Not Yet Corpses, Still We Rot

I find it ironic, weird as it may be, that today is Friday the 13th. With that said, here is an ode I never thought I will get to write. (To the ones here, you have been blessed by my left hand)

Exactly one year ago today, something rather inconvenient almost happened.

No, this is not the beginning of a mystery novel. It is also not a philosophical musing on the passage of time (although if you’ve read anything here before, you know that I will inevitably wander into that territory anyway). What it is, however, is a peculiar sort of anniversary.

One that technically should exist.

And yet, (thankfully?), does not.

If timelines worked like poorly edited Netflix shows with alternate endings, today would have been a rather sombre occasion. There would probably be a few dramatic flashbacks, some melancholic piano music in the background, and a long monologue about “what could have been.”

Thankfully, the universe decided against that particular script.

Instead, here we are.

Now before anyone imagines a dramatic phoenix-rising moment, let me clarify something important. Life does not magically transform in twelve cinematic months. There was no thunderbolt of wisdom. No overnight transformation into a serene, enlightened human who has everything figured out.

If anything, the year has mostly consisted of the usual chaos: unfinished tasks, overthinking sessions at ungodly hours, existential crises triggered by the most random things, and the occasional burst of productivity that makes me feel briefly superior to my past self.

So, in many ways, nothing changed.

And yet everything did.

Because one quiet detail shifted: I stayed.

Which is both the most ordinary and the most extraordinary thing in the world.

However, staying does come with its own confusing side effects.

For instance, the uncomfortable realization that you now have to continue being a person.

Which brings me to a question that has been quietly following me around lately.

What am I?

Lately I wonder why I could never introduce myself as a writer, a poet, a lover. I do write: you are witness to that. Why then, can’t I add poet, lover, writer to daughter, sister, aunt, student, friend and that list? Is it because this blog only wakes up one Friday morning at 2 AM occasionally? Or because I have nothing to write about except a guilty plight that gnaws my insides every time I kneel down to pray? Or because the identity of a poet is far too heavy to do justice to with my scanty lines of subjective pain? But I know I can't be a lover because my father says so.

The funny part is that when you look back at that moment, it doesn’t feel dramatic anymore. Memory has a way of sanding down sharp edges. What once felt like a collapsing universe now appears, strangely enough, like a very dark room that eventually found a window.

Did someone open that window? I genuinely have no idea.

Maybe it was time. Maybe stubbornness. Maybe the tiny voice in the back of the mind that refuses to quit even when logic suggests otherwise. Human beings are annoyingly resilient like that.

Personally, I suspect curiosity played a role.

There is something deeply inconvenient about the human desire to know what happens next. Even when everything feels unbearable, some small part of the brain whispers: yes, but what if something interesting happens tomorrow?

And apparently that whisper was persuasive enough.

Now, if we were being theatrically dramatic about this, today could have been a memorial of sorts. Imagine the awkwardness of having a death anniversary for a person who is still very much alive and complaining about Wi-Fi speed. I suspect the logistics alone would be exhausting. Besides, literature has already given us Ophelia; the world hardly needs another girl floating poetically through tragedy.

Besides, if this had turned into a tragic anniversary, someone would probably have written a very serious tribute about “a life cut short.” And knowing me, it would have been wildly inaccurate. I can barely write my own bio without exaggerating my productivity; imagine someone else trying.

The point is, timelines are strange creatures. One decision, one moment, one tiny interruption in the script and suddenly the whole story veers somewhere else. A year ago the future looked like a locked door. Turns out it was just… a door I didn't want to push. (Still don't)

Which feels slightly embarrassing in hindsight.

So here we are a year later. Not dramatically healed. Not suddenly fearless. Not floating through life dispensing profound wisdom.

Just… here.

Which turns out to be more than enough.

If this were a proper reflective blog post, this is where I would neatly list all the lessons learned and end with a motivational quote about perseverance. Unfortunately for all involved, I have learned very few tidy lessons.

What I do know is this: the version of me that existed a year ago could not see this version. Not because the future was particularly spectacular, but because the future simply existed.

Sometimes survival is not heroic. Sometimes it is just quietly refusing to disappear.

And that, oddly enough, changes the entire story.

So today marks an anniversary.

Not of something that happened.

But of something that didn’t.

Which, if you think about it, might be the most important kind.