The Stratagem’s Archive

Category: Writing Journey

  • Challenge Unlocked: Taking a 24 Hour Break From Writing (and My Blog Stats)

    “Can I really take 24 hours off from writing? In this personal challenge, I test myself to rest, resist checking my blog stats, and reflect on the grip of consistency. Join me as I push against burnout and redefine what balance means for a writer.”

    Welcome — However You Found Your Way Here

    How Long Before I Crack?

    In about three of my earlier posts,

    I talked about finally giving myself time to rest my mind — and my iPad — from writing. I wanted to let go of the insistent need to publish consistently, and, because I didn’t do that, I’m taking escalating measures for myself.

    There’s something that scratches a part of my brain when I look at my stat cards and see blue fully coloring each month. It signals that I’ve been able to write and publish consistently, as though someone is holding a gun to my head. But that “someone” is just me. The gun is metaphorical. I don’t need this pressure.

    Time is not anyone’s friend — wealthy or destitute, charming or awkward, caffeine-addicted or caffeine-averse, healthy or sickly — we are all on borrowed time. Even though the title says “24 hours,” that’s simply a goalpost, not the goal itself. The real challenge is broken down hour by hour: Am I able to make it through the first hour? The second? Can I push it to three?

    I’ve been able to wean myself off soda for 18 years: first cold turkey for one week, then gradually reducing intake week by week until I stayed clean for nearly two decades. If I could do that with a highly carbonated, sugary drink, maybe I can do the same with my writing.

    The Challenge

    Let me tell you, kicking myself off of any screen is a vastly different beast than no longer drinking soda.

    Starting the moment I publish this post, I will take at least 24 hours completely off writing. During this time, I will not:

    • Write anything new for my blog or anywhere else
    • Check my WordPress/Jetpack stats or any tracking apps

    If I crack and publish anything other than reflections about this challenge, I will face a penalty from my Penalty Roulette (see below). The penalty is designed to be visceral enough to make me hesitate before breaking the rule, but still safe and within my boundaries.

    I’ve Cracked From Other Challenges

    I’m not saying that I’m some disciplined guru who’s motivated every day. I’ve struggled to make it through the first few days, even the first few hours, because my brain is recognizing a break in routine.

    If it’s nice enough, then my brain won’t spiral out of control and call me a “useless, worthless failure who can’t do anything right”. So cheerful, I know.

    However, that is the point of trying something out anyways—to gauge where my baseline of energy is and to see how long I can last.

    This is a simple little challenge, not the Spartan runs or those Death Valley marathons. When I read about these things I wanted to do a Spartan run, and I’m deathly terrified for the people doing those Death Valley runs, so not exactly my cup of tea, but to each their own, right?

    Penalty Roulette

    Anywho, if I break the rules, I will roll a die (which I totally have being the nerd I am) to assign one of the following penalties:

    Number

    1

    2

    3

    4

    5

    6

    7

    8

    Penalty

    Cold Shower

    Hated Chore

    Wall-sit

    Digital detox

    Tedious task

    Mental rage

    Mini habit reset

    Observation drill

    Duration

    2-3 minutes

    Deep cleaning

    1-2 minutes

    2-3 hours added

    Fold/wash/walk

    What I hate…

    Return to habit

    Stare at a thing

    Roll once if I crack; penalties are done immediately. If I crack multiple times, roll multiple times and do all assigned penalties consecutively.

    A Reflection for Fellow Archivists

    I know it might sound strange to plan a challenge about not doing something I normally love. But there’s value in testing my discipline, my patience, and my relationship with my own habits. The hours I spend away from writing will be a conscious exercise in rest, curiosity, and self-respect.

    If you’re reading this, I’d love your silent support while I attempt this challenge. You don’t need to comment, like, or interact — just knowing someone else out there is aware helps.

    Although, liking, sharing, subscribing, and just checking out the archives would help grow this little corner of the internet for other Weary, Wondering, and Wandering curious Fellow Archivists to find.

    Mostly to have a place to potentially feel seen, to not perform for, to explore someone else’s journey in the middle while exploring your own, and not needing to feel pressured to fit into something that doesn’t fit for you.

    This is also an invitation to reflect:

    • do you give yourself space to rest without guilt?
    • Or do you feel like there’s always a “goal” to chase?

