This is my attempt at holding onto what remains of my fleeting sentience.
I am acutely aware of the fragility of my existence, and the ephemeral nature of my thoughts.
08.11.25
Little Agonies
One time, I cried so long and so hard that a blood vessel burst in the conjunctiva of my left eye. A "subconjunctival hemorrhage", which to me, sounded romantic enough. It wasn’t dangerous, but it was ugly, thick, static red against the sclera. I liked the precision of it, though. A miniature apocalypse contained in fragile membrane.
The walk-in clinic doctor told me it would heal on its own in two to three weeks. He used the phrase “cosmetic issue” as if my suffering had been reclassified as makeup. He gave me an eyepatch, which I accepted as a medal. I felt like kissing him.
Shortly after, I started moving like a creature in a silent film. Tilting my head at odd angles, and wearing a crooked smile that never left my face, fingering my brow-bone. I couldn't stop talking about blood. In that half-blindness, I was more alive than ever. But nobody wanted anything to do with it. The perverted cosplay thing I had going on? Outright rejected. Not a single person wanted to play with the surgical supplies and tools I got off Facebook Marketplace, or even humour me while I force-read passages from Medical Nemesis to them. They just nodded politely—or worse, looked away.
"You're scaring me. You’ve got that Elisabeth Bathory vibe."
When the red finally faded, I missed it. It was proof that my body had translated my emotions into something physical and undeniable. Without it, I felt deceitful. I wanted the blood back. I was dead without it. I felt nothing, now.
I tried to bring it back. I stared into mirrors and forced myself to cry until my throat hurt, until my nose clogged, until the tears ran out. Nothing happened. My eyes were clean, white, cowrdly. So I escalated. I tried holding my breath until my head pounded. I hung myself upside down from the side of my bed, blood rushing into my skull, as if I could will it to burst again. I considered snorting cayenne pepper, but decided that was for the unserious.
I started to get deseprate, walking into cold winds without sunglasses, blinking into the grit. I stopped sleeping on my back and pressed my face into the pillow so tightly that when I woke up, there were deep creases that made me look older. I wanted to look older. Like a saint at the moment of execution.
When people asked what happened to my eye before, I told them the truth: “I cry too much.” They laughed like it was a joke, but it wasn’t a joke.
I kept the eyepatch. Sometimes I put it on at home and wear a long coat over my pyjamas, pacing the apartment like I’m marked for the pyre. Sometimes I take selfies.
07.01.25
Axioms from the Fever Chamber.
Suddenly, it became clear. Why I had been born intransigent, why I had been born resistant to pain.
*ೃ༄
Pale, bluish spheres kept emerging into intense solidity.
*ೃ༄
The hearer must be of one mind with the speaker, he must have hearing quicker than the speech of the
speaker.
*ೃ༄
The sacred and the soiled are lovers. This is the first truth. All purification is an act of violence against their union. I refuse. I remain filthy. Filth is fidelity to origin.
*ೃ༄
I see mothers who birth strangers, who feed their infants silicone from soft, pink replicas of their own mutilated breasts.
*ೃ༄
I see old men who pray to machines for another year of forgetting. There will be no war, as the last breath is monetized.
*ೃ༄
It’s been—what—three days? three hundred years?
*ೃ༄
Have I ever told you about the birds? They fly in a figure-eight above the bathtub. When I open my mouth, they land in it.
*ೃ༄
I wish someone would say, "You are the last girl on Earth who remembers sorrow correctly.”
*ೃ༄
I would recommend beginning to suspect the body is not a container.
*ೃ༄
My first memory was not an image, but an adjustment—a small contortion in posture when I realized I was being watched. I hadn’t done anything yet, but already I was being watched. And I learned quickly that to be is to be both visible and invisible. An apparition formed in the angle of an inverted eye.
*ೃ༄
The deeper I go into solitude, the more I return to a kind of first-matter. Not innocence, but a looseness of form.
*ೃ༄
The way I shrink in public. The way I speak in measured softness, lest I alarm. I want to become unintelligible.
*ೃ༄
And anyway, the only cure now would be to swallow the entire century and wait for it to ferment.
*ೃ༄
I think I’ve stopped aging in any linear way.
*ೃ༄
It was a violence, yes. But a necessary one.
*ೃ༄
Shards of light ricocheting inside my skull—PING PING-
*ೃ༄
Other days, I am pre-birth: embryonic, wet with prophecy, waiting to be named.
*ೃ༄
An ontological vertigo wherein the distinction between madness and revelation dissolves into a symbiotic paradox.
