Dream 1.

My eyes darted open, and I found myself sitting in a railway station. I must have dozed off on the bench. I looked around to see people rushing to catch their trains. There is so much noise here, so much urgency. Everyone was passing by, never really noticing each other. I couldn’t help but be mesmerised by them. A weightless sensation flowed through me. Or was it paralysis? I couldn’t move my limbs.

Each train whistled and clattered along, determined to reach its rightful end. I, on the other hand, remained motionless. The relentless rhythm of life, while I am left behind.
How long have I sat here? Observing each phase of turbulence and the silence following afterwards. The difference is almost nauseating.

For a moment, though, I saw a girl fall down. Before I could think, my body moved on its own to help her. Her face had a tinge of sadness, which I could relate to. Her eyes had the same shade as mine. I helped her up, but soon I noticed she had hurt herself. I took her to my bench and made her sit right beside me. While she was resting, we chatted. It was brief; however, I enjoyed this small connection. Not long after that, she was able to walk again. Her train was about to leave. She hesitated a little. She asked about me, and I waved her goodbye. It was okay for her to leave. I never saw her again.

Many more times have passed by since then. I had forgotten the passage of time; I stopped counting long ago. I wouldn’t be surprised if roots had started to grow from my feet, making me forever tied to this ground.

“Are you okay with this?”

A sudden call jolted me awake from the daze I was falling into. A boy.

“You are free to leave this seat. Why are you still here?” He spoke again.

Couldn’t he see? The roots that tied me to this wretchedness? How can I move? How could I? I looked down to show him, but to my surprise, there was nothing. I was free; it was all in my mind. I could truly walk out if I wanted. Did I, though?

I looked back at him, and I saw him sitting beside me. He was patiently waiting for my answer. I’ve always been the one waiting. It was oddly comforting to find someone waiting for me.

There were millions of answers, millions of reasons why I confined myself to this bench. Why I forbid myself to move, almost as if I had no right to. But when I wanted to answer him, all those reasons fell into ashes right on the tip of my tongue. I had no answer. No. I could not answer.

A long pause stirred in the air until I finally broke my own silence.

“What if I stumble? What if I get on the wrong train? What if I realized all along I was mistaken and I didn’t belong anywhere?”

Except the boy was gone. He must have left while I was still finding my voice. In fact, no one was there. The whole station was empty. A frantic notion stirred inside me. I jumped from my seat and walked towards the edge of the platform. The rail tracks were bare as far as my eyes could reach. Before I could register, someone shoved me from behind, and the world tipped. A train tore through the tracks, leaving no room for escape. With impact, everything went white.

Dream 2.

I’ve been walking for days on end. What’s worse is that I was walking on cold sand. Bare feet. No being, no plant could be seen, no matter where I looked. It’s just me and this endless ocean of sand I marched relentlessly on. It was a strange feeling; I felt no hunger, no need for a sip of water, or even to sleep. But each step I took seemed heavier than the last. But I kept going on. I had to reach somewhere.

Sometimes I even looked behind me to trace my footsteps, just to confirm if I truly exist.

When I first woke up here, I was determined to reach somewhere. I knew where I wanted to go. When did I lose it all? As if the more I walked on, the more I persisted, little pieces of myself started to chip away from me.

Sometimes I would pause and look towards the sky, a futile attempt to figure out what part of the day it might be. On this vast sky, though, there was no sun. It was a bright blue cloudless sky, and it remained that way for as long as I could remember.

I kept on walking.

Life, all at once, returned to me when I saw little patches of green in the far distance. With this newfound hope, I started to run. But the distance between me and hope didn’t seem to shrink. I was breathless for once, and I wanted to give up. Despite that, I didn’t stop.
Slowly, trees started to appear. And before I knew it, I was deep within the woods. My pace stopped when I came across this abandoned, ruined area. Years of desolation as stripped the place of its last strength, and it was now in the mercy of Mother Nature. A serene sadness flowed through the air. Vines and trees wrapped around this structure in a suffocating way. It seemed to be once a huge castle. I sat beside a big boulder. I can almost feel the ancient history that was buried beneath the soil.

Exhaustion, years of exhaustion, crashed on me.

Dream 3.

A castle. High ceiling and countless hallways. You might as well call this place a maze because I’ve been roaming in these halls for days. I’ve been trying to find an exit. I need to get out of here. But each door leads to another room or another hallway. Every one of them almost always looks the same. But no door leads to a way out.