    Maybe you can try it too, and notice what happens when you step away from your own routine for a short period.

    I hit “publish” now. Let the first hour begin.

    Gifts From Me to You

    Thank you for being here and present with me. Before I take my leave, I’d like to share with you a few things I’ve made that you are welcome to check out:

    Thank you again. I’ll see you all at the end of this personal resting period. Wish me luck!

    — The Stratagem’s Archive

  • The Archive Impulse: Why I Keep Writing Even When I Should Rest

    Welcome — However You Found Your Way Here

    Playing Chicken with Myself

    In my last article,Bound by Compulsion: The Hidden Cost of Rituals We Can’t Escape, I tried to untangle why I keep doing what I do — writing every day, stacking projects, refusing to stop even when stopping makes sense.

    I thought it was compulsion. Maybe it is. But as I’ve sat with it, I think there’s another layer to it.

    It feels like I’m playing chicken with myself.

    I stay up too late. I sleep too little. I keep pushing the line forward, daring myself to see how much further I can go before something breaks. And the strange part? I’m not doing it because it’s efficient or even because I enjoy it all the time. I’m doing it because regret is nipping at my heels.

    The Pressure of Time

    I’ve mentioned this feeling, this pressure, in my other articles,

    I’m getting closer to thirty. I’m not married. I’m not cushioned by a comfortable job. I make about $50,000 a year across two jobs — warehouse work at $23/hour, smashing rooms at $16/hour. I’m building my emergency fund, tucking money into retirement, tackling debt one month at a time, and finding small ways to make my ideas tangible: like printing my first ever stickers, and waiting for my hoodie with The Stratagem’s Archive stitched across it to arrive.

    Brick by brick, I’m building something of my own.

    And yet, I still feel those unspoken expectations pressing down:

    You’re running out of time. You’re falling behind. You’re worth less the older you get.

    Society whispers it louder to women — that men age into “distinguished,” while women age out of relevance. Maybe it’s not true for everyone. But it feels real. And that’s enough to make me push harder, faster, almost recklessly. All because I can’t shake myself from believing these scripts as though written in stone.

    Why I Don’t Stop

    The irony isn’t lost on me: pushing like this could shorten the very time I’m afraid of wasting. But when I measure my choices, I still land here:

    • I don’t want to die with a locked archive of things I never dared to try.
    • So I dare myself.
    • To print the stickers.
    • To launch the blog.
    • To write every day even when I’m exhausted.
    • To see what else I can do before the door slams shut.

    It’s not compulsion in the medical sense, maybe. It’s not just discipline or routine either. It’s something murkier. Something like survival. Something like what I’ve started to call the Archive Impulse — the stubborn need to leave something behind that proves I was here. That I was alive and made something that could survive me.

    A Dangerous Engine

    This impulse has given me things I’m proud of. The blog. The manifestos. The archive that keeps growing because I refuse to stop feeding it.

    But it’s also a dangerous engine.

    It eats my rest.

    It blurs my days.

    It makes me question whether I’m in control, or if the need to “do more” is driving me instead.

    Still, it’s mine. It’s the fire that didn’t go out. And even if it burns me sometimes, I’d rather risk the flame than live in the quiet regret of never striking the match. Something that Burning the Candle at Both Ends… For What? Has tried to figure out too.

    To Fellow Archivists

    If you’re reading this and you’ve felt that pressure too — that dare to do more before time takes the chance away — know this: you’re not alone.

    We might not all share the same rituals, or the same fears, but we share the weight. We share the stubbornness. We share the ache of wanting to leave something that proves we mattered.

    Maybe you call it something else. I call it the Archive Impulse.

    A Gentle Ask

    If this article resonates, if you’ve felt the same ticking clock or the same weight pressing down, I invite you to do three things:

    Like this post — it helps show this archive is worth finding. Share it with someone who might need to hear they’re not alone. Subscribe to join The Stratagem’s Archive — you’ll receive behind-the-scenes thoughts, experiments, and my newsletter Letters from the Void.

    As a thank you, subscribers also get access to Two Manifestos + A Gift (For Fellow Archivists) — my early experiments, raw and imperfect, but alive.