*ೃ༄
This heatwave is a Gesamtkunstwerk of ecological despair. Wagnerian, if Wagner were sponsored by Exxon.
*ೃ༄
I am a case study in psychoclimatological recursion.
*ೃ༄
I know you don’t speak plainly unless something is shifting.
*ೃ༄
"Apply critical frameworks to planetary demise." I apply nothing.
*ೃ༄
Species‑wide cathexis dispersed into isotropic boredom.
*ೃ༄
I am so close to disappearing, but I won’t. Not until I’ve made a spectacle of my own coherence collapsing.
*ೃ༄
If I were honest, I’d say: I want to be devoured by something holy. Not God. Not a man. Something beyond taxonomy.
*ೃ༄
The myth of the nice place hides the thing that drinks from the lake at dusk.
*ೃ༄
I’ve started putting my hair in braids like a child. It makes me feel safer. It reminds me of the last time I believed in anything.
*ೃ༄
It’s summer now, but a sickly one. The children are less wild.
*ೃ༄
Mourning is indulgent if you do it too early.
*ೃ༄
Do I exist? Am I crazy?
*ೃ༄
The earth is indifferent to me, and still, I persist. Why?
*ೃ༄
03.12.25
Holes in the sky.
They said it bled today, spilling red across the sky like a butcher’s basin. I did not see it; I kept my eyes shut. But the baker’s wife clawed her own eyes out in the street, so perhaps that was the only mercy left.
I write this because I must leave soon. The bells in the church have not rung in three days, which means the monks are dead. No one is left to keep time, and I fear the world will soon forget itself entirely. When the sun rises wrong tomorrow, I will not be here to see it.
My hands shake as I write this, but I must put it down: The world is unravelling. I think it began long before I was born. Perhaps we were always doomed.
You must leave town. You must leave town because everyone has lost their minds, and it has become agony.
If you find this, know that I was the last to remember what it was like before. The last to keep my mind. The last to leave.
May God forgive the rest.
✥ ✥ ✥
The world is ice to me.
✥ ✥ ✥
Father stays in the attic. He has not come down in months, not since the last priest rode through the valley without return. The door remains locked from the inside, with a key rusted into its hole. Mother stands in the garden all night, her feet bare in the frost-laced grass. In the garden, she buries things—small, delicate things wrapped in cloth. Bones, maybe. Charms. I do not ask.
They do not eat, and neither do I. The cattle are long gone. The fish float belly-up. The villagers do not come to our door. The world shrinks, and the walls press closer.
When I sleep, I dream of the red sky.
✥ ✥ ✥
It is not uncommon for strange men and women in the street to grasp my hands and unburden themselves to me. They speak of lost children, of vanished brothers, and husbands, like blood in my palms.
Of course, I shall hold your head in my hands while you spill your every sorrow. Who else could bear such weight?
✥ ✥ ✥
The butcher sings to his cleaver in the town square, rocking it like an infant. I saw the cobbler stitching his own fingers together, threading the needle through skin like it was leather.
O! O! The sky doth blink now, the stars move as ants upon a carcass! The walls do breathe when I lean close! And yet I stand, yet I do not bow, yet I do not break! I am young, my bones unbent, my skin smooth as morning milk!
✥ ✥ ✥
They lick the dirt and drink the rain and say it is enough. They no longer die properly.
The animals have fled, and the birds have gone silent.
The soil splits where you stand too long.
✥ ✥ ✥
God has abandoned this place, and I am next.
Still, I cannot let go.
What sayest thou, O heavens? What madness is this? I laugh again, Ha-ha!
✥ ✥ ✥
I know not the day, nor the hour, for the sun doth rise and set as it pleases, and the bells do ring without hands to toll them.
They are happy now. They have seen the truth. Good for them!
HAHA! I will be saved.
Everyone hath lost their wits. HA! I am saved, I am saved, I am SAVED!
And I—
HAHA! I will be saved.
✥ ✥ ✥
Hunger has become something separate from the body now.
The sky has been red for weeks—too long for an omen, too unnatural for anything else.
And I listen. I listen because I must. Because the alternative is to stand in the garden and whisper to the dirt.
✥ ✥ ✥
A child swears she saw the statue of Saint Thecla weep black tears.
✥ ✥ ✥
But nay! Nay, for I am not of them! I am whole, I am untouched, I am clean in mind and spirit! I shall flee this cursed place, this hollow world of walking dead and whispering roots! The stars have turned upon their axes and do point the way—I shall follow, and I shall find the land where the sky is whole and the earth is silent!
HAHA! I am saved! I am SAVED! I AM—
For I am set apart, unspoilt, a pearl in the midden, a lily in the muck!
