The Unweaving

Tonight, I sit on the precipice of my own undoing, on the verge of a cataclysmic event I can only describe as "The Unweaving." The world around me has morphed into a grotesque and nightmarish tableau, where the colours have bled into a sickly, bruised palette as if the very essence of life had drained from the world. As if someone has squeezed it to make it devoid of any emotion. Once-vibrant reds, symbolising passion and vitality, have faded to a feeble, pallid pink, a feeble echo of their former fervour. The verdant greens, once representing growth and renewal, now appear jaundiced and tainted, reminiscent of decay rather than life. Once serene and calming, the blues have transformed into a murky, ashen grey, reflecting the weight of a world burdened by sorrow. These desolate hues now intermingle, painting a grim tapestry of a world beset by malaise. It is a place where hope has withered like a dying flower, where the vibrancy of existence has succumbed to the relentless march of despair. In the shadow of this bruised palette, the air is thick with the stench of decay. It clings to every breath, a noxious reminder of a world unravelling at its seams. The once-fresh scent of earth and nature has given way to a putrid miasma as if the very essence of life itself had curdled. The aroma of decay is a relentless spectre, seeping into every corner, every crevice, and every memory. It haunts the alleys where laughter once echoed and lingers in the halls that once resonated with joy. Now, it pervades every nook and cranny, an inescapable presence, a testament to the relentless passage of time and the erosion of all things vibrant.

The morning sun, once a symbol of hope, now casts long, gnarled shadows that writhe and contort like serpents. My footsteps echo through the barren chambers of my soul, empty rooms in my broken mind, reverberating with a mournful, discordant symphony of despair. Each step feels like a rusty blade carving into my fractured psyche. Each leaf, once young and soft, is getting crunched and crushed underneath my feet and getting stuffed in the cuts and bruises, their tender innocence sacrificed to the brutal landscape of my existence, each bruise and cut now holding the remnants of a world that once held promise but has since crumbled into desolation.

The mundane rituals of existence have become rituals of self-flagellation. I scrub and scrape my skin until it's raw and red, hoping to wash away the stains of regret that cling to me like a malevolent parasite. Each moment etched in my skin feels like an open wound, a relentless reminder of choices made and opportunities lost as if the past were a relentless predator gnawing at the edges of my body. The mirror reflects a visage distorted by torment, a visage I can scarcely recognize as my own. The eyes that once held a glimmer of hope now stare back, haunted and hollow, as if they have witnessed the darkest depths of the human soul. It's a reflection of a self fractured by the weight of regrets, a face worn and weathered by the storms of anguish, a portrait of a soul adrift in a sea of remorse.

My thoughts are a swarm of locusts, devouring every vestige of serenity within me. Doubts, regrets, and self-loathing spiral into an abyss that threatens to consume my very essence. It is a descent into madness, a grotesque carnival of self-destruction. I see the voices in my head as they deplume me of my vision, like someone pinching the wick to snuff out a candle in the cavern. Each whispered thought is a deathly squeeze, extinguishing the fragile flame of clarity that once flickered within. In this cavernous silence, I'm left in the inky blackness of my thoughts, groping through the labyrinthine passages of my mind, searching for a glimmer of understanding that has been cruelly slaughtered with forced subservience and indoctrination.

As I scrawl these words with ink as dark as my cavernous eyes, I am both the executioner and the sacrificial lamb. This unweaving feels like a gruesome dance with the demons that reside within, a waltz of self-annihilation and freedom. With each stroke of the pen, I unravel a piece of my own tapestry, shedding the weight of the past like tattered rags, and in this act of self-deconstruction, I discover an odd liberation, as if dismantling the old self paves the way for something rawer, unburdened, and authentically broken.

Tomorrow, I may wake to a world no less distorted, but I will be reborn from this same wreckage. This same chasm. This unweaving is not an end but a metamorphosis, a baptism in the blood of my own suffering, and a testament to the yield of the human spirit. It is the relentless yet foolish resilience to rise from the ashes, to unearth some worth in the fragments, and to precariously juggle the duality of existence—the darkness and the blindsight, the broken and the each scattered pieces—as the raw, undeniable core part of being. It is in this ongoing battle that the haunting truth of my humanity reveals itself—a truth woven from the threads of vulnerability and resignation, despair and exhaustion, and the ceaseless floundering between the fragments of my soul and the sad, stubborn life that still manages to find its way in.

- Oizys.