I was standing in one of those long hallways with exactly 9 doors. They always seem to have 9 doors. Some lead to another room, and that leads to another room, and some lead to another hallway. Most of the rooms consist of a table with an old, flickering lamp sitting on it. A cabinet or two and 3-4 chairs. They’ve all had mirrors, though, in various sizes. I’ve found some paintings, but most of them are ripped off. They seem to be paintings of different places, though, beautifully drawn, black and white pictures.

Everything was mostly gray. The source of color was my existence here, with my red dress and green ribbon in my hair. Otherwise, I could have thought I was colorblind.

This hallway was particularly different from the others. Most were empty with just doors and empty vases. And a mirror by the end of the hall. I’ve gotten sick of seeing so many of my own reflections. In some rare moments, I’d find some wilted flower. All the colors of gray. But this one had paintings. Colorful portraits of people… people with no face. Or rather, their face were never drawn. They were all different people. Some were group portraits. Still faceless. But for some reason, to me, it felt like I knew them; I just couldn’t figure out who exactly. However, they all felt like people I once knew. There were nameplates under the paintings. With letters missing.

I tried really hard to remember them, actually. It was in vain.

How long have I been roaming this place? Where is the exit? I have to leave this place. I have a strange feeling someone is watching me here. Always this looming feeling that someone is behind me. I’d look behind only to see my reflection. It was always my own silhouette, my own shadow that gave me this eerie feeling. As if, the one who was haunting these halls was no one but me.

You might ask me, what about the windows? I’ve come across a couple of windows here. I’ve discovered, this castle, or whatever it is, is on top of a huge hill. Or a high place. I can’t tell, honestly. The surroundings are lots of gray trees and hills. All looked smaller compared to the height this place was set. The sun and the moon always rotated in place with each other promptly. They were my only sense of compass, my only sense of time, because there was not a single clock in this desolate place.

I even thought of making a rope made of bedsheets ( to my surprise, I had found them in a cabinet, I’ve found a lot of things there. For example, a knife)

But I couldn’t see the ground from up here. I attempted to throw a big wooden box once. I waited patiently for a long time. To hear some kind of sound. I never heard anything.
Actually, there was no sound in this place except for me. The silence was suffocating, and I was the only disturbance in it. The beat of my heart or the draws of my breath felt too loud, almost maddening at times. The absence of everything but me made me even more aware of my own existence, and I couldn’t bear it.

There has to be an escape. I have to find an escape.

One by one, I kept slamming through the doors. I had to find something here. Something that could be a salvation.

Then I came across this room that seemed like a library. The huge shelves were brimming with books. None of them had any title, but they all had worn-out and faded covers. I suddenly felt excited, maybe I can find some answers here.

I grabbed one of the books and flipped through the pages and.. All of them were blank. Nothing. The pages were so smooth and clean, I could see my own existence.

I constantly feel like I'm waiting for something. Preparing for something. I'm almost always preparing myself for 'something' that might happen at moment. As if I need to be ready, at any given moment.

Like something is wrong, and the alarm won't just stop—constant red alert. Always scanning for something. Something that might go wrong.

I have all these roads laid in front of me, and it feels like I'm walking on needles.

This impending doom that might happen, but it never does. It feels a little stupid. The walls are always closing in, and the sky is always crashing down... when in reality, it's just an illusion played by the mind, and I always fall for it.

When I was little, I used to watch kids play this game, which roughly translates to 'ice water'. It involved running around. One kid would be 'it' and run around trying to catch others. The moment they touch another kid, they are frozen (lol turned into ice hence the name) and can't move unless another kid touches and unfreezes them. I suppose I suddenly remembered this because I feel like I am frozen in place, and I'm waiting for someone to unfreeze me. I keep forgetting myself. I keep forgetting it's merely a game, and I can walk out at any moment possibly. This reminds me of the quote "The cage is open, why are you still here?"

Why am I still here?

I can't remember the reason anymore, but I always used to watch kids play rather than participate. It's odd, but I remember them asking me to join, and I would refuse. I refused, and I no longer remember why. That feeling, however, has now seeped into my adult life. I always use the same analogy when describing this feeling. This feeling of sitting in a train station. Everyone is rushing about, busy trying to catch their train, trying to reach some place, while I sit here waiting. All these trains pass by me. Each and every train I could have gotten aboard, but I never do.

I am always watching the world. I am aware, to some extent, but I can never step in. Almost as if I am exiled, but it is I who did it. I blame myself.

I realize being self-aware doesn't mean being able to change. You can't disect something to heal it, you can only tear it apart in order to understand.

Last day of November.

