To you,

I don’t know if this letter will ever reach you. I don’t even know if I want it to.
But something about that summer has been clawing at me again. Something about Istanbul.

I told a lie in Istanbul. Not a dangerous one.
At least, I hope not. Just a small, glittering lie that flowed too easily from my mouth:
My name was Maya.

That’s it. That’s how it started.

I was twenty-two and bored. The specific kind of post-university, nothing-feels-real bored. Everyone around me was applying for jobs and saying things like “corporate ladder” and “growth trajectory,” and all I could think was: What if I just left for a while?

So I packed a suitcase, booked a flight to Istanbul, and pretended I wasn’t running from expectations.

I told my parents it was for “cultural immersion.” My mother said, “You’ve always wanted to learn Turkish.”

I nodded and said yes. That was the truth. They were thrilled. My mother packed me three of her own scarfs and reminded me to smile politely.

I didn’t forget.
But what I did forget—was who I was.
The name came out before I could stop it.

We met on my second day, at that bookshop café tucked into a crooked street in Cihangir. I was loitering by the translated fiction shelf, pretending to read Murakami, when you asked if Crime and Punishment was worth the price.

I looked up and said, very casually,
“Oh yeah. Great stuff. I’m Maya.”

Just like that.
I didn’t mean to lie.

Maya sounded like the kind of person who lived fully. Someone who painted without thinking too hard about whether it was good. Someone who stayed out late and woke up even later. Someone who had an ex in Paris who sent her cryptic voice notes.

It was the kind of name that didn’t sound out of place or too close to my real one.

She knew who she was. So unlike me.

In reality, I was a business graduate from a city you'd never heard of, someone who sometimes cried at 3 a.m. because she felt like she wasn’t going anywhere. Someone who was applying for jobs she didn’t want.

But you liked her. And so did I.

And so, for one summer, I decided to be her.

You told me your name, but I won’t write it here. Maybe because I want to protect you. Maybe because writing it would make you real again.

We kept meeting by accident. Then it wasn’t an accident anymore. A walk after a gallery opening. A shared ferry ride to Kadıköy. Dinner at a tiny restaurant where you ordered for both of us, and I pretended I wasn’t hopelessly lost on the menu.

It started small.
One lie, one truth. That was the game I played with myself.

I told you I hated olives. (Lie)
That I had insomnia. (Truth)
That my father was a musician. (Lie)
That I once chipped a tooth play-fighting my brother. (Truth)
That I was here on an art residency. (Lie)
That I felt most myself near the sea. (Truth, probably)

You told me stories too. About your childhood in Ankara, your year in Berlin, and your old dog that once ate a bar of soap and foamed at the mouth for hours like a tragic clown.

And here’s the thing: I didn’t lie to hurt you. I didn’t even think it mattered. I thought, I’ll leave in August. He’ll forget my name by September. And maybe you did. Maybe this letter is pointless.

You were someone I met in a city that felt like fiction. No harm in playing a part.

We drifted through the city like we belonged there. Rooftop cafés. Ferry rides. Accidental galleries. Once, we got caught in a sudden summer storm by Galata Bridge and just stood there laughing, soaked to the skin.

And then one night, your voice quiet but certain, you said: “I think I could fall for someone like you.”

And I felt something crack.

Because Maya wasn’t someone you could fall for. She wasn’t someone at all.

I left in August.

You walked me to the tram stop near Taksim and told me you hoped I’d paint something from that summer.
I said I would. I haven’t. I haven’t painted anything. I haven’t told anyone about you, or Istanbul, or the version of myself I left there like a sweater I’ll never get back.

But some nights, when everything feels too still, I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d told the truth from the beginning.

I did end keeping something, though.

The receipt from the day we split that pistachio pastry at that rooftop café. It sits in a box under my bed, along with the red bracelet you gave me “for luck.” You said it was something Turkish mothers tie around babies’ wrists to ward off envy.

Here it is a confession. I never gave you my real name. I never told you I wasn’t an artist. That I’d never held a paintbrush outside of middle school.

But I still remember the way your laugh echoed over Galata Bridge. And Istanbul was the most honest I’ve ever felt in a lie.

I wish I’d had the courage to tell you who I really was.

Or maybe I wish I’d had the courage to become her for real.
But I didn’t. I left.

If you’re reading this, stranger I met one summer in Istanbul

Thank you.

And if you ever think of Maya,
I hope you think of her kindly.
She was, in some small, borrowed way, real too.

Yours, in a city that made pretending feel like truth,
Not Maya.

It’s been a hot minute (literally, the heat is melting my brain). I wasn’t so sure I’d write a “Notes from June” this year. The last few months weren’t particularly eventful, and June even less so. It just lingered in strange ways. I kept thinking I had nothing to say, but there was a certain heaviness to the way this month unfolded. Nothing dramatic, just quietly persistent. Like a cat curling up on your doorstep and refusing to leave, even if it never really belonged to you.

This is not a neat update. It’s more like a loose collection of moments. Some loss. Some silence. And a cat.

Here’s what June left behind.

I. The Cat Who Wasn’t Mine

I first mentioned her back in January when she started showing up at our doorstep. A street cat, clearly, but too confident to be completely wild. I came home one day, and there she was pregnant, napping at our doorstep, blinking at us like we were the guests. Occasionally slipping into the house. She existed in our space, between a few neighbors’ homes and the corner shop.

Then, one morning mid-May, she was gone. My father, who had been all grumpy about her presence, noticed first. Days passed. When she returned, her body smaller, four kittens trailing behind her.

Now, she wasn’t the only cat at our doorstep, few strays had joined later, but now we got four more kittens. My father, to my absolute amazement, was delighted. They played around the trees in front of the house, then napped near the shop, on our doorstep, sometimes even in the hallway.

And then one day, she was taken. Stolen, they said. A neighbor saw it happen; a man literally jumped out of his car, scooped them all up, and drove off on his merry way.

Just like that. No more kittens. No more, “please don’t get on the countertop, I’ll feed you, just stay there!!” I was quietly devastated.

She wasn’t mine. But I miss her like she was. I still pause before stepping outside, half-expecting to find her curled up in the shade. I never named her. Maybe that made it worse. There’s no name to mourn.

II. Things I Almost Wrote About

That one job I didn’t get.

That tea cup I dropped and didn’t bother sweeping up for an hour. I just stared at the shards, offended it chose that day to break.

A quiet dinner where no one spoke, because my father was in one of his moods and no one had the energy to deal with that.

A meme that made me laugh harder than it should’ve, because I was lonely.

The neighbor who tried to grow sunflowers and gave up halfway, so now there’s just a pot of sad leaves by the gate.

The way the heat pressed against my back while walking home one evening. Like it was pushing me toward something. Or away from something.

That text I almost sent. I typed it. Deleted it. Retyped it. Then left it to rot in drafts.

I don’t know why I keep trying to make everything matter.
Maybe it’s a writer thing.
Maybe it’s a me thing.
Maybe it’s June.

III. Something About the Heat

Something about the heat makes people talk louder. Walk slower. Fight more. Or less, depending on the hour.

The city feels warped by it. Plastic chairs soften in the sun. Ice melts too fast. Strangers overshare. Some lady told me about looking for a wife for her son in the prison while waiting for the bus, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

At night, the walls sweat. Dreams grow more vivid. Regrets get louder.

The heat turns everything into a memory before it even finishes happening.

And I keep thinking of her—the cat—how she curled up without fear, how she vanished without warning, how easy it was for someone to take her.

Something about the heat makes everything feel slower.
Even grief.
Even forgetting.

Thank you for reading this slightly sunburned, cat-haunted ramble.
If June also made you weirdly emotional over small things; ice cubes, broken mugs, random memories, you’re in good company.

Feel free to leave a comment or just stare dramatically at your fan. I support both.

See you next month, maybe.
Until then: stay hydrated, avoid mysterious cats, and let things matter even when they shouldn’t. <3

Ofcourse, i didn’t talk to anyone about the footsteps. It felt ridiculous.

What was I supposed to say? “Hey, do you ever hear someone pacing outside your door at 3 a.m.?”

I kept it to myself. Until something finally pushed me to break the silence.

A few nights after the incident, i stayed up again. I didn’t plan to. I just couldn’t sleep.
And this time, the footsteps stopped again, just like before, but they didn’t start after.

They just stood there. Whoever, whatever, it was, it waited.

No tapping. No breathing.
Just this oppressive silence, like someone was centimeters away from me, separated by wood and metal.

The next morning, i noticed something.
A slip of folded paper had been pushed under my door.
Blank. Perfectly clean. No ink, no pencil marks.

