now. And, this too is a language.A bitter one, yes. But honest. More honest than the carefully polished sentences passed around this house like steel plates. I do not know what tomorrow will bring. Maybe relief or theatre or another version of the story I am expected to swallow without chewing. But I know this: my sister will come back home. And when she does, I will look at her face first. Not for proof, confession, justification, love, support, longing, sisterhood, betrayal. Just to see whether she has returned whole. Everything else can wait.
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09/05/2026, 03:55 PM
the laws of matter
Why is it that people grow up under one roof, and one abuses the other, and the abuser always gets to go on and have a life? They go on. That is the part that feels obscene. They go on to other countries, other rooms, other photographs. They stand in front of monuments. They eat something pretty from a ceramic plate. They laugh with friends on trips. They make memories. They make videos. They make themselves understandable. Meanwhile, the abused one rots in the corner. Not just poetically. Actually. Rotting is not always dramatic, well, sometimes it is and sometimes we make it, to make rotting sufferable. Sometimes it looks like sitting at a desk and answering emails. Sometimes it looks like doing laundry. Sometimes it looks like being productive enough that no one can accuse you of collapsing, but not alive enough to call it living. I sit. I rot. I work. I write. I labour. I do all the ordinary things required to keep a body officially functioning. And still, some part of me remains in the corner where I was left. I look at this site within my own walls and I recognise the blueprint of society. This is how it works.Home is the first state. Home is the first court, the first police station, the first prison, the first propaganda machine. Home teaches you who is allowed to speak, who must lower their eyes, who gets believed, who gets explained away, who must preserve the family’s dignity by swallowing every sharp object placed in their mouth. Home is where oppressors rehearse. Before the world calls them charming, complicated, misunderstood, promising, emotional, stressed, young, human, the home has already given them a stage. And before the world calls the abused one difficult, bitter, unstable, dramatic, ungrateful, too sensitive, too much, the home has already written that script too. I have seen it, inside these walls. The same architecture. The same excuses. The same redistribution of sympathy. The person who harms gets a future. The person harmed gets a personality diagnosis from people who never witnessed the violence, only the aftermath. And the aftermath is always so inconvenient-looking. It does not photograph well. There are no cute reels for learning to breathe again after someone has made your own body feel unsafe. No aesthetic caption for flinching at footsteps. No travel montage for being unable to leave because every ounce of strength is spent surviving the room you are already in. People who have physically, verbally, emotionally, sexually, psychologically abused and violated me get to go on. They get to travel. They get to have friends. They get to sit around tables and tell stories where I am mostly painted as the villain. And people know those versions. That is another violence. Not the first one, no. Maybe an extension of this one. But it has teeth. The story leaves before you do. It reaches the room early, shakes hands, orders tea, takes the comfortable chair. By the time you arrive, wounded and late and trying not to shake, everyone has already been introduced to your caricature. The villain. The liar. The mad one. The problem. The one who destroys peace by naming the war. And what can you say then? How do you explain abuse to people who are already suspicious of your mouth? How do you narrate violation without being cross-examined by people who think neutrality is a virtue, when neutrality is often just cowardice wearing clean clothes? The abused are expected to provide perfect testimony. No contradictions. No rage. No ugliness. No memory gaps. No inconvenient timing. No grief that makes others uncomfortable. We must be articulate, but it cannot rehearsed. We must be broken, but it cannot messy. We must be honest, but please not too detailed. We must be hurt, but do not accusing. We must be forgiving, preferably. We must be quiet, ideally. And if we cannot do that, then perhaps we are unreliable. Perhaps it was not that bad. Perhaps both sides. Perhaps family. Perhaps move on. Move on. What a clean little phrase like a broom pushed over blood. People say it as if movement is available to everyone equally. As if leaving is only a question of courage. As if the abused body has not been trained, over years, to freeze before it can run. As if money, health, work, friendship, housing, documentation, shame, exhaustion, fear, and the slow erosion of self are not also locks. All we get are strange corners of the internet with ;ittle digital cupboards where we can place our unbearable sentences and weird anonymous rooms where we fantasise about teleportation because the actual routes out require energy we were never allowed to keep. The body is not merely tired. It is harvested and cultivated and systemically kept tired. That is the part people do not understand. Or, refuse to understand for their own peace. Abuse steals labour before labour can become escape. It takes sleep, concentration, confidence, appetite, time, decision-making, tenderness, memory. It takes the clean morning in which a person could have applied for a job, called a friend, planned a move, studied, saved money, built a life. It takes the future in small daily withdrawals. Then the abuser returns and asks why you have nothing. Why are you still here? Why are you like this? Why can’t you be normal? Why don’t you do something with your life? As if they did not stand at the door of that life and charge a toll in fear. As if they did not keep coming back to break the tools. As if they did not benefit from your stuckness. Because that is the design, isn’t it? It's intentional. Keep the abused close enough to access. Weak enough to control. Ashamed enough to stay silent. Isolated enough to doubt their own memories. Exhausted enough to fail at escape. Then step outside and become a person among people. Tell sob stories. Receive comfort. Go on beautiful trips. Let friends say, “You deserve happiness.” Upload the sea. Upload the mountains. Upload the laughing, forgiven face. And somewhere, in a room no one is filming, the person they harmed is trying to convince her nervous system that the door is real. I hate this. I hate the injustice of it with a clean, ancient hatred. I hate that survival makes the abused look smaller while impunity makes the abuser look well-adjusted. I hate that the world loves a healed survivor but distrusts a bleeding one. I hate that pain must become literature before anyone will sit with it and sit with the discomfort. 

And still, I write. Not because writing saves me. Well, maybe momentarily. But, not tangibly. Let us not be sentimental. Writing does not unlock doors. It does not pay rent. It does not erase hands, words, threats, rooms, nights. It does not make the body forget what it had to learn. But writing does one stubborn thing. It refuses the official record. It says: no. No, that is not what happened. No, I was not born difficult. No, my silence was not proof that nothing occurred. No, their happiness is not evidence of their innocence. No, my corner is not my natural habitat. No, I am not a villain because I remember. Tonight, I do not want revenge. Revenge would still keep me tied to the architecture. I want exit. I want witnesses who do not ask me to bleed politely. I want a life where my labour finally returns to me and my body. I want friends who know my story from my mouth. I want a room where no one weaponises volume. I want mornings that belong to the future and not to recovery. I want my body to stop mistaking peace for the brief pause before harm resumes. And yes, I still want teleportation, not to disappear forever. Just to stand once, even once, in a place untouched by their version of me. A field. A train platform. A rented room with a working lock. A city where no one knows the family mythology. A small table near a window. A cup of tea going cold for ordinary reasons. Somewhere I can say my own name and not hear it returned as an accusation. Until then, I remain here. Not because here deserves me or I forgive the walls or the story is over. But because even rotting things know something about soil, even corners gather dust into evidence, even a body trained for fear can one day relearn distance. I am not the version they carried into other rooms. I am the witness they failed to kill. I am the archive with a pulse. And one day, when I leave, it will not be teleportation. It will be slower. Messier. More humiliating [for them]. More real. I will cross every inch of the distance they said I could not survive. And when I arrive, I will know this with my whole, exhausted, disobedient body: I did not vanish. I escaped.
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~ Oizys.