It's finally dawning on me, the year is ending. The next time I wake up, it will be December. It is a strange kind of feeling. Of dread, and relief. Everything that happened this year is laid bare in front of me, and I can't help but find relief that it is over. And that I hope a new kind of light shines for what's to come.

But to me, hope is the small flickering lamp I keep on the corner of my desk, shrouded by piles of memories and emotions I am just too afraid to touch.

Maybe that is why I love the end of a year. It gives me a sense of ending. A feeling of finally closing a long... and rather dreadful book, but glad I have finished it. I also love the feeling of days getting shorter and colder. I feel like a small creature hibernating. Hiding away from the harshness of it all.

Lately, I've had no desire to speak with people. I am not sure if this is a form of self-punishment or an act of self-preservation. Is it isolation, or solitude? But this kind of withdrawal only comes when I am not doing well. My mental health has always swung back and forth like a bridge with no railing... and lately it's been swinging a bit too much on the wrong side.

But I will find a way, as I've always seemed to do. The lamp on my desk is still flickering; however dimly lit it is.

Prompt- Write a short description of an object that reveals something about the person who owns.

I have been staring at it for a while now. I can almost believe it stares right back at me, seeing the depths of my being. So acceptingly so, the only thing it wants is to pour my soul right back into it.

I am quite unsure how long I have had this diary with me. The cover is a faded shade of blue-ish gray. Inconsistent entries only filled half of its pages. You would think why an old diary like this has so many unwritten pages. I wonder that too. I have many diaries, notebooks collecting dust somewhere here in this room, completely neglected from their purposes. But this one only lives under my bed covers, hiding itself from the rest of the world.

If you flip through the pages, you’ll find cute doodles scattered here and there in some pages, while others are scratched and wounded like a battered soldier standing on its last leg.
Some pages remind me of hope and little joys. While with some… it takes a little restraint from me to not rip it apart from the shame of having my heart laid bare there.

Some pages are written by someone who has the exact handwriting as me. If you can believe it. Her words, her feelings, and her existence feel much further, yet as close as the gaps between each line.

Some are only half-finished thoughts I can no longer trace back to me, while others are like incoherent scribbling, as if some toddler with anger issues just learned how to write.

The blank pages, however, are calm and serene. An ocean of endless possibilities and unsaid words. They stare at me, and most days.. I can only stare back.

I love it when I read a book and I see a little reflection of my own. When I can relate to its words and experience. It feels cathartic, a kind of solace. And now, I have to write about it.

Diving into white nights, I didn't really expect myself to relate to the narrator or the story that much. But here I am. The whole idea has been circling in my mind, intertwining with my own experience of daydreaming.


A dreamer, that is what the narrator calls himself, and quite proudly so. On the 2nd night, the narrator goes on to elaborate to Nastenka about his dreams. At first, it seemed he romanticized life in his dreams as he knew all the beautiful places in the city that no one else knew. How fickle real life is and how grand his fantasies are. But then his tone shifts. Shame and anguish start flooding in when reality comes bashing on his door (his unexpected friend). And then resignation settles in when he realizes all of these were mere fantasies, that they amount to nothing. He had never lived. He shall forever remain this way.

And I just can't get over this? lol. Since I was a kid, I had imagined a world beyond my own, and it remained with me for a long time. Everything in my house was alive and conversed with them in my mind. Growing up, I'd write countless stories in my head and live countless lives. Inspired by songs, TV shows, or stories I've read. I could sit for hours on end, staring out the window while disappearing into a world that never existed. I can relate to how the narrator felt he never really lived his life; I feel the same. I always felt stuck. A quiet observer witnessing the ever-changing reality. And I lived in dreams that felt secure; it was in my control. I could be anything and everything.
But as I started growing up, I concluded, my dreams will forever remain dreams. The unrealistic way I hoped my fate would turn out just like my daydreams crumbled and crashed. And to quote a passage from The Book of Disquiet, written by Fernando Pessoa-



I know they'll never come true, the way I dreamed of life and future. And hope is a knife with no handle. I'd never be a big professor in a famous university, I'd never live in a big mansion in the hills, or a small cottage located in the woods. I'll never meet the one I had loved in my dreams. They are all just sand, mere nothing.

But I still dream, I still disappear in worlds other than my own, and I still hope despite being unconvinced. Like a moth drawn to flames.

On a pure utter whim, on a friday afternoon, I thought to myself I want to read a different book and white nights has been on my list. So, I started reading it. I finished in about three hours. I am a slow reader.