"My Liberation Notes" - Yeom Mi-jeong

I vividly remember the day when I first stumbled upon this drama, My Liberation Notes, on Netflix. I was instantly drawn to its raw and unfiltered portrayal of human emotions and mundane life. I shared it with my circle of friends back then, hoping they would share my enthusiasm. To my dismay, they found it strangely off-putting. They could be right, you know? But...

I sought solace in the words of Mi Jung, the complex protagonist of the drama. I remember writing the dialouges in my diary, transcribing her monologues with an almost desperate urgency. Little did I know that within a year, my world would drastically change but not so much. The friends I once held dear drifted away. I managed to graduate, albeit with great difficulty, and landed a remote job that offered little fulfillment. But, I am isolated and alone. Despite my dreams of escape, I found myself trapped in the confines of my room, where hours blurred into days and monotony reigned supreme. Back then, I used to sit in my room and study all day, desiring and thinking, "One day, I will get a job and leave this place and everyone here." And, now it seems like a distant echo lost in the abyss of my reality. I am still sitting in room. Stuck in my room.

 

In the midst of this suffocating existence, I decided to revisit that drama, hoping to recapture the reassuring emotions it once evoked within me. Night after night, I completed my work, eagerly immersing myself in the familiar scenes, only to find tears streaming down my face as Mi Jung's words struck a chord deep within my soul. It became a ritual, an emotional release that accompanied me into the lonely nights, where I surrendered myself to the overwhelming sadness and emptiness that enveloped me.

 

There has always been an ache in my heart, an unfulfilled longing for freedom and liberation that has haunted me since the beginning. It's a feeling I've tried to suppress, burying it beneath the weight of responsibilities and unspoken dreams. Desperate to find an outlet, I turned to writing, pouring my thoughts into a blog that remains unseen and untouched by others. Its existence, like a hidden secret, offers me a sliver of solace—a place where I can lay my soul bare open without fear of judgment.

 

This drama might not resonate with everyone, and it may not possess the power to break the chains of my mundane reality, but it is undeniably real. It has become my anchor, a source of validation for the strange and unsettling experiences that have colored my life. It doesn't necessarily make everything better or worse; rather, it justifies the complexity of my emotions, offering a source of understanding and assurance in a world that often feels indifferent.

 

Every time Mi Jung's monologues resonate in my ears, I can feel a slow burn in my throat, a tightening in my chest as tears well up in my eyes. It's a visceral reaction that etches itself into my memory, a reminder of the profound impact this drama has had on me. I know deep down that this connection will linger, that I will find myself drawn back to it time and time again.

 

In a bittersweet way, it's both comforting and disheartening. Comforting because it reminds me that I'm not alone in my struggles, that someone out there understands the depths of my emotions. Disheartening because it serves as a constant reminder of my longing for something more, something beyond the confines of this suffocating room.

 

- Oizys.

That English Family

Tea, Dreams, and Bittersweet Realities: An Envy-Fueled Odyssey Of That English Family

While doing my research on the postgraduate college I wanted to attend, I stumbled upon a piece written by one person with a sketch drawn by his brother. When I read a bit more about them, I came across a blog by their mother. Her blog, her words, and her pictures of her sons, grandchildren, and relatives became a soothing balm for wounds I didn't know I had. Her little stories of faith, her memories of her mother, her entries about her elder son getting into university, her videos of playing with her younger son's kids She had lived a difficult life yet managed to make the most of it. She and her family look very, very happy. Not the Instagram happy where they morph their differences into lies to get coins and likes. Genuinely happy. Smiles. Guitar. No lies. Their eyes sparkle. Their moments attest to genuineness. The comment section is a giant,  soft quilt of compliments showered by her friends and extended family. I do not know how they are related to each other or what kind of relationship they maintain. But she seems like a genuinely good person. Just humans and goodness mixed like sugar and butter. She reads and writes beautifully, and her words have turned me into some sort of "fan".

I recently saw her update about visiting her elder son, who is studying in a different country, in a beautiful city in Europe. He glowed. He exhibited luminosity. His face just sparkles. He makes music in his free time. He had multiple bands. He uploads them on YouTube and sells them as well. He is studying hard to build a career as well. I watched some of his music. There's freedom. There's passion. There's love. There's acceptance. I imagine them to be a family of love, freedom, and acceptance. Living in a home filled with warmth and good tea I imagine them meeting on holidays and celebrating with their friends and family, exchanging gifts. I imagine them saying goodbye before the elder son leaves for university and sharing tears. I imagine them having video calls where they try to match their timezones. I imagine her elder son taking her mother around the city, showing her the museums, parks, and famous eateries. She is writing another book, and I have yet to buy her first one. I am saving money for that. I imagine her meeting her son's friends as they show her around. I imagine her going back home and reminiscing about her time with her son, which is reflected in her blog.

