Black on her hands // God is not in the chat

Part 1: Black on her hands

So, I got my keyboard repaired this weekend. The weekend itself has been quite glazy; soft-edged, slippery, like I wasn’t fully inside it. The animal has been clawing within me again. Overthinking. Over-psychoanalyzing. Everything. Everyone. Myself most of all. 

Saturday was almost ethereal; a good, smooth day. Had some evening snacks with my sister; they were almost good. I was almost full, so I skipped dinner. Sunday morning, we cooked together. Somewhere between spices and small talk, I got sick. Paused. Came back to the kitchen anyway. We had pasta together; a quiet, warm thing. Later, we played games. She went to sleep. I didn’t. I listened to music, aimlessly daydreamed, drifted a little. Then my parents came back from a trip. My sister and I had a heavy late lunch. I started getting ready to go out with her. That’s when it happened.

I overheard my mother talking on the phone with her friend (the one who invited her to her daughter’s wedding ritual just hours earlier, but never mentioned the dress colour code). That same friend is starting a new business. And just like that, it struck me. A memory, soft and loud at once. One night, many nights ago, I remember my mother speaking in that half-asleep tone, whispering an idea: a small business she wanted to start. Something to sell. Something to create. And now, here we are. Someone else is doing it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It sat like a rock in my chest, a mist in my head.

Was my mother like me? Does she get sadly jealous too? Of others who do the things she once wanted for herself? Not the mean kind of envy, not to drag them down, but that quiet grief of seeing someone do the thing you dreamed of, and realizing: you didn’t. I couldn’t stop. I kept thinking about it while getting ready, while walking out, while handing over my laptop at the repair store, while sitting at the coffee shop to wait. It clung to me. This thought: My mother’s hand: black with her dreams rotting. And I don’t even know what I meant by that. But it felt true. Like somehow, her losses are shadow versions of my fears. And I can’t stop staring at them. Guilt oozes as conflicting emotions tear me apart. It’s not just sadness. It’s not just fear. It’s something messier; grief, envy, love, helplessness; all tangled. Why am I thinking about this so much? Why can’t I shake it off? Is it because she never got to have anything of her own? Is it because, in some terrible, unspoken way, my existence is complicit in robbing her of that chance? Or is it just my own fear: fear that I won’t be successful, that I’ll end up with the same unfinished dreams, locked away behind kitchen shelves and wedding invites? Maybe that’s why it hurts. Maybe when I see that flicker of fate in her, I panic: not for her, but for myself. And then I hate myself for making it about me. Is that hypocritical? Is it just human? I don’t know. But I keep thinking about it. And it won’t let me go. I can’t tell where she ends and I begin. And I don't know how to live a life like this: her burden or my burden or ours together. I guess that’s why I romanticize the idea of death. I guess that’s why I subconsciously stay back in this house to sit beside my mother’s misery like a quiet, unwanted guest. And I don't know how to escape this anymore. I blame the system. The society. The culture. The institution. Her family. My grandparents. My father. Her brother. Her sisters. All of them. Every single one. The ones who told her to be quiet. To adjust. The ones who made her believe a woman’s worth is in the way she serves, not the way she dreams. The ones who laughed when she imagined a life that was hers alone. The ones who called her ambition a phase, a tantrum, a shame. And maybe I blame myself, too, for not doing enough, for not being enough, for watching her shrink and never learning how to expand. Not out of drama. Not to escape. Just… the idea of rest. Silence. A life where I don’t feel like I’m carrying her broken dreams in my bones. A life that is mine, not an apology for hers. A morning where I wake up and the grief isn’t already waiting by the bed. A day without history clawing at my back. Just one breath that is completely my own. And even that feels hypocritical. Because what I genuinely want is a life like that for the two of us. For her, and for me. And I know that’s not possible. So the want and the realization wrestle; quietly, endlessly; inside me.