Except the paper smelled like bleach.

That’s when I decided to talk to someone.

There’s only one neighbor I ever really see in the building.
An older man named Ali. Retired.
Smokes outside the first floor every evening like it's part of his soul.
Pretends not to watch everything and everyone on the street.

That afternoon, I brought him some coffee and asked, as casually as i could, if anything weird had happened in my apartment before.

He took one look at me, blinked slowly, and said, “You don’t sleep well, huh?”

I nodded.

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Just looked past me, up at the building, like he was staring at a ghost on the balcony.

“That apartment... not many stay in it long,” he said. “Usually two, three months. Sometimes less.”

“Why?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Damp,” he said. “Walls are weird. Pipes rattle. You know how it is.”

But his voice had changed.
He wasn’t just being evasive. He was carefully choosing his words.

“Did someone used live across from me?” I asked. “The bricked-up unit?”

Ali didn’t answer right away.
He paused, and said, “There used to be a door there. Long time ago.”

That wasn’t really an answer.

“I hear someone outside my door,” I said quietly. “At night. Always at the same time. It sounds like footsteps. And sometimes they stop.”

He stared at me. Then, slowly, he crushed his cigarette and said, “You’re hearing things you shouldn’t hear anymore.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off.

“Listen. You’re not crazy. You’re not cursed. But that building... it doesn’t forget things.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means,” he said, “some things at the building should have stayed forgotten. Not because of superstition. Because something went wrong.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. I still don’t.

He stood up, dusted his pants off, and before i could ask him anything else, he looked me dead in the eyes, and said, “ Don't open the door.”

That night, I almost did.

At 3:13, the footsteps returned. Then stopped.

And I stood there, on the other side of the door, staring at the handle. Just one twist, and I’d see who — or what — had been walking that hallway every night.

But I didn’t. Not yet at least.

I took Ali's advice — sort of.

I stopped listening. I started putting in earplugs, took herbal sleeping tablets, and left the bathroom light on. It worked. Mostly.

Until Wednesday night.

That was the night the water started dripping, not from the ceiling.
From the wall across from my door.
Not a pipe. The wall itself.

At first, I thought it was a pipe leak. Old building, bad plumbing, no big deal. But the water wasn’t clear. It was murky. Grey. And it smelled like mold and iron.

I called the landlord. He didn’t answer. Not right away. I called again. This time, he did.

All he said was: “Don’t touch that wall.”

Then he hung up.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.
Not because I was afraid. Not exactly. I was tired of waiting. Of not knowing.

So when the footsteps came — as they always did, at 3:13 a.m. sharp — I just stood in front of the door and waited for them to stop.

They did. Right outside, like always. But, this time, something slid under the door again.

Another folded paper. But this one wasn’t blank.

It was a torn piece of a jornal page. On it: my unit number. And across from it, where the bricked wall now stood:

3D – Feriel B. Tenant missing. Door sealed. No police file.

My stomach dropped.

I took a photo of the page. I still have it on my phone. I wanted to ask Ali, but I never saw him again.

That night was the last night.

At 3:13 a.m., I stood by the door again.

When the footsteps came. They stopped. And I reached for the handle.

My heart was pounding as i turned the knob slowly and opened the door.

There was no one in the hallway.

But the bricked-up apartment across from mine? It wasn't bricked up anymore.

Not smashed. Not destroyed.

Just gone. Like it had never been there in the first place.

The door stood open. The light was on inside.

And I could hear something, a barely audible voice playing on repeat.

A woman, whispering:

“Mazelt hna.”*
I’m still here.

I didn’t go in.

I closed my door. Locked it.

And the next morning, I packed up and left.

I never found out who Feriel B. was. I don’t know why they bricked the door. Or why they unbricked it.

I just know that for those final nights, before I left, I stopped hearing footsteps.

Because they didn’t need to pace the hallway anymore.

They are inside.

Note:

Another quick translation:

“Mazelt hna” – Also common in the west, this one means “I’m still here.” The word mazelt is a soft way to say “still”. The kind of thing that makes sense coming from behind a door that shouldn’t exist.

I don't believe in the supernatural. No hauntings, no cursed buildings. Never have. I like things with explanations. Logic.

I cannot prove that what happened to me in Sidi El Houari was objectively real.
I will try to related it to you as best as i can. Make of it what you will. I'm only glad to finally get it off my chest.

I moved to Oran about two months ago. I'd just finished a short term contract in Algiers, and i was missing the west more than ever. I work remotely, in tech.

So when i found an ad, 13,000 dinars a month, for a one bedroom apartment with working water and a balcony that kind of still overlooks the sea. I called immediately.

The price was suspiciously low, but rent had gone up everywhere, and i needed a place.
As the saying goes, beggars can't be choosers.

The building is well... Old. To be polite about it. My apartment is on the third floor of the crumbling building, probably was colonial once, patched together over the years with plastic insulation that’s already peeling and hope.
Left side, above the baker who never opens on Fridays.

The landlord didn't say much. Just handed me the key and told me not to worry if i heard something strange at night.
I rolled my eyes a little. My people have always been kind of superstitious.

The first week was uneventful.
The place was rough around the edges, sure; tiles that groaned when i walked too fast, unreliable water. Nothing i haven't dealt with before.

Then, one night, something strange happened.

It was around 3 am.
When i woke up. Not to a sound but to this weird gut feeling.
I layed there in the dark, listening, when i heard it.
Footsteps. Not the fast kind. Slow, deliberate ones.

Now you need to understand something. My apartement is at the end of the hallway. There's no reason for anyone to pass by unless they live across from me.
But, that unit, is bricked shut. Literally. Cemented over. Completely sealed.

But, i knew, even before this, that something was wrong with that unit.

The steps were real. I listened as they came closer.
One... Two... Three... Then they stopped. Right in front of my door.

I held my breath and waited.
No knock. No movement.
After maybe thirty seconds, the steps started again. Slow and steady, before fading into silence.

I told myself it was probably a neighbor from a different floor. The walls are old. Sound travels weirdly in these buildings, right?

But it happened again.
Every night since.
Same time: 3:13 am.
Same pattern. Same pause.

One night, i stayed awake on purpose. Sat in the dark, phone in hand, watching the door like an idiot.
I even set an alarm for 3:10 just in case I fell asleep.

At exactly 3:13, i heard it again.
But, tonight something was different.
I heared a sound.
A slow, shallow inhale. Like someone trying not to be heard breathing.
Then a soft tap. Fingernail on metal.

Then a voice. One word, whispered like it was meant only for me:
"ruhi men hna"*

Leave from here.

I didn’t open the door.
I sat there until the call for prayer echoed from a distant mosque and the early rays of light broke through the windows.

In the morning, I opened the door slowly.
There was nothing. No one.
But the dust in front of the threshold — the same dust I sweep every other day?
It was disturbed.

Just two clear footprints.
Facing my door.

Note:

I was debating whether to include some local dialect in the story. For immersion mostly.

Not gonna lie, some of it came out kind of funny to me at first, but it stuck. It felt right.

Here’s what the phrases mean:

“Ruhi men hna” : Common in western Algerian Darja ( local dialect). and if we’re being literal with the translation, it means: “Leave from here.” It's blunt, usually said with warning or irritation… or whispered, apparently, outside your door at 3 am by hallway guests.

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"Perhaps, I’m gradually becoming an adult,
I can’t remember,
What are the things that I hoped for".

— Agust D, 28

I turned 28 on a weekday (today). A Tuesday, of course. It didn't arrive with epiphanies, or parites, or the awkward singing of the dreadful birthday song that my younger cousin insists on doing everytime she remembers the ocassion (i can summon last year awkwardness when i think hard enough about it), and not even a cake. Just a lukewarm tea, a blinking phone screen and a text that said:

"Happy birthday. Hope you are doing well. Miss you".

And of course, the weird silence of growing older with nothing to show for it.

There's something anticlimactic about the whole thing. Like the Tuesday of your twenties —not thrilling, not tragic, just there.

Naturally, i decided to break my no music rule and spiral into a playlist dive. Guess what i found? 28 by Agust D (aka Suga of BTS) featuring NIIHWA, that he wrote when he was 28. Because, if you are going to have a crisis on your birthday, you might as well have a moody korean rapper narrate it.

Let's talk about the song

28 is soft and gentle, until you read the lyrics and realize, Oh, this man is spiraling.

Somehow, it sounds like a jornal entry from all of us trying to make peace with the version of ourselves that doesn't match the one we imagined.

I paused mid-sip when reading the lyrics. There it is. That weird, wordless dread that i have been dragging behind for weeks. The one i couldn't explain in words or even in my head.

