i don't know what to call this.

Somehow, it took me a cup of buckwheat tea, the lazy atmosphere of a restaurant, the late Joan Didion’s essays, a whole winter of writing mediocre poetry, and my mother’s migraine to move me to type in ‘oysterhabitat.com’ on my search bar: a place that was once alive with my breath, my heart, and my penchant for exploration, that now turned into a ghost town — reduced into another one of those invisible phantoms on the vast, open internet. 

As I read through some of my old posts, I couldn’t help but cringe at my scatterbrained writing style, nonsensical metaphors, and trying-too-hard-to-sound-clever vocabulary — all of which still linger on today (but, slightly less so: one may say I’ve improved a little, *wink*). However, I managed to brush aside the cringe and focus on the heart of my writing, from which I realised that despite all of its flaws, the act of writing helped me discover myself — a way to document my navigation into my mind, and most importantly, tangilise it. I think I soon realised that writing was not only a passive act. Through writing, I had the pleasure of imposing my ideas, my innermost thoughts, onto the reader. Maybe, ‘to inspire’ is the right term. But in a way, that’s just a bonus that comes along with publicly voicing one’s mind. 

This platform, to me, was never a place to boast. Instead, it was somewhere where I could organise my thoughts, reflect, and get my life together — online. There’s something rewarding about posting a piece so intimate and personal to me on Oyster Habitat. In a way, I was marking each stepping stone I took on my journey. In other words, holding myself accountable. It also allowed me to share a little bit of myself with the world. Oyster Habitat was a gift to me, by me. 

I disappeared for some time, and now, writing for Oyster Habitat again feels like I’ve finally come home. Because, for the first time since the end of 2020, I’m writing something that serves me, and me alone — without an essay structure (for I’m writing this on a whim), just my thoughts on a Google Document. It feels like I’ve rekindled my voice: and it’s growing louder. But, not entirely from silence, for I’ve never lost hold on my love for writing, even if I only wrote in whispers. 

I know that I don’t have a large following — I can count the number of people who read my posts on one hand. But, in my ‘absence,’ a little more than a few things have come into perspective for me. Looking back at my old posts, how much I’ve grown (and changed) as an individual came into stark focus. It came unexpectedly (like the best things do), because instead of feeling embarrassed of my pre-lockdown self, what she had to say, and how she said it, I felt disappointed in my present self — at the same time, inspired, hopeful, and touched. Who was that girl who had such a zest for life, who carried such radiance, who beamed sunshine, who was driven by passion? I’ve lost touch with her. 

All my confidence was put in the things I was passionate about. It was passion that drove me forward. But, perhaps, the wind blew a little too strong, and that passion I sang of crumbled to the ground. Then, a certain wave of numbness swallowed me whole. 

Covered in dim light and the low murmurs of the restaurant, I made a choice — a choice to begin writing for this ‘blog’ again, to thaw the ice, to let spring in, to rediscover myself. Now, I just got out of a taxi in Seoul as I weave words together in my mind — the low, crescent moon glows blood, softly, and I walk past red lights, signs, signals, a smoking woman, in the piercing, winter air. There is so much world.

See you soon,

Solaia