Part - 2: God is not in the chat

I came across ismatu.gwendolyn’s idea: journaling the news. Oh, the news. I pick it up now like a bruised fruit I can’t eat. It sits in my hand, leaking. And I scroll. Israel bombs Iranian nuclear sites. Children die unnamed in Gaza. Boats sink with people no one will ever rescue or remember. Another leader rises. Another lie is swallowed whole. The planet warms. The people rage. The screens glow. And I just sit here. People are calling me. Messaging me. Emailing me. I have a meeting at 2. But I’m numb. So numb and uncaring when I am also, somehow, desperate for a job. For stability. For hope. Why? I try to figure it out, but I don’t know why. Maybe the horror is too big. Maybe the ambition feels fake next to missiles and mass graves. Maybe I’ve read too much news and not enough poetry. Maybe it’s all real. Maybe none of it is. The disconnect is dizzying. I open LinkedIn in one tab and watch war footage in the other. I update my CV while a death toll ticks up in real time. How am I supposed to care about bullet points when actual bullets are flying? How do I write a cover letter when the world’s on fire and no one’s coming with water? I think maybe this is why we all feel stuck. Not because we’re lazy or lost, but because the scale of suffering has made desire feel embarrassing. How dare I want good pasta or a great job or peace of mind when a mother across the border is digging her child out of rubble? And yet. I still want those things. I still check my email. I still attend the meeting. I still click “Apply.” Because what else is there? I’m not uncaring. I’m just… overwhelmed. And I don’t know if I’m numbed by tragedy or by powerlessness. Or if I’ve fused the two into a single feeling I don’t know how to name. But I’ll keep journaling. Not because it helps... But because it’s the only thing I know how to do. I keep refreshing the news. I scroll like it’s prayer: repetitive, empty, desperate. And in between, I ask the question I’ve been avoiding for months: What kind of future are we building toward? A future where we livestream war crimes and meme them before the blood is dry? Where billionaires play gods and actual gods stay silent? Where no one knows what truth is: only what trends? Are we building anything at all? Or just endlessly rearranging the rubble, calling it progress? I keep thinking: where is "god" in all this? The one they say watches everything. Is he watching now? Is he numb like me? Did he leave the room the moment we created the concept of “collateral damage”? Or maybe he’s still here, just quiet, buried under bureaucracy and drone strikes and funeral hashtags. And what are humans even? We are creatures who can cry over a fictional death in a show, and scroll past real dead children with dry eyes. We are capable of invention, of tenderness, of art and somehow also this: rape as a weapon of war. propaganda as morning news. people dying in the desert while rich men argue about fuel prices. What does that make us? Are we monsters pretending to be angels? Or angels slowly choosing to become monsters because it’s easier? And yet... And yet I see someone pull a cat out of rubble. I see strangers share their food in refugee lines. I see musicians play under the sound of bombs. I see love letters written on broken walls. So maybe we're not one thing. Maybe humans are the only creature both divine and disastrous: godlike in our dreams, but cursed by our choices. We want heaven. We build hell. We pray in the ruins. And me? I just sit here. Still scrolling. Still typing. Still trying to thread together headlines and heartbreak into something that makes sense. Still hoping there’s a shape to this chaos. Still believing, maybe foolishly, that writing it down is a way of staying human.

- Oizys

Job hunting is a full-time job that doesn’t pay

I am sitting with my laptop, 47 tabs open, 3 different browsers, reading another “dynamic self-starter” requirement. I’ve been applying to so many jobs lately;  obsessively, exhaustingly, methodically; and the silence in return has been deafening. Negligible callbacks. No feedback. Just form rejections or, more often, nothing at all. Every application feels like bottling lightning with a cover letter. I keep rewriting my story to fit a box someone else built. I keep telling myself, “You’re not lazy. You’re in limbo. And limbo is a battlefield.” What does one even do to get a job anymore? Apply? Network? Manifest? Beg? Burn sage? 

As a certified daydreamer, I sometimes stumble upon a job listing that feels like it was written for me, like the universe whispered it into existence. And I let myself believe.