I don't feel bad. Not really. I just feel unassembled. Half baked if you will. Like i was supposed to became something by now.

The life I wished for, the life I wanted, a so-so life
Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter anymore.

When i reached that line, i laughed. Not because it's funny, far from it actually, because it's uncomfortably accurate. That's the magic of this song and why it was a favourite for so long: it holds your hands gently, and says, "same".

18 felt loud. 25 felt urgent. And now, i'm 28, and that urgency has softened into a fog. A quiet ache. The fear that you are either running out of time or wasting it. The fear that you don't even know which one is it. Agust D gets it.

The song reaches the end.

Okay. But, also, what now? Here is the thing. I didn't come out of this reflection with resolutions or a renewed sense of purpose. I felt weirdly comforted by the fact that even people who seem to have it all figured out sit in that same feeling too.

So here i'm, 28, slightly confused, mildly hopeful, and emotionally supported by a k-hip hop track.

And that's enough. I also went and got myself some cookies. Small victories.

Note: This is a post from my archives, written for Medium in August 2023. I’m going to slowly start porting some of my Medium posts and adapting them for Substack.

I’ve been meaning to read more books by women, especially contemporary ones, and Normal People by Sally Rooney felt like a good place to start. A bestselling novel turned TV series, it’s one of those books that’s been praised endlessly by both readers and critics. Naturally, I was curious to see what the hype was all about.

The Premise

Normal People is a short novel—266 pages—written by Irish author Sally Rooney. It explores the complexities of emotional intimacy and personal identity. Published in 2018, the book quickly gained attention for its raw and honest portrayal of love, vulnerability, and the struggles young people face while trying to understand themselves and each other.

At the center of the novel is the on-again, off-again relationship between Connell and Marianne, two Irish teenagers from different social backgrounds. Told from both perspectives, the narrative follows them from high school to university, offering glimpses into their inner worlds. Rooney examines how intimacy can be both empowering and isolating, often exposing the fragility beneath the surface.

Once you get used to Rooney’s dialogue format, it’s smooth sailing from there. The novel touches on the following themes:

Intimacy:
Connell and Marianne’s emotional and physical connection is intense and overwhelming. Their relationship seems to prevent them from forming healthier, more functional relationships with others.

Power Dynamics:
One of the most interesting aspects of the book is the imbalance in power between the two characters. Something even they acknowledge. It often felt like Marianne was constantly adjusting herself to Connell’s moods and expectations.

Social Class:
Rooney touches on their class differences, but in my opinion, it doesn’t significantly impact their relationship. Whenever they’re together, they seem to exist in a world where those differences fade away.

“Being alone with her is like opening a door away from normal life and then closing it behind him.”

Identity:
Connell is the popular athlete who hides his intellectual side to fit in. Marianne, on the other hand, struggles with low self-esteem, seemingly rooted in her troubled family background. Rooney captures their journey of identity formation during the transition from adolescence to adulthood.

Communication (or Lack Thereof):
The lack of communication plays a pivotal role in their relationship. Connell and Marianne’s inability to express their feelings and fear of vulnerability often lead to misunderstandings and hinders their ability to form genuine connection.

My Honest Thoughts

That said, I unfortunately really struggled with the story. It’s a fair idea, but I feel Rooney missed somewhere in the execution. She mentions topics like Edward Snowden, communism, Palestinian liberation, and freedom of speech on campuses, but doesn't do anything with them.

Normal People is supposed to be this deep psychological exploration of romance, a slow-burn literary masterpiece, yet it doesn't do anything with what it has. The relationship is very on-off dumpster fire. I rooted for Connell and Marianne at first especially given the pressure (mostly on Connell) to conform in high school. But a after the fifth or sixth emotional detour, I just lost interest.

The narrative felt repetitive and, frankly, boring. There is no plot, theme progression, or character development. We don't really go anywhere. The main characters make mistakes but never learn anything from them. Some plot points were so bizarre they felt like they came out of nowhere.

The drawing of all relationships was rather bleak, like i get it people are fucked up and do fucked up things but that's not always the case, kind people do exist too.

I have to confess: when I picked up the book—judging it by its title and cover (how else are we supposed to do it?)—I expected it to arrive at the idea that there’s no such thing as “normal people.” It's just an idea. We can strive to reach normalcy or whatever but we can never attain it. Or at least, I thought it would be the story of two normal people navigating love and change through school and life transitions.

Instead, the book circles around the same emotional potholes until it suddenly... ends. Abruptly. As if Rooney just decided to stop writing mid-thought.

My dissatisfaction with Normal People lies in how much it talks without really saying anything. There is no exploration of small town complexities, Irish culture, depression, complex feelings surrounding sex. It just mentions some topics and then glosses over them. I kept wishing the book would just end, and when it did, I felt unfulfilled and empty.

After finishing Normal People, I went on to read Conversations with Friends and came to the conclusion that Sally Rooney just isn’t for me. I don’t know if I’ll write a full review of that one, but I do know I won’t be picking up another Rooney novel any time soon.

Have you read Normal People?
Did it strike a chord with you or leave you feeling flat like it did for me? Let me know your thoughts. I’m curious how others experienced this one.

xo

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Hello friends,

It's 20:05 as i write this. The sky outside is soft and dark, the kind of navy that swallows up the horizon. The air is still clinging to that coolness to remind me that winter is almost over. It’s quiet, except for the occasional clink of a spoon against a plate from a neighbor’s open window, and the hum of a passing car engine.

Evenings like these used to leave me a little more thoughtful than usal. Used to make me feel unbearably romantic. Like love would somehow show up in the quiet. There's something about stillness that makes longing louder.

I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately. Not the practical kind, settle-into-it kind. But the idea of it. The romance of romance, if you will. The kind of love that exists in novels and scenes from movies.

In theory, i love love. But in practice, i don't really know anymore.

I used to think I was just waiting. For love. For someone who’d understand me in that deep, quiet way. I held onto that hope for a long time. Stubbornly, even. I used to believe that love was the one thing that would make all the other noise in my life make sense.

But, i have never found that kind of love. Not even close.

I’ve dated, of course. Or tried to. It was nice, in the way a lukewarm cup of tea is nice. Comforting but not quite satisfying. Dating, for me, felt like performing a version of myself i'm not entirely sure exists. I want to connect deeply, but i worry that maybe i'm only made to be the version of me they imagine. Idolized, desired, but never truly seen.

It's strange, to want something so deeply while also being terrified of it. To crave that kind of gentleness that feels distant, while being too guarded for it to occur.

And then, it just became too tedious to try. Like a deep ache finally settling in your bones. Things shift when you get older.

These days, i find that i'm no longer looking for love. Not because i have stopped believing in it altogether; but because the older i get, the more i realize how exhausting the search can be.

After a while, the yearning changed shape. Now, i just want peace.

And yet, I still find comfort in the idea of love. I still believe it can be beautiful, even if I no longer chase it. These days, I think about companionship in quieter ways; folded laundry, shared silence. But I’m okay if it never arrives.

It's 23:17 now. The sky is completely dark. My room is only lit by the screen. I don't know when love will find me, or if it even will in this lifetime. But, i hope when it does, it will feel like the sky tonight: vast, quiet, and oddly comforting.

Before i leave for today, here are these movies that i loved revisiting this week:
- 5 Centimeters per Second.
- Your Name (Kimi no Na wa).
- Past Lives.

And with this, i hope you are doing well. I hope love finds you. But more importantly, i hope you find yourself resting comfortably in your own company.

As always, thank you for reading.
Until next time <3

I recently finished reading this manhwa (Rotten), and I noticed something. Abuse, while not the main theme of the story, was present throughout. A lot of abusive parents: two fathers and one mother. It was truly depressing how some parents, instead of loving and protecting their children, abuse them.

One father was especially manipulative. He instructed his daughters to lie and say their mother—the woman he murdered, mind you—was the one hurting them.

That got me thinking of Nietzsche’s line:
“What is done out of love, always takes place beyond good and evil.”

It sounds beautiful at first. A love so pure it transcends morality. Something grand, untouchable. But peel it back, and you find something else. The way people use love to inflict harm and excuse it.

Abusers often claim love as their motive. I did it because I love you. I hurt you for your own good. Love, in this framing, is not just an emotion but a shield. One that distorts morality rather than transcends it. It’s not beyond good and evil anymore; it erases them entirely.

Love becomes a weapon in the hands of those who seek control. And sometimes, they don’t seek anything. They harm because it’s simply who they are, as I’ve come to understand. A parent’s cruelty becomes “tough love.” A partner’s oppressiveness becomes “devotion.” And those caught in this cycle begin to associate pain with the proof of love, or worse, they see it for what it really is but can't find a way out.