After glancing a bit more at the photographs she had uploaded with tiny notes about each of them tucked underneath, a train of reality hit me. It is the same university that rejected me. I looked at her son, standing outside the university. Reality—my grusomely bland reality—pulls me back to my cold room, to my cold cot. And I think about my interview with the professor from that university, which was flailing and embarrassing. I think about the non-existent photographs of me with my family. I think about the screams and angry silences around my house. I think about the last time I spoke to my sister, who is from a completely different country. I think about the last time I spoke to my father, who had just moved in downstairs. I think about my friends who have left to pursue their dreams in different cities. I think about my mother, who is sleeping next to me. I think about last evening, when we all made our teas separately and drank them separately.

I check flights for cities in Europe. One leaves tonight. Should I go? Should I pack my bags and just leave? Should I visit the university, talk to the students and professors there, and talk to her elder son about his experience there and his music? Should I visit her as well? Tell her I am saving money to buy her book. That would be ridiculous. I don't even have the money to buy her book, and yet I am visiting her from a shabby little town in a shabby little country. She doesn't even know who I am. I decide against it and go to sleep. Try to sleep. With fantasy and reality fighting over my head. I lie there while they both rip me into pieces. I think about tomorrow morning and how I have to pick up these pieces and face life in this room. I imagine what she must be telling her son about how much she enjoyed her trip to visit him. And I imagine her son reading her mother's happiness while walking to the university while passing a park where she shared a cup of tea with her while telling her all about his studies. I think about the last time I took a trip and shared it with anyone and glance over my empty gallery. I close her blog and try to forget her URL so as to match my fantasy with my empty reality. So, it can be a fair fight.

- Oizys.

Diary of a Whiny Goddess

Should I give an introduction to myself? Well, if I had to... I would not call myself a diarist. But, if I were to be one, that would be my label, A Whiny Diarist. Just a sad person whining about the cheesy combo offer of Shitty Luck + Shittier Intuition. A whiny diarist who uses a thesaurus to hide her disgusting stagnancy behind curated phrases and words. Do you think the following sounds like a good landing page:

Welcome, dear (literally non-existent, I guess?) readers, to the confessions of my oh-not-so-delightfully mundane existence. If life were a symphony, mine would be a melancholic melody peppered with whimsical outbursts and a touch of existential pondering. Consider me your guide through the labyrinth of my ordinary days, where I navigate the treacherous maze of questionable decisions and an uncanny knack for attracting bizarre misadventures.

Now, don't mistake me for a professional complainer or a seasoned moaner. No, no, no. I prefer to embrace my unofficial title as 'A Whiny Diarist' with a hint of pride. Picture a weathered, vintage sign hanging above a shop of paraphernalia that reads, 'Whines and Whimsies.' That's where I'd belong—a sanctuary for the lamentations of a perpetually perplexed soul.

You see, life has gifted me with a mesmerizing whine-cheese combo platter: 'Shitty Luck + Shittier Intuition.' It's like the universe thought, 'Hmm, let's see how many curveballs we can throw at this poor soul,' and then decided to crank up the difficulty level for good measure. But fear not, for I am armed with a thesaurus—a secret weapon I wield to veil my deplorable stagnancy behind carefully curated phrases and words that might just make you think, 'Ah, she's got it together.'

So, dear (actual and potential) readers, fasten your seatbelt and prepare for a rollercoaster ride through the depths of my mind, where I'll share (s)tales of routs that taste bittersweet, heartaches that leave an exquisite ache, and moments of vulnerability that will make you laugh, cry, doubt my existence and question my life choices and.

Join me as I navigate this messy maze called life, armed with zero humor, wit, and a flailing touch of sarcasm. Let's embark on this wild journey together, where my mundane becomes extraordinarily eerie, my whining transforms into subjugated art, and my tears eventually merge with hysterical laughter.

Grab a cup of tea, find a cozy nook that may or may not have a suspicious-looking stain, and let's dive headfirst into the unsightly, rotting chaos of my everyday existence. Trust me, it's anything but (un)interesting.

- Oizys.

Lethargy or Lottery?