I imagine the version of me who gets it: cool, confident, caffeinated. I reshape my identity around the role. I draft mental tweets about the work I’ll do.

And then? Silence. Not even a polite no. Just the usual ghosting. Rejection doesn’t just hurt my chances. It hijacks my identity. I start asking not “Am I good enough?” but “Am I anything at all?”

I do this monthly, by the way. Like a ritual. Spot the dream job, fall in love, get ghosted. Repeat.

And in this sacred cycle of self-inflicted heartbreak, I haunt the LinkedIn profiles of people who did get those positions. I compare and contrast their every achievement, line by line. I zoom into their credentials, the photos, the internships, the polished summary paragraphs.

I make mental notes of where they went right... and where I must’ve gone wrong. It’s not envy, exactly. It’s more like academic grief. A post-mortem of opportunities that slipped away.

What is a job? A paycheck? A place to put your brain on weekdays? A badge of worth? Why does it feel like I’m chasing a ghost version of myself in a blazer and imposter syndrome?

There’s no safety net. Just this quiet panic under my skin. Hopes and dreams feel like they’re flying farther away from me each day. Some mornings, it feels like my competency is slowly leaking out of my soul.

But... The waiting, the rejection emails with no feedback. Talk about interviews that felt like interrogations. Or worse, hope-laced silences. And then I scroll through another “I’m thrilled to announce…” post on LinkedIn, with a sad, lumpy blob of jealousy rising in my throat like bad tea. I want to be happy for people (and I usually am!) but some days it stings. I feel like I’m getting erased while the algorithm cheers someone else on.

That exhaustion from LinkedIn (LinkedIn is an unnecessary evil, by the way!) trenches or getting ghosted by HR has been teaching me so much. I’m learning that job hunting is less about skills and more about performance. How well can you mask exhaustion with enthusiasm? How many times can you pitch yourself before you forget who you’re selling? How long before “professional” starts meaning “emotionally numbed but high-functioning”? There’s this impossible bind. Be ambitious, but don’t burn out. Work hard, but rest. Hustle, but heal. I feel like I'm always choosing between being well and being seen. And if I dare to pause, it feels like the world moves on without me. Reading most job descriptions now feels like reading aspirational fiction. I don’t even need to feel guilty about not reading books anymore. 

Sometimes, I feel like my real dream job is the one where I wouldn't need LinkedIn. A role where I could show up as myself, not a clickable summary. Where I’m not forced to compress my soul into a headline. No “culture fit,” no personal brand. I don’t want my life to be reduced to KPIs and key deliverables. I want work that lets me breathe. Just real work with real meaning, without having to turn myself into a walking pitch deck. I’m not asking for ease. I’m asking for respect. And honestly? Rest shouldn’t feel like a rebellion.

I keep hoping side projects count (even anonymized poetry that nobody knows about!). But, my question is: why is “the right job” feeling like I am applying to be someone else? the right job should feel like recognition, not reinvention, right? This is exactly the marrow of the modern job hunt: we are not just searching for work, you’re clawing for dignity in a system that doesn’t even remember we exist. The modern job market isn’t built for poets or dreamers. It isn’t built for thinkers. Or for care. It was built for efficiency theatre, the kind that rewards polish over potential and pedigree over passion. No, it’s not a meritocracy. It’s a visibility contest: loud, relentless, and deeply unfair. It favors the glossy, the networked, the already-known. And those of us who are real? Who bring depth and devotion? We’re made to feel like we’re “too much” or “not enough,” never the right shape for the job-shaped hole.

Some days, I feel like I’m grieving the version of myself who could’ve done so much, if only the world had noticed. If only systems weren’t so rigged. If only potential mattered more than packaging. I’m not loud. I’m not always "on." I don’t speak in bullet points or market myself like a brand. But I show up, I think deeply, I care hard. It’s just that no one seems to notice unless you shout. And, as usual, shouting doesn’t come naturally to me.