Nietzsche, I suppose, was speaking of the radical nature of love. How it doesn’t fit into the neat moral binaries we construct. But, if love exists beyond good and evil, who holds it accountable?

And, hey. Maybe love does exist beyond good and evil. But it should be questioned especially when it leaves a trail of bruises, visible or not.

Because I’ve been there.

Abuse is such a strange thing. No one truly knows what it's like until they experience it. And when it’s part of your own story, it doesn’t feel like a word, it feels like a wound. A wound that never fully heals.

“Abuse,” in its five letters, fails to contain the magnitude of what it truly is. It's a word made of pain, and so often, it doesn’t capture how that pain lingers like a ghost for the rest of one’s life.

I think it’s such a piss poor way to describe it.

The physical pain was horrific but it wasn’t absolute. No, that was all mental pain. All the mind-altering, the belittling, the demolishing. The infinite fear. There’s no such thing as not feeling terrified of merely existing.

Abuse has no detachment. No distance. It isn’t just what happens to you it’s what changes inside you. It’s what convinces you that love and pain must go hand in hand. But they don’t.

In Rotten, the characters carry their trauma like second skin. Some fight back. Some break. Some survive, but barely. That, too, is love’s aftermath. And maybe that’s what struck me the most.

So maybe Nietzsche was right. Maybe love exists beyond good and evil. But not because it’s sacred. Because it can be terrifying. Because when someone claims love as a reason to hurt you, it stops being love and becomes something else entirely.

I don’t write this with answers. Only the hope that one day, love won’t need to be excused or explained. It will just be kind. And safe.

I mentioned briefly that the closest my father came to dying wasn’t just from trusting the wrong people—it was also from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He told me this story only once, as if afraid those people might wake up and hunt him down too.

It happened at a café.

Back then, cafés were one of the few places where life still felt semi-normal. Men gathered to sip coffee, smoke, and avoid talking about politics like their lives depended on it. My father used to go after work, meeting up with friends, talking about everything and nothing, always careful, always aware of who was watching and listening.

This café was small, nothing special. A few wobbly tables, a television mounted high on the wall playing the news no one trusted. That day, my father sat near the entrance, waiting for my uncle, stirring sugar into his espresso, when three men walked in.

He knew right away something was wrong. Maybe it was the way they scanned the room, or how the conversation around them shifted, voices lowering. Maybe it was the way the owner tensed behind the counter, his hand pausing mid-wipe over a coffee cup.

One of the men spoke. He said a name. No one answered. Then he said it again, louder this time, with a few curses to drive his point, his fingers tapping against his rifle.

My father didn’t know the name, but someone in that café did. He saw it in the way a man in the far corner stiffened, eyes wide with panic. The silence stretched. The air grew thick with the scent of smoke and fear.

Then, just as suddenly as it had fallen silent, the room exploded into movement. Chairs scraped against the floor. Someone shouted. Guns were drawn.

My father never saw who fired the first shot.

He just reacted. He threw himself to the ground, his coffee spilling across the floor as bullets tore through the walls, the tables, and the bodies. The café owner screamed. Men who had been drinking just seconds ago were now scrambling, crawling, bleeding.

My father tried to crawl toward the back, but he couldn't. He told me how he felt trapped—how he was trapped under the heavy table. He remembers putting his head under his hands, hands that were coated in something warm, something red. Someone stepped on his foot, tripping over it, falling hard and knocking the breath from his lungs.

He told me how he thought he was going to die right then and there.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

The gunmen were gone.

The café, once filled with the hum of conversation and clinking cups, was now eerily quiet. The air smelled like burnt gunpowder and blood. A man near the counter lay still, eyes open unseeing.

My father staggered to his feet. His clothes were damp with coffee, and someone else’s blood.

The owner, shaking but alive, locked the door.

When he finished telling me this story, he sighed and reached for his lighter. Then he looked at me and said, “You know, the Mbesses1 wasn’t even that good.”

I laughed, but he didn’t. Because we both knew that wasn’t the point.

Stories like this one don’t come easy. So much terror, grief, and confusion surround the Black Decade. I’m just here, piecing them together, one memory at a time.

Thank you for sitting with me through this one, friends.

Until next time,

f <3

You see, my father—both my parents—survived something few outside of Algeria truly know about. A war that wasn’t called a war. A time when every country (except Italy) and i mean every country, closed its doors to us. A time when death could come at the hands of anyone, anywhere, for no reason. The Black Decade.

He never spoke about it when I was younger. Growing up, I only knew pieces of the story; a tension in the air whenever the power flickered at night, the way he always double-checked the locks before bed. But when I got older, he finally told me. And now, I’m telling you.

He was a young man in the early 90s, just living an ordinary life. Back then, ordinary meant working, praying, meeting with friends at cafés that smelled like strong coffee and cheap cigarettes. But after an election gone wrong, ordinary also meant watching faces disappear, finding roads blocks by makeshift checkpoints manned by men with cold eyes and Kalashnikovs, and learning to toe the fine line between both parties for survival.

My father lived in a small town on the outskirts of a city in western Algeria. One evening, he was walking home from work when he saw a man running down the street—disheveled and wild-eyed. Behind him, shadows moved—long-bearded, armed men. No one spoke. The only sounds were the man’s ragged breathing and the quick, deliberate footsteps of those following him.

My father did what everyone did back then: he lowered his gaze and quickened his pace. To look too long—that could get you killed.

He turned the corner, his home just a few blocks away. That’s when he heard the scream.

Not a gunshot. A scream.

And somehow, that was worse.

He never looked back. But he knew that man was done for. The next day, they found a severed head. The police arrived after several reports—long after everything had been "settled." The shopkeepers washed the man’s blood from the pavement without a word.

That was life then.

But the closest my father came to dying wasn’t from being in the wrong place at the wrong time (he was, but that’s a story for another time)—it was from trusting the wrong people.

There were two types of men back then: those who killed in the name of order, and those who killed in the name of something else. Both were dangerous. And sometimes, without their uniforms, you couldn’t tell them apart until it was too late.

One night, when it was my father’s—and my grandfather’s—turn to stay at the family farmhouse up in the mountains (a risky move at the time), a group of men knocked on the door. They weren’t wearing uniforms, but they had guns. They claimed to be freedom fighters, but my father knew better than to trust anyone in those days.

They asked for food, for silence.

He had no choice. He let them in.

They ate at his table, their rifles propped against the walls, their voices low and steady as they spoke of their cause, their enemies. They watched him as he poured their tea. He knew what they were looking for—fear, a reason to suspect him of being on the wrong side. He gave them nothing.

Hours passed. Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, they left. No violence.

But my father didn’t sleep that night. He knew the others would come knocking too.

And they did.

The Army showed up the next morning, just as he was helping my grandfather tend to the tomato crops. Questions were barked at them. Accusations were thrown. What did those bastards want? What did they say?

My father remembers how his own father straightened his back, locked eyes with the officer in charge, and told him, in no uncertain terms, to order his men out of his field. If they wanted food, he would give them food—just as he had given it to the others. And besides, he added, those people are watching. If I had to guess, they’ll be back sooner rather than later.

The officer didn’t argue. He left with his troops.

I guess there’s only so much that can scare you after fighting a long, long war against the French.

I wish I could tell you my father left town after that incident. But he didn’t.

Instead, the farmhouse—like so many across the country—was abandoned.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if he had said the wrong thing, poured their tea the wrong way.

I wouldn’t be here, typing this.

PART II

Way back in 2023, I wrote a post about the desire to not exist, a loop with no end. A longing that can never fully be met. A contradiction that exists because we exist.

I remember finding comfort in the idea. Not in the way that life ends, not in its violent, irreversible counterpart, but in a simple wish: to not be here. To not be seen, not be remembered, not be someone.

Neon Genesis Evangelion explores this desire—or rather, it explores existential crisis—in its rawest form. The crushing weight of being, the ache of self-loathing, and the desperate wish to not exist.

Eva doesn’t just flirt with these ideas; it throws its characters headfirst into them. Every pilot—Shinji, Asuka, and Rei—is drowning in their own horrifying version of existence, where living becomes unbearable. They don’t just struggle with external threats like Angels; they struggle with themselves.

Shinji's arc is one of total self-negation. He wants to be seen, to be loved, but the moment he feels any pushback—real or imagined—he collapses into himself. He runs away—both physically and emotionally—because, to him, existence is a series of painful reminders that he is unwanted. But Shinji’s fear isn’t just of rejection. It’s of himself.