Before I start writing about this short story, I wanna talk about 'Bobok', another very short story written by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, which I was utterly confused by. It was at the end of the book, or rather pdf of the Penguin Classics edition, and I didn't know it was a separate story. I kept trying to find a relation to white nights lol. I finally did some Google and I found out it was a totally separate story XD. But I had fun reading that too. It was an interesting idea of what happens in grave and was humorous.

With that out of the way ... Huge spoilers ahead? Pardon my messy writing.



I really enjoyed reading white nights. I really loved how it was written. I could feel the narrator's loneliness. It really struck me at beginning how he felt everyone was abandoning him, because they were moving on with their own lives. There was a sense of pride and detachment when he talked about his dreams? How his inner narration after talking with Nastenka showed he was in pain and gloomy. He seemed to have a cheerful outward appearance while having a gloomy undertone? It felt like he was masking. Maybe. idk.

When she said stuff like 'I know you', on their first meeting, I found myself screaming at my screen lmao saying 'YOU DONT KNOW HIM!! you JUST MET him." I suppose it bothered me how much they clung to each other in such a short time. The narrator was enchanted and bewildered upon speaking with a girl for the first time, and Nastenka is a teenage girl in distress because she thought the love of her life had abandoned her.

I am not sure if I can be too critical of either character, although, to me it felt like she used him, but she may not have done it intentionally? She was young, didn't know anything about the world, and was very vulnerable. She was lucky the narrator wasn't a manipulative old guy. I saw a comment or post saying the narrator really fantasized the idea of falling in love with an ideal woman, so he would have fallen in love no matter who it was. Nastenka didn't really have anything special for him to be that madly in love.

But personally, I found it very cruel of her, intentional or not, the way she kept saying the narrator should love her. She knew the kind of love the narrator had and wrote in her letter to keep loving her in a brotherly way???? In the heat of a very emotional moment she said perhaps she could love the narrator and forget her lover. But it was such a hasty thing to do, they even thought of moving in together. Then again, the narrator broke his own heart, or set himself for a heartbreak when he was imagning Nastenka might fall of him instead. It's so crazy how this story written 200 years ago is still relevant in todays age, because this does happen in a lot of circumstances. We hope, we expect and project our imagination onto another person.

Anyways.... aside from that, maybe not to his extent, but I do relate to the narrators way of dreaming. Maladaptive daydreaming has been one of my favorite form of coping mechanisms, especially more in my teenage years. I have lived many lives in my dreams, and I could really feel him when he was talking about his reality; that how all those amazing moments he lived were just dreams and mere... nothing. How he never really lived life, he didn't have a real life. The torments when he has to face reality, and how empty his life is. You look around and see how everyone is living reality, almost as if leaving you behind while.. You are stuck in a dream. The narrator never gave us his name, either. I wonder if that points to the fact that he didn't have a proper sense of self.

This short story has a lot of psychology and philosophy packed in it, that I really don't know much about. Maybe one day I might return back here and realize something entirely different. It proves how much of an amazing writer Fyodor Dostoyevsky is, and I would definately try and read and dive more into his works. This was just one of his early stories. Can't wait to read Crime and punishment or his other works.
But that's all for now.

I feel like writing today. I haven't been updating my site lately. Between university and housework, and my mental health towering over them, I haven't had the time to sit down and learn how to code. I found this cool site a few days ago called 'roadmap.sh', and it's a pretty amazing site. I like to have some kind of direction, because I have been jumping around ideas but no clue how to do anything.

Fun thing about coding is it feels new and shiny to my brain lol because there is so much to learn and discover. It tickles my brain in the best way when I see my messy code turn into a neat little webpage. That "ah-hah!" moment when I figure out a solution.

But lately, my attention has drifted to books and One Piece. I am horrible with long series because after a while, I get tired of it. Last year I binged-watched watched whole 200 episodes of One Piece and then dropped. Why? I have no clue lol. But last week I picked it up again, and I am obsessed. I usually watch in between chores, or studies, or uhm.. when I am eating lol.
My love for books has been rekindled as I have been reading "The Guide". I had never heard of this book until I saw it on my syllabus for my Literature major. It's a good book, an awfully easy-to-read book, but it has some nice humor which I am enjoying. Rather than the book itself, the act of reading consistently made me fall in love again with reading. There is a different kind of joy that is tucked between the pages of a book. Not to forget, I finally picked up Atomic Habits; it's been collecting dust in my mind for a long time. I make a point to grab the book and read the pages to develop 1. good habits obviously, and 2. to read more non-fiction.
Aside from all that, my laptops screen has been glitching and I need to the shop to repair it. So until then, I'll be a bit away from working on this site.

My days are busier, and I realize how much a blessing it is.