The Dream

Holiday—
I didn’t want
to do anything.

I recognised
I didn’t have
long left.

I felt
desperate.

It dawned on me…

I might be
depressed.

The Meaning

the holiday
When rest is mistaken for disinterest.

time running out
Shouldn’t I be doing… all the things? This is the guilt of not conforming to toxic productivity.

naming the depression
Maybe what I’m calling depression… is not being anxious. Maybe what looks like laziness… holds weight.

What Lingers…

What if it’s not depression—just resting for the first time ever?

What if doing nothing is how the deeper whispers finally get heard?

---

Marginalia

I’ve quit a mismatched school and am waiting for the new one to start. I’m supposed to be studying, but instead I’m ferociously digging into my ancestry, chasing a dream of The House That Contains Everything.

Not having anything clear to do, for an overachiever, is akin to dying.
An existential crisis wired in from the start: if you’re not achieving, not producing, you’re useless.

The question rises: am I procrastinating? Does this research mean anything at all? Does it tie into a bigger picture perhaps?

But the void doesn’t stay empty. It fills itself—
not with herbal work,
but with whispers.
With intuition.
With dreams.

I’m listening. Remembering.
Not doing. Not achieving.