His moments of complete despair, like when he refuses to pilot the Eva or when he curls up in a catatonic state after Asuka’s breakdown, aren’t just about weakness. They’re about the overwhelming exhaustion of being.

If Shinji is passively self-destructive, Asuka is actively self-destructive. She screams (a lot) at the world to notice her, to acknowledge her, because deep down, she’s terrified of fading into irrelevance.

Her final breakdown—sitting in the bathtub, staring blankly—is the moment she realizes that no amount of bravado can protect her from the crushing void inside. She doesn’t want to exist in a world where she isn’t exceptional, isn’t loved, isn’t needed. And when she reaches that realization, she stops.

Rei is perhaps the most literal representation of an existential crisis. She is an existence that isn’t truly hers. A clone, a tool. She walks through life with an eerie detachment because, on some level, she doesn’t consider herself real. She’s caught between being something and being nothing, and the closer she gets to understanding herself, the more she leans toward the latter.

Her final act—rejecting Gendo—feels like a moment of agency, but it’s also a moment of dissolution. She stops being a single entity and becomes something else entirely.

And then we reach the ending—the ultimate question. Instrumentality offers our characters an escape, a way to dissolve into a singular, painless existence. No more loneliness, no more hurt. Just oneness.

Shinji rejects it, choosing to live, to suffer, to be. Not because he suddenly loves himself, not because all is forgiven, but because, in the end, existence, even painful existence, is still something.

But I don’t think Evangelion is saying that’s the right answer, just that it’s the inevitable one. Because we are here. We remain.

What makes Evangelion hit so hard isn’t the mechas or the apocalyptic stakes. It’s the raw honesty in how it portrays depression, self-loathing, and the wish to just stop existing. Evangelion sees you. It doesn’t promise a cure, but it does say:

“You are not alone in this.”

And sometimes, knowing that is enough to keep going.

It’s been four months this January. Four. Months. How many months does this month have? The calendar says one, but the weight of the days says otherwise.

Let’s kick things off with the best news of the year so far: Gaza got a ceasefire. Everyone cheered, cried, and held their collective breath. May we live long enough to see a free Palestine. Ameen.

In more personal news, a job I interviewed for back in December is now under investigation. For what, you ask? I don’t even know (it’s corruption lol), but we cheer again! Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise, paving the way for something better—or at least more stable.

Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, The US performed its signature move: chaos. Banned TikTok, unbanned it, while the rest of us watched the circus unfold. The US government’s on-again, off-again relationship with this app feels like the plotline of a reality show no one asked for.

Closer to home, there’s a cat. She started showing up at our door, sitting like she owned the place, demanding food, and occasionally attempting to infiltrate our house. Is this what they call the Cat Distribution System? I thought it was a joke, but here we are.

Update, January 26th: We haven’t seen the cat in four days. The shop owner in the neighborhood, who had been looking after her, told me she had a stillborn kitten. The rest of the kittens couldn’t be delivered. The vet prescribed medication, but if it doesn’t work, surgery will be her only option. If they can’t intervene in time, it could kill her. The situation has been weighing on me—a reminder of how fragile life is, even in the smallest forms.

Update, January 28th: She made it!

As for me:

• I’m back to working out. Nothing dramatic, just trying to feel like a functional human again.

• Still watching Gintama (I am nothing if not consistent (sometimes)).

• I DNF’d Fantastic Nights & Other Stories.

January has been a whirlwind, but here’s to hoping February has a lighter hand. Until then, stay safe, stay hopeful, and if a cat sits at your door, feed her. You never know how much it could mean.

PART I

When I tried to explain Neon Genesis Evangelion (often referred to as "Evangelion" or simply "Eva") to my brother, I said it’s an anime about teenagers piloting giant robots to battle alien beings called Angels. Then added that it’s packed with religious iconography and delves into the intense psychological struggles of its characters. While that’s somewhat true, it’s far from capturing the full experience of watching Eva.

Evangelion is one of the most confusing animes created, with a timeline so complex that fans are still theorizing about it decades later. For me to write this post, I had to make sense of it all—figure out what the hell was happening in that beach scene, and why there are three different canonical endings—while avoiding plunging headfirst into an existential crisis.

At first glance, Eva appears to tell the story of Shinji Ikari, a teenager reluctantly piloting a giant mecha (an Evangelion) to protect humanity from invading Angels. Sounds simple, right? Except Eva subverts expectations, refusing to be an action driven anime alone. By few episodes, you realize that the real focus is on Shinji's fragile mental state, and the trauma carried by each character. But before we get to that, let’s set the stage with some essential background.

To understand Eva, it’s crucial to grasp the events leading up to the series and how its different endings fit together. There are technically three primary conclusions:

1. The Original TV Series: An abstract, introspective ending that focuses on Shinji's psyche.

2. The Movie: End of Evangelion: A darker, more literal interpretation of the TV series' events.

3. The Rebuild Movies: A four-part retelling that eventually evolves into a sequel.

Together, these endings form a cohesive, if not entirely linear, story.

The First and Second Impacts

The First Impact was the first of three major events taking place on earth as a result of the intervention of a mysterious race to create life on the planet earth. The impact was caused by the unintended crash landing of The Black Moon containing Lilith (one of the carriers of the seed of life) on earth, unintended as in the seed of life meant for earth The White Moon containing Adam, had already landed.

Under ancient rule, only one seed of life is meant to populate one planet at time. Lances of Lonigus, which can disable seeds of life were sent with each moon in order to enforce that rule. However, Lilith's lance was lost and only Adam had his. This meant that Adam had to be suspended by his Lance in order to comply with the rule. With that, the children of Lilith, humans, populated the earth, denying the children of Adam, the angels, from their rightful inheritance.

Billions of years had passed after the first impact, humanity had developped as so did their lust for knowledge. Now enter Seele (German for soul) a religious organization with influence over the world governments, whose sole goal lies in fulfuling the prophecy that lies in the Dead Sea Scrolls ( The Human Instrumentality Project).

Seele discovers the black moon and Lilith along with it in Japan and build an underground research facility around it then launches a research division to study it. Not long after that, they uncover the white moon containing Adam in Antartica.

The Second Impact happened in 2000. During the Katsuragi Expedition (led by Dr. Katsuragi and funded secretly by Seele) a disastrous experiment was attempted, to merge human DNA with Adam. This experiment as you would have imagined goes horribly south and reawakened Adam, triggering a catastrophic explosion that wiped out half of Earth’s population.

Adam was eventually subdued and reduced to an embryonic state, but the damage was already done.

In the aftermath, Half of the Earth's human population has been wiped out. Many coastal regions and islands were completely submerged by the rising oceans. Many geopolitical changes occured, the U.N exercised a much larger role in the daily life and controled most of the palnet major military forces.

Project E and the Evangelions

Project E was the operation that lead to the creation of the Evangelions—biomechanical weapons grown from Adam’s body. Each Eva contains a “core” housing a soul, allowing pilots to sync with them. This synchronization process requires an intense psychological bond, amplifying the pilot’s emotions and fears. The result? Pilots experience the Evas’ injuries as if they were their own.

The Eva series is quite sporadic in its storytelling. Many events are presented out of order, which often leaves you finishing some episodes more confused than ever—only to gain clarity in the next one. That’s why I felt it was important to cover the preceding sections first, to provide the full context of the story before delving into what actually unfolds in the anime.

The Third Angel

Episode one opens with Shinji wandering through an empty Tokyo-3 during an Angel attack. Fortunately for him, Misato (his contact) comes just in time to save him from being flattened to earth. The UN launches one last failed attack on the Angel before handing matters to NERV, who in turn drops the equivalent of a nuclair bomb on him, when that fails, and proves that their only hope for surviving the attack is in the Evangelion and their pilots.

When Shinji reaches NERV base, he is thrusted into the job of being a pilot, which he intitally refuses. Shinji then asked his father who's overseeing the whole interaction between his son, Misato, and the Eva Unit-01, why did he call for him hoping to get some kind of acknowledgement. Gendo simply states that he has use for him now, and if he can't pilot the Eva, he should just leave (talk about fatherly love lol). The base shake as the angel has lockated it, Shinji initially refuses to pilot the Eva, but after seeing a badly injured Rei about to be sent in his place, he agrees.

With zero training, the fight goes as one would have expected it. Shinji gets his ass whooped, until Unit-01 goes berserk, brutally tearing the Angel apart.

Shinji Ikari

Shinji, the reluctant pilot of Eva Unit-01, is the series’ emotional core. Haunted by his mother Yui’s death and his father Gendo’s abandonment, Shinji struggles with self-worth, rejection, and intimacy issues. Piloting Eva Unit-01, which houses his mother’s soul (unbeknownst to him), becomes a way to seek validation and affection. However, each battle only deepens his depression and internal conflict.