A while ago, there were small yet some regular goalposts in life. Maybe assignments, internals, internships or exams. But, college is over. Now, I am free to climb as high as possible or just fall. Obviously, for me, it is the latter.

It's only been a week I have started working. Menial and underpaid. All I do is wake up. Log in. Click. Click. Click. Type some. Click some more. Update your lead. Click some more. Log out. Lie on bed dreading about tomorrow's clicking. Sleep. Wake up and repeat. I feel as life I'm going to spend the rest of my life sitting at a desk alternating my day dreams between traveling and writing about the world and killing myself. Though, I can only daydream about them since I do not have the guts to do either. It's only been a week I have started working and I can't do this anymore. The moment I start working, I am reminded of my failures and inability to achieve what I had dreamt. All the dreams, hopes, desires and goals I had built for this year, all just shattered. And, I don't think I can take this failure. My bdy is ready to pop off. There is a ball of guilt in my throat which doesn't let me eat. Every moment I just wish I hadn't dreamt about all of that, so the failure and rejection wouldn't hurt so much. I had a life crafted in my head, my wings spread, flying around the world. But, nothing of the sort happened. I am stuck here, between this wobbly table and my side of the bed. With my mother, on the other side of the bed, breathing down my neck. With my father, near the door, keeping me chained. I wish I could leave everything behind and run away and breathe some fresh air. But, it's been months I have seen the sun. Every day, I sit and think. What was so wrong with me? Why did I get rejected? Is there something so repulsive about me?

God, I feel so stuck. Stickily stuck. So stuck that I cannot even get up and walk out of this room. Just stuck here in this sticky liquid of fear and lethargy. I just coddle and comfort myself by thinking this is the waiting room. Something is waiting for me outside this and when the time comes, my life will become a land of beautiful fields. Deep down, I know it is not real. Rather, it is a waiting room for death. And, not a very great waiting room, I must say.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 31st May 2023

Waitlist Expires Today; No Offer - Feeling Low

I was waitlisted in late March, and I waited for a response. But, I didn't receive any. But today's the day; the waitlist expires, and no offers will be given anymore after this. Although, by the beginning of March, I knew I had no hope and had given up and accepted it as a rejection. I have already made up my mind to apply again next year and have accepted a job. I still feel very low and sad. After I was interviewed, I really felt like I had a chance. Anyway, it's just today, and then officially, the portal will close, and I will just have to wait and improve myself until the next session's application portal opens. I just thought people here would understand this emotion because my family and friends are not very receptive or enthusiastic about my grad applications. Just a vent. Thanks.

 

- Oizys.

Peeling Rusty Layers: Trying To Unveiling the Uncharted Realities Within

I would like to begin by mentioning my credentials as a fellow dissosiate. I have been dissociating for as long as I can remember. I would play with toys to show my parents, but underneath, I would be pretending to live some other life. At first, I felt enigmatic. I felt like I had the magical power to take myself on a journey wherever I could. I was building this labyrinth-like maze around me. I found a refuge deep within the walls of this intricate labyrinth and lost myself in the complicated maze from the chaos and confusion around me. It became my sanctuary, a place where I could retreat and find solace in the midst of overwhelming emotions or external pressures. The more I dissociated, the more elaborate and intricate my labyrinth grew. Each twist and turn represented a coping mechanism, a defence mechanism that shielded me from the harsh realities I struggled to comprehend.

But as I grow older, I realise that my labyrinth, while once a source of comfort, has become a barrier that isolates me from genuine connections and authentic experiences. It was as if I had built an impenetrable fortress around myself, preventing others from truly seeing me and, in turn, impeding my ability to fully engage with the world around me. I touch my knee, and I feel a jolt within myself. Whose is it? I cannot recognise my face in the pictures. Who is she? Every time I wake up for sleep, I feel like I have been teleported into a completely different world. I feel as if I have forgotten my mother tongue. In the labyrinth of my mind, fragments of melodies linger, wisps of forgotten conversations that evoke a longing for a language I can no longer grasp. It is as if a veil has been cast, obscuring the words that once flowed effortlessly from my lips. The food feels foreign in my mouth. The taste of my mother's comforting meals, once a symphony of love and nourishment, now feels like a distant memory slipping through my fingers. The once-beloved dishes now seem distant, their flavours veiled in a thin shroud of unfamiliarity. I chew chilli peppers after chilli peppers and cry my eyes out, yet I feel no spice.