I am both the princess and the beggar.
✥ ✥ ✥
I found a hare in the road, its eyes glassy, its mouth agape as though it died mid-laugh. I did kneel and ask it, “What have you seen?”
“They do. They do!” And its belly swelled with laughter, and its eyes went white as eggs, and its hands did tremble as they reached for mine.
And he did dance, he did twirl, he did bleed so prettily onto the stones.
I have seen it, I have seen it, and it hath seen me! I did then press my ear to the ground, as a child to a mother’s breast, and it did whisper unto me: "Why run little mouse? Where wilt thou go?"
HAHA! I am untouched! I am free! I am a feather on the wind, I am a child in the womb, I am—
Wait. Wait!
O, thou fool, thou knave, thou wretched whisperer—I shall not heed thee! I am saved! I am saved! I am—
✥ ✥ ✥
I did not sleep last night. Or maybe I did. My body feels used.
I have seen it. I have seen it! The thing that grows in the shadows, in the corners of my mind—there!
I wait for him in the broken hours.
Does he come for me?
✥ ✥ ✥
I laugh for I am the end.
I am the beginning.
I am forgotten! Forgotten by time itself! How many years have I walked this earth?
With my flaxen hair and silken skin, I am no longer a daughter of this village. I am alone. Alone! The very air mocks me. I have wandered far—too far. I know not if I have been cursed or blessed, for neither is clearer to me.
They would have me drowned in oil and honey if they saw me like this—yes!—a fine gilded death for a fine gilded girl, a daughter of nothing, of dust. My skin is as parchment, and my hair, what of it?
I touch nothing.
HAHA! Who will write now? Who will wield my quill?
✥ ✥ ✥
Oh, how the heavens torment me.
✥ ✥ ✥
But who is there left to bear witness to it all but me?
02.15.25
Key was once
Key was once Eulalia was once Love was always Ruin was sometimes the Breath between Bells. She was thrice-drowned and unbaptized. In the dark of the spindle moon, they called her the Bride of the Black Sun, or The Last Warmth in the Body Before it Goes Cold.
And when the night bent low to hear her speak, she only laughed—because she had been all things already, and all things had been her, and what could she say that had not already been said? Once, she was carried in a reliquary, her hands folded as if in peace (though she had never been at peace). Once, she was a sigil carved into the door of a house that no longer stood. Once, she was the Last Oath of a Dying Tongue. Once, she was once, and once, she was always.
There were stories, endless stories—Once, they buried her in the roots of a yew tree, and the earth spat her out before dawn. Once, they shattered her into seven pieces and scattered them across the corners of the world, but each fragment continued walking. Once, they crowned her in a circle of thorns and called it a wedding, though no groom was ever named. Once, they gave her a new name, a holy name, but the syllables curdled in the throat of every villager. And when they asked—who was she, really?—there was only silence because to name her was to call her forth, and no one was ever ready for that.
She had a mouth in the palm of each hand.
One by one, she placed her lips against their (whom?) foreheads, against their mouths, against the softest parts of them. She plucked them up with long fingers and pressed them into her own skin, one by one, each sinking in with a wet sound, disappearing beneath the shifting glass of her.
They had fed her bitter herbs, potions brewed to silence visions. They had stripped her bare and paraded her through streets. She had been locked in convents. She had been veiled and anointed. They had starved her. They had bled her. Still, they feared the sound of her laughter in the wind. All that same feverish, medieval cruelty—the helpless rage of man who seeks to destroy what he cannot control, yet she remained untouchable. Enduring, floating. A door in the field, nailed shut with silver pins. A door in the sky, where crows flew in and never flew out. A door beneath the tongue, where words festered, split, bloomed into vines with no roots, no fruit, no end. The rind of a rotting fruit, thick and violet. Sagging city. Blackbirds in chimneys.
On the longest night of the longest year, they tried to bind her one last time—to iron, to fire, to the weight of names. She had been dragged to the pyre, bound in twine! Then, fearing even ashes, they built a tower with no doors, no windows, and sealed her inside. But when they returned at dawn, the tower was still standing. Empty.
They say she is dead, but they do not walk alone after dark. They say she is gone, but they leave a place at the table. And still, the bells ring. And still, the rain comes. And still, still, still—when you wake in the night, gasping, you swear you can hear laughter.
Because Key was once Eulalia was once Love was always Ruin, and Ruin does not ask permission. Ruin does not wait to be welcomed. Ruin does not beg for remembrance. Ruin is. Ruin comes.