The Fourth Angel

This Angel attacks Tokyo-3 shortly after the previous one, seemingly attempting to reach NERV HQ. As the series progresses, it’s revealed that some Angels aim to contact Lilith, triggering the Third Impact, others seek Adam's remains, while some appear to instinctively fight humanity or attempt to understand it.

The Fifth Angel

A geometric, floating Angel with devastating energy attacks. This battle forces Shinji and Rei to work together. Rei shields Shinji from harm, deepening their bond. This moment also sparks Shinji’s jealousy over Rei’s relationship with Gendo, leading to a confrontation and Rei’s slap.

Rei Ayanami

Rei is a clone created from Yui Ikari’s DNA and part of Lilith’s soul. Initially cold and emotionless, Rei begins questioning her identity and humanity after her interactions with Shinji. As the pilot of Eva Unit-00, Rei is often stuck between human and a tool.

The Seventh Angel

Asuka Langley Soryu is introduced alongside the Seventh Angel, a creature split into two halves. To defeat it, Shinji and Asuka must perform a choreographed dance squence. Despite their clashing personalities, this forced cooperation teaches Asuka the value of teamwork, though her pride takes a hit.

Asuka Langley Soryu

Asuka is the fiery, competitive pilot of Eva Unit-02. She masks her traumatic childhood—marked by her mother’s mental illness and suicide—with arrogance and superiority. Her need for validation drives her to excel as a pilot, but her rivalry with Shinji creates constant tension.

The Tenth Angel

This Angel floats in low-earth orbit, bombarding Tokyo-3 with pieces of itself seemingly learning how to aim before dropping its entire body on the area in a suicide charge to would entirely erase the whole city.

Misato sends the kids on a desperate mission to stop it midair. On the way, Asuka reveals her desire to prove herself, while Shinji struggles to articulate why he pilots at all.

The Twelfth Angel

An abstract Angel whose true form exists in a pocket dimension. When Shinji becomes trapped, the episode dives into his fears, insecurities, and existential dread. This battle is less about action and more about psychological introspection.

The Fourteenth Angel

This destructive Angel breaches NERV HQ, nearly obliterating humanity’s defenses. Shinji is forced to return to piloting after his friend Toji’s tragic fate with Eva Unit-03. During the battle, Unit-01 goes berserk again, tapping into terrifying primal power. All is going according to Gendo's plan.

However, this devastating battle marks the beginning of Asuka’s breakdown. Unable to defeat the Angel, she feels useless and begins to spiral into depression, culminating in her eventual withdrawal from piloting.

The Fifteenth Angel

Rei and Asuka are tasks with handeling this Angel, with Asuka disobeying orders and attacking alone. The angel projects a beam of light straight toward Eva-02, attacking Asuka's mind directly. This attack forces her to relive to worst parts of her childhood, and triggers a psychological collapse, highlighting her fragile sense of self-worth.

The SixteenthAngel

This Angel invades Rei’s Eva, mentally merging with her and forcing her to confront her identity and fears. In the end, Rei sacrifices herself to destroy the Angel, only to be resurrected as a new clone—Rei 3. This episode unveils the truth about Rei to Shinji, Misato, and the audience: clones floating in tubes, devoid of the soul that is in Rei 3 at this point in the story. These clones are created by Gendo, who fuses fragments of Lilith's soul with genetically engineered bodies made from Yui's DNA (Shinji's mother). This revelation deepens the mystery of Rei’s existence and highlights her growing independence from Gendo’s control.

The Seventeenth Angel

Tokyo-3 lies in ruins. The city is abandoned, Toji has lost a leg and carries deep mental scars, and Asuka’s depression has reduced her to a mere shell of her former self. Amid this chaos, Shinji meets Kaworu, who introduces himself as the Fifth Child. Over the course of the episode, Kaworu's uncanny knowledge hints at his true nature as the Seventeenth Angel.

Kaworu befriends Shinji, showing him unconditional kindness, and creating an emotional climax as Shinji is forced to kill him. This moment is pivotal in cementing Shinji's struggles.

Angels as Reflective Forces

In Evangelion, battles against Angels represent more than humanity’s survival; they are a mirror for the pilots’ internal struggles. Each encounter peels back layers of their personalities, exposing vulnerabilities and pushing them toward growth—or collapse.

Each Angel challenges the pilots in deeply personal ways:

• Shinji’s Struggles with Connection: Kaworu forces Shinji to confront his fears of intimacy and rejection, offering love but becoming an enemy.

• Rei’s Quest for Identity: The Sixteenth Angel pushes Rei to question her existence, purpose, and growing self-awareness.

• Asuka’s Battle with Insecurity: The Fifteenth Angel, who assaults her mind, strips away her defenses, exposing the fragility beneath her bravado.

Seele has had enough of Gendos' bullshit and no longer trust him, launches a full-scale attack on NERV to execute Human Instrumentality themselves. Misato, realizing the pilots are NERV's last hope, sends Asuka's body into Eva-02 for safety while searching for Shinji. Rei, meanwhile, is with Gendo as he enacts his plan.

Shinji, paralyzed by worsening depression, resists piloting Eva-01 even as Misato pleads with him. Meanwhile, Asuka, inside Eva-02, has an epiphany: her mother’s soul has been with her all along. This revelation reignites her will to fight.

Asuka battles Seele’s forces, destroying wave after wave until they unleash nine mass-produced Evangelions—terrifying, dove-like monstrosities capable of regeneration. Despite her renewed strength, Asuka is overwhelmed. In her final moments, she is pierced by replica Lances of Longinus, destroying Eva-02’s ability to fight and leaving Asuka grievously wounded. The mass-produced Evas then tear her apart in a horrifying sequence.

The Human Instrumentality Project

Shinji’s psyche deteriorates further when he sees the mutilated remains of Eva-02. This moment marks the beginning of Instrumentality and the convergence of the final two episodes of Neon Genesis Evangelion with End of Evangelion. While the series explores Shinji’s internal struggles, the movie portrays the climactic external events.

Instrumentality is rooted in SEELE’s belief that humanity’s existence is a mistake. They see individuality as the source of human suffering—wars, loneliness, and misunderstanding—and aim to merge all souls into one collective consciousness to achieve eternal peace. This process dissolves the A.T. Fields that separate individual souls, but it comes at the cost of personal identity.

Gendo, however, manipulates Instrumentality for personal reasons. Desperate to reunite with Yui, he disregards humanity’s fate entirely, highlighting his inability to connect with anyone, including his son.

Shinji’s Role in Instrumentality

As Yui’s son and the pilot of Eva-01, Shinji becomes the unwitting key to Instrumentality. His emotional struggles mirror the philosophical questions posed by the project. Initially, Shinji succumbs to SEELE’s vision, lured by the promise of escaping pain and loneliness. But through introspection and haunting visions, he realizes that individuality, despite its pain, gives life meaning.

By rejecting Instrumentality, Shinji allows humanity to return to individual existence. However, this decision offers no guarantee of happiness. The final scenes of End of Evangelion—Shinji and Asuka alone on a desolate beach—are hauntingly ambiguous, underscoring the uncertainty and ongoing struggle of human existence

Shinji’s rejection of Instrumentality ultimately affirms the series’ central message: that the pain of individuality is worth enduring for the chance to experience love, connection, and personal growth. The Human Instrumentality Project, with all its complexity and symbolism, encapsulates Evangelion’s exploration of what it means to be human.

It’s 22:09 on a Monday as I write this. I’ve spent almost three weeks thinking and writing in French, preparing for a national exam. Trying to write in English now feels like it’s breaking my brain—or, as the saying goes, ça me casse la tête.

I still don’t know the proper time to write down resolutions—or if it even makes sense to write them down at all. Truth be told, I’ve never cared much for making New Year’s resolutions. I only learned it was a thing after I started using social media. As a child, my father would gift me a diary, and I’d start the year with a hopeful first entry, promising myself I’d write more. By March, I’d rip out the five entries I managed to write and hand the notebook over to my mother to use as a recipe scrapbook.

Another year has come and gone. Over a cup of tea, my mother asked if I’d accomplished any of the goals I’d set for myself this year. Two realizations hit me at once:
One, I’d burned my tongue.
Two, when thinking back over the months and past Decembers, there are moments I’m not sure if I even existed. Not in the sense of forgetting to exist, but that this past year felt more like a haze of forgetting than a practice of remembering.

Would it be a blessing to forget and be forgotten—or a curse?

Did i do enough?