Now, I try to navigate my way out. It is not easy, as every wall and corridor has memories, emotions, and fears carved deep into them that I have tucked away. But, I think, the real hindrance is confronting the underlying causes of my dissociation—the wounds that led me to seek refuge in the labyrinth. It is hurtful. The core reason is hidden somewhere deep. And it is wrapped with layers and layers of woolgathering. It is painful as I try to navigate and unwrap. It feels like I am scraping off the rusty layers of derealized lives to give birth to my reality. Ever pulled out a dry tampon? Yeah, that's what this feels like. So uncomfortable. So difficult. Skin-wrenching. A completely unused life. But the conundrum is that even if I successfully pull it out, I can never reuse it, right? Think about it. I will spend months and years peeling off all these fake identities to embark upon a realisation pilgrimage—a quest to reconnect with the actualities that formed the foundation of my identity—only to find out I have no countable experiences in my real life as a contrast to my fantasies, where I have lived a wide range of characters, lives, and universes in my own metaverse. With each layer shed, I am forced to reckon with the profound absence of tangible experiences, genuine relationships, and a solid sense of self. The time spent lost in my dissociative metaverse has left me with a fragmented timeline, where the milestones of childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood slip through my grasp like sand through clenched fists. While I find out this new fact, I will have lost time as well. With my childhood, teenhood, and half of the twentyhood already eschewed by psycheclipse, I will be left with an infant in an adult body who has lost a chunk of sentience.

I fall back into bed. Tired and wounded. I scrape off the rust and chip away at this oxidised facade, leaving reality in my palms. It looks like a weak, crying baby—red-faced, marked with spots of uncertainty and fragility. And I am a tired mother who is suddenly thrust into this duty to nurture and care for this fragile and broken soul, offering solace and comfort as she navigates the path of self-discovery and healing.

Random Diary Entry - 18th May 2023

Officially rejected from every uni this year!

Well. Done and dusted. Rejected from every university this cycle. I have no energy, no patience, and no hope left. I'm tired of people around me packing their bags and updating their lives. I hate that I can't be happy for them because all these rejections have filled me up with self- hatred. Every time someone gives me sympathy or a positive message, I feel enraged. Feels like platitudes. Then I feel guilty about feeling enraged because deep down a part of me knows, they mean well. I need to find a job. Job rejections are kicking me when I am already down. Shit hell. I wish I could disappear.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 23 April 2023

Successfully completed one month on the waitlist

I waited for three months for an interview. Then I waited a month for a result. Got waitlisted. Today marks the completion of one month on the waitlist. Life in the waiting room is weird. I feel so stuck. As if I cannot move forward. It is like restless patience.

 

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 23: Echoes of the Abandoned Library

Prompt: Write a poem of your own that has multiple numbered sections. Attempt to have each section be in dialogue with the others, like a song where a different person sings each verse, giving a different point of view. Set the poem in a specific place that you used to spend a lot of time in, but don’t spend time in anymore.

1: Lost Pages

In the Reticence Library, a sanctuary of books,
Where pages whispered with knowledge's looks,
I wandered, lost in the words' embrace,
In a haven of wisdom, a sacred place.

2: Dusty Shelves

But now, the shelves are dusty and bare,
The silence echoes, a poignant affair,
The books once cherished, now forgotten,
Gather dust, their stories begotten.

3: Echoes of Youth

I hear the echoes of my youthful mind,
As I roamed the aisles, curious and kind,
Immersed in stories, in worlds unknown,
The library, my refuge, a place to own.

4: Vanished Librarian

The librarian, with a smile so warm,
Guiding me through each literary norm,
Now a memory, a faint recollection,
Of a time when books were my connection.

5: Treasured Memories

Oh, how I miss those hours spent in awe,
Flipping pages, without a flaw,
The smell of old paper, the touch of ink,
A treasure trove of stories, a gateway to think.

6: Empty Chairs

The chairs and tables, where I used to sit,
Lost in words, bit by bit,
Now lie empty, a nostalgic sight,
A reminder of a time so bright.

7: Legacy of the Library

The library, once my second home,
Now stands abandoned, a memory to roam,
But the lessons learned, the stories told,
Still linger, as my mind unfolds.

8: Guiding Light

The knowledge gained, the dreams inspired,
In that library, where my heart aspired,
A legacy left, a beacon of light,
Guiding me, even in the darkest night.

9: Farewell

So, I bid farewell to that cherished place,
With gratitude, love, and a solemn grace,
For the memories made, the lessons learned,
In that abandoned library, forever yearned.

- Oizys.