Rising from the Ashes of Self-Pity

There’s something about this brewing idea that made me jump out of bed and turn my laptop on. I’d been trying to sleep for the past four hours, yet there I was—mindlessly scrolling, consuming more than my brain could handle these last few weeks. But then it hit me, that eureka moment—the kind Einstein must’ve had when he finally unraveled the missing piece of his theory of relativity.

What have I been doing with my life? These past weeks felt like I was squandering my most precious resource: time. I’ve been playing an addictive game on my phone just to numb my brain cells and leaving countless messages on read. It’s been a tough stretch, but in some inexplicable way, the universe seemed to conspire to let me simply be.

"You need to rest. This is your wrap-up season. Take it all in."

Every time I tried to do any physical labor, I’d bruise a hand or stub a toe—small inconveniences that limited my body but expanded my mind. I’ve written nonstop. Mostly me, asking questions. Putting it all out there. A part of what I wrote was me imagining how the universe would respond to my woes. And in the process, I realized—I had the answers all along. I just needed to ask the right questions.

If curiosity could kill a cat, it could also awaken a beast.

After countless listens of Better Days, consuming two 9x9 Sansrivals, and a 6x6 Blueberry Cheesecake during everyone's festive days—while I wallow and drown in the pits of self-pity—here I am. I can’t wait to be resurrected. Just two more degrees of the sun moving before I emerge from this introspective season—like the final stretch before a long-awaited shift. And when I do, I’ll be like a beast starved for days—hungry for her next kill.

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year. Bah humbug. Whatever celebration floats your boat. I am just glad I quietly survived and that I am still alive.