This question lingers, heavy and persistent. I think back to the promises I made to myself last January: bold declarations and quiet hopes, most left untouched. There’s regret and shame. I wish things were different—that regret and shame didn’t come so easily.

I remind myself that life is rarely linear, that growth doesn’t always follow a neat plan. Still, it’s hard not to feel like I’m running out of time, like life is happening somewhere just out of reach. There were books I wanted to read but didn’t. Languages I wanted to learn but didn’t. Routines I wanted to build but abandoned halfway.

Yet, amidst the regret is a comforting thought: life unfolded in its own way. There were small joys—a sunny afternoon spent watching Frieren (I love this anime so much), a new song on repeat, a new inside joke with my siblings.

Maybe, just maybe, those moments matter as much in the grand scheme of things.

Last month, I traveled more than I had all year—job interviews, birthday parties, weddings. I talked to people and listened to what they had to say. I lost friends to distance and silence. I still think of him sometimes, quietly, but I’d cut off my hand before I reach for him again.

This summer, I was so terrified I can still taste it now. I took the tramway around a new city alone, ate too much mille-feuille, and forgot to take pictures. I learned to forgive my father.

I know I’ve been happy, but I want more. Will we ever stop wanting more?

If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that I’ll never be ready for what life has to offer. There’s nothing I know for sure and nothing I can say that hasn’t been said before. I won’t have the right words when it matters most.

I can keep waiting, hoping, sustained by little more than the promise of something yet to come—or I can shrug my shoulders and let it collect dust. I’ve learned to lean into the darker parts of myself, to let my fingers skirt around their edges without losing myself completely.

The grand scheme of things will fail us. But I have another year ahead. Another shot at making it all the way around. Another chance to get it right.

Here’s to all the late nights, early mornings, and the experiences gained. Here’s to finding meaning—or making it—and to living a life that feels full.

So, here’s the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.

To the promise of the new year.

much love,
Fatima.

This review contains spoilers.

Tender is The Flesh is a relatively short novel, written by the Argentinian author Agustina Bazterrica. In this book Bazterrica explores themes such as etchis, morality, and dehumanization.

Tender is The Flesh can be summarized as such:

After it was reported that an infectious virus has made all animal meat poisonous to humans. Then governments initiated the “Transition”; where eating human meat dubbed as special meat is legal.

Marcos Tejos, a former butcher kid, now works at a meat processing plant, where they grow humans as mindless animals to slaughter or sell.

His wife has left him after they lost their son, his father is sinking into dementia and rotting away in a nursing home. Marcos despises his job but feels he has to keep the position in order to care for his father and rebuild his marriage.

One day, Marcos receives a gift; a livestock of the finest quality. But instead of butchering her, he develops a forbidden relationship with her.

The premise may not give anything away or sound that compelling to read, but Tender is The Flesh is gruesome from the very beginning of the novel.

In the novel, all animal meat has been rendered inedible due to a virus that kills humans upon consumption. Hence humans simply decided to consume each other. Welcome to normalized and legalized cannibalism.

While I haven't been all that disturbed by all the gore in the book, what really impacted me was how easy it was to cast and reduce somebody to a head, male, or female.

The writing style is terrifically sterile and very matter of fact distant, a tone that perfectly matched the world of the dehumanizing effect of referring to other people as head or special meat.

Not much happens for the first half of the book, that is until Marcos is gifted a female FGP (a premium quality head) for his own personal use.

In a lot of discussion reddit threads, i saw people stating how shocked they were that he ended up killing her because it seemed that he loved her. But I found it truly horrific how Marcos treated Jasmine.

The moment he receives her, he ties her up in the barn and keeps there, sleeping in her own filth. And once he notices that she is attractive, he slightly improves her conditions and later on rapes her.
Even when he moves her into his house he still treats her in a dehumanizing way. She is locked away in a room where he can watch her. Jasmine has essentially been upgraded from pet to incubator and Marcos doesn't care about her beyond that, all he sees in her is the opportunity to rebuild his family and get the son that he lost.

There were a lot of clues scattered throughout the novel on Jasmine's demise, but what truly cemented it for me was when he ate the meat plated for him at the hunting game resort.

Marcos never saw Jasmine as a human and when his purpose for her was achieved he killed her.

Bazterrica did a fantastic job to show how this dehumanization phenomenon spreads. Kids finding humor in guessing how people would taste like, the scavengers talked about as if they are mere animals, sex trafficking rose as society gets more comfortable with seeing humans as a product. The scene when the guy talks about eating a trafficked girl was especially hard to stomach (pun intended, sorry). Even celebrities are not spared once they have nothing to show off.

That being said, I unfortunately struggled with the plot of the novel. Bazterrica introduced a lot of different characters and backstories just to never mention them after that, those characters were mainly for shock value and had nothing to offer to the main plot.

Around 80% of the book can be categorized as :

- Marcos reflection on his relationships, the sister who he hates, the wife who has left him, and the father who's in a nursing home due to his deteriorating mental health.

- Marcos engagement with different characters. We have the game hunters who hunt indebted celebrities before feasting on them, the skin connoisseur, the creepy guy who applied at the processing plant, the weird church who sends people to be butchered for reasons I have yet to understand. The scientist whose experiments are simply for torture, honestly what is the point of introducting this award winning scientist just for her to end up working on building safer cars when this is already been done?

Some of these instances managed to drag this read for me while making everything absurd and boring at the same time. I personally would love it if they were explored fully to add depth to the story.

My dissatisfaction with Tender is The Flesh is that it really didn't say anything about a lot of topics it glossed over. There is no real message about the meat industry, or family dynamics. I finished the book feeling really unfulfilled and like none of that 80% of the story meant anything.

Anyone have a different experience with the novel? I'd really be interested to hear your take.

I write so much about you, yet not enough to you.

In the quiet silence between us, I write and rewrite words that are yours. Words after words, they pile up in drafts, note apps, and stray papers, yet never find their way to you. Did you finally settle on the color in which you will be dying your hair? Did you finally get around to getting that doctor's checkup? How is it that you can find time to keep with everyone else yet fail to text a simple hi?

My thoughts reach out for you, but my letters stay suspended somewhere between intent and release. I spend too much time staring at the blinking line where there should have been an I'm good, hbu?.

Instead, I wrap my thoughts about you in metaphors, half-real, half-imagined, leaving trails of you hidden in plain sight, hoping you would notice. Sometimes I think of what I’m missing by not writing to you directly. How, in all those held-back words, there’s a kind of loneliness.

At any other time, I would convince myself that writing to you is the easiest way out of this limbo. But, tonight, I'm either a coward or a fool, and tonight, I too shall write about you. Unfiltered, unguarded, real.

I.
Now that it is October, I can comfortably say that this summer flattened me out. In the early days of August, all I did was work, sleep on and off, just to feel something aching to rest. I had also removed all social media apps from my phone (except Twitter) and turned off all of WhatsApp notifications. Just thinking of all the notifications waiting for me made me feel miserable. I just wanted to be, not a sister, not a friend, and not somebody who needs to act a certain way for others around me to be happy. I would often times lay on my side or my back, staring at the farthest corner of my room, feeling worse and worse. I would often think that I should at least get up, stretch a bit, and read a book. But I didn't. I felt completely disgusted with myself.

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II.
Back in 2020, I spent most of lockdown forcibly confronting all my childhood trauma. It was quite difficult to accept that my mother was both complicit in my abuse as well as a victim of my father's. From there on, I promised myself I would do my very best, trying not to be like her.

Well—cue a dramatic pause—I spent so much time trying not to be like my mother that I completely didn't see myself becoming my father. I felt so blindsided and disappointed. It's horrible. Part of me felt like I had lost control over my own narrative; after all, here I'm, frustratingly mirroring his rage like a perfect mirror. I'm still trying to reconcile my feelings with my parents and myself.

III.
On a Monday of late, awfully humid August, my father fell unexpectedly sick and had to be rushed to the ER. Everyone on call kept telling me how he is fine and not to worry, but I had to see him for myself to believe it.

When the moment of truth came, I found my father sat at his bedside, folded into himself, strangly docile, resigned, and small. It's been a week (at the time of writing this) after the visit, and I still can't find the right word to describe how strangly jarring it felt to find the man who always looked strong, even in the days of the passing of his father, look like that (it's wilted, I realized as I got to writing).
PS: He is doing well now!

IV.
After my talk with my mother about the whole deal of not having kids and not caring about marriage, She started showing me every short about kids she ever came across. I don't know how many "that's cute" in a monotone voice I have left in me before I completely lose it.

On the subject of losing it. Every single time I have to think about what to cook for dinner or "what do you want for dinner," it brings me closer to the edge. I'm so close to asking ChatGPT to create a weekly menu for me.