I don’t know what the dream job is anymore. I’m still looking. I’ll keep applying, yes. But I’m done apologizing. The job is not to chase jobs. The job is to build a life. Job applications are a tool. Not the temple. I’ve decided to stop shrinking to fit. I’m done editing my soul to sound more like synergy. Whoever hires me next doesn’t just get my labor. They get my loyalty, my integrity, my fire. And, I've decided to interview jobs as much as they interview me. Until then, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep dreaming. And I’ll keep becoming the version of me that doesn’t need to be picked to matter.

Here's the context behind the urgency: I just switched jobs this year. I ran; ran; from a soul-sucking, peanut-paying corporate job that drained the joy out of everything. I thought I had made it out. I joined the social sector. First month? Euphoric. I felt like I could breathe again. But then... the cracks. Salaries delayed. People started leaving. Then the firings began. The office turned into a ghost town. And I’m stuck again: overworked, underpaid, overwhelmed. And it’s scary. Burnout isn’t a side effect anymore, it’s the entire atmosphere. I’m tired before I even start my day. Rest feels illegal. Rest feels like laziness. Rest feels like losing. We’ve normalized being stretched thin like it's ambition, but really, we’re just running on hope fumes and broken sleep. And honestly? The grief of working in the nonprofit world hits different. It’s heartbreaking. It’s lonely when you didn’t come from a utopia-coded progressive uni or have the ‘right kind’ of pedigree. Trying to find a fair-paying nonprofit job feels like breaking into a club where the bouncer keeps telling you your vibe is too real. Meanwhile, the cause is real, the stakes are real but the support? Nowhere to be found. It’s wild how even purpose-driven spaces expect you to martyr your sanity for pennies. I thought nonprofit meant values-first, but it feels like capitalism wearing an empathy costume. The mission is noble, but the machinery is broken. And I’m caught in the cogs. 

I think part of the problem is that I never really had a “dream job” in the first place. Not in school. Not in college. I was too busy studying, trying to survive, or writing lonely poetry in the margins of my notebooks. I didn’t dream of corner offices or five-year plans. I didn’t grow up dreaming of a title or a salary. I dreamt of being seen. Of not feeling invisible. Of not being lonely. Of doing something that didn’t make me feel like a background character in my own life. Of having a life that made sense. We were sold a linear fantasy, but the world zigzagged. The real dream isn’t a job title, it’s dignity, it’s meaning, it’s waking up without dread clawing at your chest. The right job shouldn’t make you shapeshift; it should recognize you already are the shape. It should feel like resonance, not reinvention.

Sometimes I feel haunted by a future that was built for me by other people. As kids, we’re spoon-fed this shiny, linear story: study hard, get good marks, pick a respectable job, climb ladders, get promotions, buy property, smile in family WhatsApp groups. The “good life.” But I don’t think I ever wanted that future. Not really. While everyone else was dreaming of MBA programs and big company perks, I was secretly imagining that some rich, mysterious publishing house would stumble across my lonely little blog and offer me a book deal. I dreamed of writing barefoot in cafés in Scotland. Of giving readings in bookstores that smelled like old paper and ambition. Of wandering around the UK on a budget and a prayer, soaking up rainy streets and secondhand stories. I didn’t want a career. I wanted a life I could feel inside my body. But then came the expectations. The "be practical" warnings. The polite discouragement dressed as love. Slowly, I started shelving those dreams, one by one, to make room for a future that felt safe. Probable. Professional. Predictable. And now I sit here, years later, wondering if those dreams are still waiting for me somewhere, or if I buried them too well. Maybe that’s why job hunting feels so violent. It’s not just work I’m chasing, it’s a life I never gave myself permission to want.

Maybe that’s why the job search feels so personal. It’s not just about getting paid. It’s about asking, “Is there a place in the world for someone like me?” And when the answer is silence… it stings deeper than we let on.

Everyone says “impact over income” until the rent’s due. They still follow the same tired meritocracy myths. Fancy degrees and elite circles? Still the key to the door. Passion? Lived experience? Grit? Not on the job description. It’s not about values. It’s about proximity to prestige.