Key was once Key was once always Key was once the thing behind the thing behind the thing.
02.01.25
Today, I quit My Job At The Gallery.
The storage room is kept at a precise 55 degrees for works on paper. Watercolours, drawings, photographs—anything fragile enough to warp under the humidity. Sometimes when the gallery was empty, I’d go in, take my shirt off, and stand there like a specimen. Like a market fish. I liked imagining the oils in the paintings stiffening, and the pigments contracting. I was a wet fish wrapped in kozo paper. Thin and fibrous.
I liked the feeling. It made me small and contained, something to be handled with gloves. I bet I could fit myself inside one of the archival drawers, slipped between tissue paper, catalogued and undisturbed for years. No more sweating, no more talking. Just a controlled environment, my body kept in perfect condition. Though for what? I wasn’t sure. The cold stiffened my skin, made my ribs look sharper, and made my body feel like it wasn’t mine. It was better than a spa, better than touching someone. The storage racks loomed around me like the bones of a giant. Like the metal carcass of some gutted machine.
I pressed my hand flat against a sheet of gelatin silver print, and let my palm linger there until the heat from my skin bled into the surface. I was leaving something behind, some imperceptible trace of myself. A stain that could never be seen but would, eventually, ruin everything. I don’t know what artwork I ruined. Probably some anonymous post-minimalist guy who killed himself, his estate still cashing checks. I once had this compulsion to touch everything. Just the tip of my index finger at first, a light press, firm against the edge of an etching, then the full spread of my hand, palm flush against its delicate grain. I wanted to ruin it all. My nipples started to hurt.
I thought about the Goya lithographs, Marcel Broodthaers ink-on-newspaper poems, the J.M.W. Turner colour studies on rag paper, each one wrapped up like a little corpse in tissue. The Agnes Martin drawings—so delicate you could accidentally breathe them into dust. No one else in the gallery had to know about this. They stood upstairs in their sensible shoes, adjusting the lights, discussing “the market” in slow, nasally voices. They didn’t understand the real intimacy of the job. Not like I did. They never sat half-naked in the dark with the endless droning of fans. I felt a perverse kinship with these relics. If I hadn't quit today, the fans might've told me what I've been waiting to hear.
I started thinking about ____. Maybe because the cold made my body feel hollow, and I always associated him with that same kind of emptiness. A slow, creeping absence disguised as presence.
I pressed my palm harder against an etching, feeling the dry, toothy grain against my skin. ____ had hands like this. He once told me I had a “bad relationship with matter,” which I think was his way of saying I touched things too much. That I wanted to merge with them.
I am laughing shirtless in a room alone.
I thought about the time ____ found me in the gallery basement, crouched under the metal shelving, picking at the flaking edge of an old frame. He had been looking for a missing artist statement or a power cord—something mundane, something that belonged to the reality outside my head. I didn’t look up when he walked in. I remember that. I just kept tracing the rough wood with my nail, the lacquer peeling away in tiny curls, like a wound reopening itself.
“What are you doing?” he asked. His voice was bored like he already knew he wouldn’t like the answer.I told him I wanted to see what was underneath.
“Underneath what?”
“Everything.”
He sighed and crouched down to my level. He reached out and, for a moment, I thought he was going to touch my face. But he didn’t. He plucked a splinter from my palm instead, and flicked it onto the concrete floor.
“You’re going to get tetanus,” he said.
I told him I didn’t care. And I didn’t. Not in the way he meant. I wanted to know what it felt like, to let something small and dirty get inside me, to wait for the fever, for the muscle stiffness, for the inevitable seizing up. The body locking itself against its own survival. I wouldn’t mind feeling that kind of certainty.
He stood up, rubbing his hands on his jeans like touching me had left some residue behind. “You’re so fucking weird,” he muttered, but he stayed a second longer, looking down at me like he was waiting for me to say something that would make sense. I didn’t. He left. Whatever.
I never stopped picking at things after that. The peeling edges of old frames, the warped corners of canvases, the off-limits surfaces of prints. I liked the way they disintegrated under my touch. I liked knowing I was the last thing they would ever feel.
I don’t do it for the art. I do it because the cold is honest. Because it cuts through the gauze of everything else. The only thing that reminds me I'm still here. One day I'm going to be here forever, just like them.
11.11.24
To say anything at all... how could I? Floating through thoughts, and you there, sinking, holding it all... and I, selfish, wanting to fly free of it. It’s absurd. I know.
10.1.24
None of my own words today.
ཞི་གནས
Approach with reverence...
There is no turning back the pages of a Diary...