V.

VI.

Things i have been watching/reading/liking:

• Finished watching Neon Genesis Evangelion and The End of Evangelion. And I’m planning to write about that soon.

• Currently watching Gintama, a parody, historical sci-fi action anime. Absolutely obsessed with Kintoki (the main character), who started a business for doing odd jobs after being a samurai was banned.

• Re-read Flowers for Algernon. Still makes me feel sad.

Little spoiler ahead.

One thing that always stuck out to me was that Charlie was never able to relate to any person throughout the entire story. Before the procedure, he’s mentally challenged. And after it, he's slowly ascending to the point where he eventually became on a much higher level than the men who made him a genius.

His aggression and anger also stuck with me. It's well written and very accurate, as well as his reasons for the aggression, specifically during his descent.

See you next time,

f <3

The Stepford Wives

During the time when the feminist movement was gaining momentum, Stepford, a small town in the US, seems to show an inexplicable regression. Independent, free-spirited women are turning into cleaning maniacs and dedicated, well dressed soulless housewives.

What the hell is going on in this community? Something in the air? The water? Is it a disease? Is it contagious? This is what we set to discover throughout our journey in "The Stepford Wives" of Ira Levin. Published in 1972, the book tapped into the societal concerns of the womans' liberation movement, traditional gender expectations and the pressures to conform to societal norms.

Levin skillfully weaves a tale of suspense as Walter, Joanna Eberhart our protagonist, and their kids move into Stepford. Joanna meets the eerie picture perfect of the women in town. Sensing something fishy is going on, it all becomes a desperate quest for answers, before she succumbs to the same fate.

I loved everything about this book, the writing is faced paced, Levin's writing keeps you on the edge of your seats till the very end, making you wonder what's stepford dark secret. Joanna plays an amazing main character, and Bobbie (my favourite) is a hilarious sidekick. The book is packed with a bunch of feminist references too, which i will be looking into whenever i have time.

Once you notice the soulless wives, you can't help but notice how the men of Stepford don't want liberated women. They want wives whose sole reason to be is housekeeping, and satisfying her husbands sexual desires. They want women who look as pretty as a doll and are unable to think for themselves.

But, Walter, Joanna's husband is not like that, after all he seems quite happy with their life. But, i couldn't help wondering, is he on what is happening in Stepford? Is that why they moved there?

It all becomes clear when Joanna insists on moving away from Stepford and Walter in a classic manipulative move, pretends to consider her point of view, calls her irrational and a little hysterical, then tries to guilt trip her by explaining how hard it will be for the kids to move again, then finally suggests that she sees a psychiatrist to see if she's being delusional. Walter as you would have guessed it, is just like the other men of Stepford.

The ending was too open for what i usually read but a welcome one either way. The Stepford Wives deserve its status, being a timeless classic in the world of psychological thrillers.

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Hideout

Hideout is a horror manga by Masasumi Kakizaki, published in a single volume compromised of nine chapters in 2010. When i read the plot on Wikipedia, i didn't think much of it, but the art style is such a wonderful work that i stayed just for it.

Hideout is a straightforward horror story with a basic plot. About this husband, Seiichi Kirishima and his wife Miki Kirishima relationship. And as the manga progresses, the clearer it becomes that the relationship was doomed to never work out from the beginning.

Anyway, turns out that the husband has plans to fix their marriage. What is it you ask? Well it's a holiday trip on this beautiful island. That is until they are driving in the middle of the night, in the middle of the forest, while it's raining cats and dogs, and oh, no. The car stopped and they decide to walk outside.

So yeah, the husband plans to fix their marriage, was -is- to kill his wife. Because there would be no marriage to fix, if your wife was dead somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

However, Seiichi's plan goes a wary for two reasons. Reason number one, the wife manages to escape his attempt at killing her. And reason number two, there is someone else in the woods or shall i say the cave which Miki escaped to. A savage looking old man who kidnaps women and eats/kills men (i guess?).

Unfortunately, i didn’t find the old man scary. Sure, the first time he pops up with his big eyes in the darkness might have jumpscared me a little, but that was it. I think the husband was way more scarier than him. Seiichi is a man who lost his work, his son, and has his wife’s family threatening to sue him for all his worth (which is close to nothing) if he even dares to think about divorce. Safe to say, the man is pushed to his breaking point, and so, he resorted to murder.

I enjoyed reading this manga, and found its bleak ending that i won't go into much detail about a rather a welcome one. I won't recommend it for its story, but rather for its amazing art style.

That’s all for now, take care of yourself, and have a good day!

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I tend to consume media obsessively, like when i binge watched most of Attack of Titans (have only the last part left to watch), or when i only watched anime movies. During that time i found a list of films by Satoshi Kon. I started with the 1997 animated film: Perfect Blue. And boy, oh boy, was it trippy (pun intended). I have watched movies of similar nature before, and usually by the end of it I would be able to tell what happened in reality Vs what didn’t. However, that wasn’t the case with perfect blue, and I still am not sure of what actually happened.

Perfect blue as summarized on wikipedia is a psychological thriller that tells the story of Mima, a pop idol who decides to leave her music career to pursue acting. As she transitions into her new career, she becomes a victim of stalking by an obsessive fan, and a disturbing series of events that blurs the boundaries between reality and fantasy.

Mima’s public image transformation is viewed through her agent Tadokoro, her manager Rumi; a former idol herself, and her stalker; a die hard fan from her days as an idol, and the blogger who writes about her. As the transition unfolds, we watch as Mima grapples with the loss of her former identity, the pressure of her new role in the movie, the obsessive stalker, and her own deteriorating mental health.

The film narrative weaves between dreams and reality, which most of the time made me unsure of what is a figment of Mima’s imagination and what actually happened. As Mima’s mental state deteriorates, the film becomes increasingly surreal and nightmarish. The use of visual symbolism, intense psychological sequences, and an atmospheric soundtrack contribute to the overall psychological tension of the story.

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I think there could be a lot of interpretations of Perfect blue, some more literal than others. But, for the sake of this post i’m going to talk about two of them.

Scenario no.1:

The most straightforward interpretation is that Rumi thinks she is “the real Mima” (the pop idol persona), creates the blog “Mima’s room” and leads the stalker into killing people. The actual Mima ends up doubting herself, and her memories, leading her to a mental breakdown after discovering “Mima’s room”. She then survives the stalker attempts at killing her, and faces Rumi as she reveals herself as the antagonist.

After the whole ordeal, Rumi ends up in a psych ward, and the real Mima is a successful actress with a renewed sense of identity.

Seems like a pretty straightforward (or as straightforward as it gets) explanation, isn’t it?

Except the ending feels a little too neat and complete given everything that happened in the movie. We didn’t watch Mima’s psychosis only for her to end up as the sane one.

If Mima killing the photographer (and then finding the bloodied clothes from the crime scene) isn’t real, then what makes the ending scene of her smiling rear view mirror of her car any more real?

Scenario no.2:

Here, we could argue that the most obvious interpretation is that the show that Mima got signed to is real and the whole movie (Perfect blue) is taking place in her head as a way to cope. Essentially, we are watching the reality she made to cope with her trauma.

For this show, Mima acts a rape scene, where her idol persona appears before her and calls her tarnished. That same trauma is reflected in the show story line, Mima or Yoko; a rape victim who creates a different personality to cope with trauma, and gets revealed as the real killer of the show. So for this scenario, Mima is the name of the personality Yoko created to cope with the traumatic rape she experienced.

Speaking of that rape scene, i couldn’t watch the whole of it because it felt too real despite it supposedly being a scene for a show. And in construct to that, the sexual assault (which is not an acting scene) where the stalker tries to kill Mima seems kind of unrealistic in it’s depiction.

Perhaps, the TV show (i’m sorry i forgot its name) is Yoko’s real life experience, and she is dreaming of being this idol turned actress who can fight off her rapist, while simultaneously telling herself that the rape she was victim off was a mere scene acted in a show, after all the human brain can find strange ways to cope with trauma or/and erase it from memory.

There could be countless other scenarios, different personas and different realities. But I think a great aspect of this movie is the struggle of identity. That theme is so focal to the plot that whatever reality you think of, the movie would still be a great existential horror.

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I used to write book reviews and others on Medium to keep things seperated, but, i kind of got tired of their editing options on there. I’m thinking of slowly bringing some on here and just adding them under a title (like notes from “month”).

Here is a poll to vote:

*Lowkey feel like i won’t commit to a new publication that much too lol.

Thank you for reading and making it this far. Have a good day wherever you are!

until new time,

Fatima <3