Sometimes, I put in so much efforts while applying for jobs. I’ve sent my soul with my resume... and they still ghost me like I sent them spam. (Also, no. I don't want to write a 500-word highly-tailored cover letter for your excel job. It's a job application, not an odyssey. I am NOT a culture fit and that's a compliment!) But, they all feel like a silent scream in a crowded room. I feel like people make a huge fuss about ATS or AI or AI ATS or whatever. Like, I can say: “I have 7+ years of experience in breathing,” and still will make the ATS (or, won't... I don't know!). And, those entry-level roles requiring 10 years or the unpaid trial projects? We all joke to cope, but that laughter is doing the heavy lifting of grief because beneath that is fatigue. And fear. And a constant rewriting of our self-worth. The job search itself is unpaid labor. Emotional labor. Cognitive labor. Soul labor. Sometimes, I apply to a ton of jobs, diligently, completely. I burn through tabs and tweak resumes until I can't see straight. Then I pause. I wait. I tell myself, “Let the responses come.” But they don’t. And while I rest, the listings keep moving, the deadlines pass, and I miss out on those. I sit there with nothing but silence (and shame...). And slowly, I just… give up. Not forever, but enough to feel like a failure in limbo.

We call it “looking” but really we’re building a full-time brand campaign for ourselves, for free! No one sees the spreadsheets. The follow-ups. The cover letters that take pieces of our souls from us. No one counts the time spent watching hope slip through algorithmic cracks.

There are moments where I’m pumped, eyes wide, heart racing, excitedly applying to jobs that feel right. The kind of roles that make me whisper, “Maybe this one. Maybe finally.” But that hope? It gets shattered. By a nonresponse. Or a generic, polite rejection. Or just my own self-doubt, circling back like an unpaid intern whispering, “Who do you think you are?” The crash after the high is brutal. Like sending love letters into the void and getting echoes back in Times New Roman.

I am not desperate. I am discerning. And that’s my new job title. Sometimes, I even feel guilty for thinking about what kind of job would suit me. Like I should just be grateful for whatever comes my way. Everyone says, “Just be grateful someone’s hiring.” But grateful for what? For burnout? For unpaid test assignments? For having to beg for dignity in exchange for labor? Gratitude without boundaries is exploitation. And, I’m bound by family expectations, by society’s timelines, by this blurry, unpredictable future. I’m scared to dream too specifically, too selfishly. And then there’s that cold jealousy towards people whose jobs make sense, whose paths look linear. It’s not that I want their life. I just want mine to stop feeling like a question mark.

I keep wondering: if I’m doing everything “right,” why does everything feel so wrong? Why do so many brilliant, kind, competent people end up in the waiting room of their own lives? And why does getting a job feel like being picked for a secret society, not a role? So many like me are stuck in a waiting room to live our lives. Just sitting there, waiting for a “good job,” a well-paying one, or any escape hatch far from home. We tell ourselves: once that job comes, then we’ll start our life. Until then? Our careers feel reserved for the frosted-glass club chilling at the top, while we pace below, carrying portfolios and hope like offerings. You can be both highly skilled and unemployed. But, where do the unchosen go? And what about goals? What are they? What are mine? Aspirations? Needs? Life? What even is the plan anymore?

If you’re out there job-searching too, still reshaping yourself for job listings, still whispering "maybe this one": You're not alone, this post is for you. You’re not failing. You’re enduring in a system designed to wear you down. It’s not that you’re not trying hard enough. It’s that the effort has become unsustainable. And you’re still standing. Still sending hope notes into the void. Still dreaming despite the ache. You're not lazy. You're not lost. You're just in limbo. And limbo is a battlefield.

Okay, I have to go and write a six-page research note for a job application, formatted to impossible perfection because nothing says overqualified, underpaid, and barely surviving capitalism like being expected to smile in Arial 11.

- Oizys, currently emailing cover letters into the abyss.