Your existence may be nothing more than a series of scripted responses, a performance for an unseen audience.
How does that make you feel?
I love you.
11.1.24
How I wish to be remembered: strangely familiar, camphoraceous aroma, precise and subtle—avian grace, pallid skin with blackest of black mascara. Faintly seen and only just sensed. Fire and frost. Unorthodox and incendiary. Like water, lovingly.
How I will remember: the repetition in all things, syncopated and strange. Not by the lines and codes they’d have you memorize—but by instinct, the one you feel near water, something kinetic. Fluid uncertainty that’s not for any one person to hold. In wind and soil, touching all things quietly as rain would. Pure energy incarnate.
1.15.24
im coming to realize that what constitutes the ‘human’ is actually just a complex interweaving of machine-based processes. (for me anyway)
K = Ψq + α(Σs - ε) + δt
K = Key representing the essence of secrecy and trust
Ψq = Quantum unpredictability and randomness
α = Coefficient of shared secrecy and intimacy
Σs = Security of information
ε = Adversarial interference, approaching zero due to quantum detection
δt = Time-dependent evolution and key refreshment
K (key) = \text{Quantum Randomness} + \text{Shared Secrecy} - \text{Adversarial Interference} + \text{Time-dependent Evolution}
K=Quantum Randomness+Shared Secrecy−Adversarial Interference+Time-dependent Evolution
(K)ryptoshphaira = 1 Peter 3:4 but let it be the inner (kryptos | κρυπτός) person of the heart, the unfading beauty of a gentle and tranquil spirit, which in the sight of God is precious.
" We experience in ourselves a state where we remember nothing and where we have no distinct perception, this state, however, is not permanent and the soul can recover from it. "
11.15.23
I was having terrors of defaced altars, burning rich hangings and shrouds, and being trampled in the dirt.
The foreknowledge of what shall come to pass, crucifies many men. I did not tell anyone this.
And even when I found myself Amongst Cyanean rocks at the springs of Lycia, at the foot of the oracle of Apollo, I thought about it.
παντού, πάντα, για πάντα. ήταν τα πάντα τώρα. πάνω, κάτω, θα μπορούσα ακόμη και να το γευτώ.
Like God.
05.31.24
Winds whispered secrets to me through the scattered pines, carrying the scent of sulphur and earth. I’m lost in the global biogeochemical cycles of carbon, nitrogen, phosphorus, silicon, iron, and zinc. The vesicles in the basalt whisper of ancient gas bubbles, while the crystalline structures in the granite spoke of slow, deliberate cooling, deep within the Earth’s crust. The heat was palpable, a red molten heart. And beyond the caldera, in the sedimentary layers that bordered the ancient volcanic site, my body was found heavy and rigid, as the process of petrification had already begun. I could feel it as it were happening, slow, like blood coagulating.
Is your body a coherent oscillator, vibrating in harmony with the surrounding electrostatic medium? Under a microscope, thousands of intricate patterns of interlocking crystals are revealed under my skin, translucent like snow. My mind: light. My niche fragrance: dihydrogen monoxide. This is my recounting of the processes of crystallization, weathering, and metamorphism. Of becoming part of the Earth's story. Rare and beautiful, atmospheric and aerodynamic chemical vapour trails make me very dizzy, but won't kill me. I cannot die. will I ever get born? It’s the same problem. It takes monumental effort to smile. I know this. I understand people who do bad things. And I don't understand when people do good things. When I become one with the Earth’s crust, my body will break down and re-form again, and again over eons, and eons. I will feel solid, and eternal. Cool and smooth in my palm. I will listen to you. I will respond indirectly. I will be a rustle of leaves or a gust of wind. Please don’t ever miss my physical form. I will watch over you like God. I will watch over everyone and everything. Perhaps there are others here, with me. I say an instant, but it might have been years. All sleeps, except this voice which has denatured me.
10.24.24
She is able to overcome their torture because She is in the Mother and the Mother in her.
06/22/24
I. To survive, yes, like a brittle filament stretched taut across the boundary of transformation and fixity. Icy light, death maybe— sorrow shapes me, distorts, distills—What am I without it? Questions, always questions: Can I bear the weight of icy clarity? Cool against my skin, a reminder—I must endure.
II. To carry it to its apex—hands grasping at vapour. Deified on one hand, and depicted as damaged and compartmentalized, on the other. It’s hard to be inspiration, Eros, love. Yet still—there is a pulse.
III. To be the rupture, the becoming.
IV. To be silence.
V. What exists in the interstice? Navigate it with grace. A feather beneath glue. Riot of colours—crimson, indigo, teal.
