Sitemap of an Interior

for the lost reader. a site map with no legend!

This is not a map in any useful sense. It will not help you arrive neatly. It will not point you toward clarity, coherence, or whatever else orderly websites promise in their little menus and dropdowns. This is only an attempt at emotional geography, which is to say: a record of the rooms, corridors, weather systems, and false exits I keep finding myself inside.

If you are looking for coherence, turn back.
If you are looking for poems, follow the weather.
If you are looking for the wound, listen for sound.
If you are looking for hope, check the cracks.
If you are looking for me, I am probably in the unfinished section.

There are rooms I avoid. They do not stay avoided. They shift quietly in the dark and appear where a hallway used to be. I know them by atmosphere first, then by ache. One smells faintly of old paper and failure. One hums with all the versions of myself I could not become. One is lit too brightly and asks practical questions in a voice I have never trusted.

There is recurring weather here. Gusts that carry ash from what was never learned. Sudden humidity of memory. The kind of heat that makes the walls sweat. Drafts under doors that should have sealed years ago. A rain that does not cleanse so much as reveal what was always sticking to the floorboards. Nothing in this interior climate is seasonal in a reliable way. It returns when it wants.

There are places where the rot gathers. Under the tongue. Behind the ribs. In the corners where abandoned plans are left in stacks, dampening slowly into compost. In bowls of standing water. In late-night thought spirals. In the soft matter of longing left unattended too long. I do not mean rot as metaphor alone. I mean the actual sense of something in life fermenting past usefulness and still refusing to be thrown out.

There are exits that are not exits. Doors painted to resemble freedom. Windows that open only onto other rooms. Trapdoors leading not down but back. Thresholds that feel, for a second, like a reprieve until you realise you have only entered another arrangement of the same old furniture. I have become suspicious of anything that promises release too cleanly.

There are corners where old drafts go to ferment. Pages I meant to finish last year. Titles still warm from being touched and abandoned. The future book, not dead, just buried badly. Half-lines. Zines. Fragments. Ruins in revision. This is the section where unfinished things breathe softly and wait for the right kind of weather to rise again.

There are sounds that travel through walls. A voice from another room. A bangle before an entrance. Footsteps as decision. The scrape of memory moving furniture around upstairs. The thin electrical buzz of dread. The small domestic sounds that would be harmless in another life but, in this one, arrive sharpened. Sound is one of the main architects here.

Here is the room where inheritance becomes noise.
Here is the drawer of unfinished futures.
Here is the corridor where weather keeps entering the body.
Here is the page I meant to write last year.
Here is the silence pretending not to be structure.

And because every map insists on pretending it knows where things are, let me offer these false directions once more:

If you are looking for poems, follow the weather. It knows the way better than I do.
If you are looking for the wound, stay very still and something will begin to echo.
If you are looking for hope, do not expect a monument. It is smaller here. It lives in cracks, in stubborn roots, in the fact that the house has not yet fallen in on itself.
If you are looking for me, you may find only evidence: a lamp left on, a sentence mid-breath, a page open to the part that hurts.

There is no legend for this map because there is no agreed-upon key for a life like this. No neat symbols for inherited sound, recurring sorrow, weather as witness, or all the little ruins that continue to make a home out of me. I can only tell you that these rooms exist, that I have walked through them in socks and in storms, and that some of them have learned my name better than I ever did.

So take this not as guidance, but as trace. Not a route, but a recognition. If you wander long enough, you may come upon something familiar: a sentence with your own pulse in it, a room you have also avoided, a wall you too have pressed your ear against just to make sure the noise was real.

Welcome, then, to the interior.
Mind the weather.
The floor gives way in places.

the entrance hall

home
about
contact
the state of the ruins
oizys? who?

the cabinet

cabinet of curiosities
drawer #1 — loneliness anthology
drawer #2 — atlas of sad music
drawer #3 — dictionary of the miserable
drawer #4 — letters never sent
drawer #5 — images i kept for no reason
drawer #6 — phrases found in old drafts 

the side room

the haebang club — my liberation notes

the workroom

poetry challenges
novpowrimo 2025
an upcoming book???
rollercoaster of rejection

the grounds

abandoned plot

the reading room

junkyard of readees
the wall of old web buttons & links

places where visitors have been allowed

sign my guestbook
chatbox
comments feed

the archive room

poetry
random diary entry
rant
essay
introspection
retro-introspective

the poetry shelves

poet
poetic devices
napowrimo 2023
napowrimo 2024
napowrimo 2025
napowrimo 2026
octpowrimo 2025
novpowrimo 2025
dverse 

administrative corridor

policies
sitemap of an interior
blogmap

~ Oizys.