A doodly doodly obiguous cat
Posted on December 31, 2025.
A doodly doodly obiguous cat
I enjoy winter, the last season of the year. Winter is nothing else but a marked period on the calendar, a human struggle to keep track of the past and the future. Who, however, is blind to those numbers that represent days, months, and years? Increase the bigger number by one, it's a New Year!
To reflect on this year's trajectory, such an interesting life has been through me. Despite my efforts to thrive in silence, certain moments struck in me intense emotions. Still attached to my teddy bear, in complaints about oppression, I've felt tired to death. Pondering whether my writings are perceived as pretentious or overconfident, fighting my periodical urges to constantly revise or entirely delete what I've written, never have I felt more anxious. Without my outré word choices, overdoses on negative inversions, and endless rhetorical questions, what is there left of me?
I had to set November free - my drafts from then are still in hatred of me! I've hung on to many new ideas, but their fiery insistences... I could not produce a single meaningful, voluminous piece. Unsurprisingly, December stepped on psychiatry and sunk into the absence of free will, swinging on an already-loose bridge. It is out of self-passion that I release new texts, and I do enjoy these creative sessions with pride, but my insecurities invade my body so often.
June, July, and August were a misery. For a long time, I've not only hated summer but also loathed and detested it. Catch a glimpse of what I've written back then, I choke on my own spit of anxiety. To my ears, those texts sound too underdeveloped and simplistic, lacking in depth and clarity. Summer was just about three months ago, and I'll likely feel the same way in the near future about my more recent writings, too. I cannot count how many times I've re-read what I've already released, only to predict how it will be perceived. It's its own challenge to publish online and deal with my destructive perfectionism. Indeed, who am I writing for? I'll never know.
I enjoy discussing seasons. Winter is a cozy season. No skies publicly declare, "You must be happy," unlike the skies of summer. The Sun no more shines as loud as it used to. Its striking rays of light would irritate my skin and vision. Of course, the Sun does not just disappear in winter. Instead, it is more often cloaked in clouds, and whenever it happens to shed some light with no filtration, the cold air compensates for its bright imagery. What if the air is also hot? Then, even the knowledge of the Sun's occasional humility, with which it will take itself down, is pleasurable - though it never annihilates itself.
I don't mean that we must be crippling in sadness under devastating clouds, but I feel that we rarely appreciate how accurately winter represents a truth about people. Behind some people's preference for summer over winter is likely this hilarious, typical image of "enjoyment": swimming in a seemingly endless portion of water and constantly traveling from one city to another - in other words, physical, loud activity! Winter breaks this extravagant routine down, as soon as those boundless activities are now impossible, at the same time as the limitations imposed on our lifestyles arise without sunny distractions.
Say, the classroom habitat recurs in fall and only becomes increasingly tedious in winter. Between four walls, with a few windows, divided in classrooms, legally required to attend, pursuing the last ringing of the bell, we students are bound to a strict schedule that won't diminish in the future. It's no more out of curiosity or interest that we learn but only so we can score higher in a future exam and gain the skills of the next exploited worker. Take the bus, brush your teeth, wake up again... Even to prepare, it burns me out, and likely, so are teachers, who just seek to feed themselves. It's a collective exhaustion.
Both winter and fall, however, resonate with me. While it's distasteful to suffer from respiratory sickness, freezing in winter somehow delights me. To taste the warmth following my exposure to coldness, once I arrive at an indoor spot, is another relief. I realize that were I to spend several hours in my beloved coldness, the cold would tickle in an exactly-opposite sensation to the slight breeze of a fan, and no longer would I be such a fan. However, even the thought of coldness in the air is beautiful to me.
Unsurprisingly, wouldn't I have an argument for why we should prefer winter over summer? Consider that we find displeasure in two imagined states, extreme coldness and extreme hotness, which characterize our dislike for winter and summer, respectively. The more possible it is to survive one of these states, the more preferable the corresponding season should be. As you approach the former state, you can bundle up in as many layers as you can to combat the cold air. For the latter, you'll likely continue suffering in the heat unless you inevitably tear off your skin. It is perhaps more possible to handle extreme coldness, hence winter should be the nicer option.
From reflecting on the past to widely discussing winter and summer, my mind has loved wandering around new concepts, paralleling the totality of this personal website in addition. "Some people cannot shut up," they say. In that remark, it is my inner voice that replaces the subject even though I'm a quiet person outside. It seems that I've become more confident in expressing myself despite occasional flushes of anxiety.
Really, I operate on a constant series of thoughts. With this website, I let those thoughts dance at their own pace. It was my primary desire to raise awareness about queer oppression, and such an objective couldn't be deprived of references to the systemic base, namely, patriarchy and capitalism, I would later realize. Although school won't lift its burden off my back, I'm still in a state of motion, publishing what occupies my mind with a motivation to research more. Superlatives usually imply oneness. Happily, the website shall continue throughout 2026. It's my darkest fear to say things that do not make sense. Happy New Year!