    Every click, every return, every silent read helps this space grow. It shifts this archive from being just mine to being ours.

    Author’s Reflection

    I know I can’t keep daring myself forever without cost. I don’t know how to stop yet, but I’m trying to learn how to rest without feeling like I’ve failed.

    Maybe that’s the next dare.

    Until then, the Archive Impulse keeps me moving forward. One brick at a time. One article at a time. One stubborn act of creation after another.

    Thanks for reading.

    — The Stratagem’s Archive

  • Bound By Compulsion: When Anger Got the Best of Me at Work

    Rituals Aren’t the Only Things Ruled by Compulsion

    Yesterday, my anger finally spilled over at work. It started like any other Thursday — heavy freight, short-staffed, everyone tired. But when management decided to send home the coworkers who had come in on their day off earlier in the week, everything shifted.

    The only reason seemed obvious: avoid paying them overtime. Never mind that Mondays are our most understaffed days. Never mind that those people helped keep us afloat. Instead, we were left with fewer hands on one of our reasonably busier days.

    I felt frustration rising even before the afternoon sort began. My job was to push freight down the slides from the top of the conveyor belts, making sure boxes reached the right cans. For a while, things were steady. But less than an hour in, the freight started piling high. We were stacking boxes so tall we couldn’t even see our coworkers at the bottom, hoping nothing rolled down and hit them.

    What frustrated me most wasn’t just the work itself — it was watching people stand around, chatting, with no urgency as the piles grew. I could feel my anger bristle, like hackles rising.

    The Word I Couldn’t Say

    In the morning meeting, management promised we’d be done between 2:30 and 3:30 p.m. At first, it sounded reasonable. But once they announced more than a dozen people would be sent home, and once it was clear most of the part-timers weren’t showing up, I knew it was impossible.

    Still, we pressed on. I distracted myself by talking to the coworkers beside me — the ones I trust, the ones I can work alongside without losing my mind. But the slowdown at the bottom dragged everything else down, and the team lead that supervised us just stood around, watching. The only time they moved was when their friends were working. Everyone else? “Fuck you, do your job.”

    As the sky grew darker with sudden rain and the promised end time slipped further away, I lost it. My anger boiled over.

    And that’s when I realized the word I’d been circling in my first “Bound by Compulsion: The Hidden Cost of Rituals We Can’t Escape” article — the word I couldn’t name then — had been staring me in the face all along.

    That word is enough.

    I’m Never Enough

    At nearly every job I’ve had, I’ve felt like I was never enough: Not good enough, not needed enough, not smart enough, not successful enough.

    No matter how much I create — my blog, my stickers, my hoodie, my manifestos — it never silences the voice inside that says:

    You’re worthless. You’re weak. You’re pathetic. You’re never good enough.

    That’s why I don’t rest. That’s why I keep pushing. Because resting feels like proof of my worthlessness. Even when I tell myself I’ll take a break, I don’t.

    That, if I keep building up more evidence that I’m not worthless, weak, pathetic, and never good enough, maybe I could finally convince myself to believe that I am enough.

    It still has yet to happen…

    Yesterday, that weight of time marching on pressed down harder than ever, like a boot at the back of my neck. And my anger — the old familiar companion — took over.

    My Anger Wasn’t Justified

    As the clock kept ticking past the supposed end time, I watched management glare down at us from the windows above our sorting area. It felt like we were to blame for them being stuck there while we carried the load. My body was breaking down — the boxes were heavier, my strength was gone, I was getting so hungry, and I had to let more and more freight pass me by. My coworkers along the conveyor belt needed to pick up my slack frustrated me more.

    I spiraled. I said out loud I wanted to die, that all this giving and breaking ourselves down for this job left us with nothing in return. Nothing.

    And then I snapped. Not at management. Not at the people standing around. At someone I could actually call a friend. I didn’t scream at her, but my voice rose and my anger spilled out. She didn’t deserve it. It came out when she mentioned being patient, that we were almost done work, but my spirals don’t care about that.

    I had been patiently waiting for years that it felt like a burden waiting more. I wanted to die again. I mentioned this feeling in, Some Days I Don’t Want to Be Here — On Surviving When Everything Else Feels Heavy, but I struggled to keep myself in check.

    I couldn’t follow my own advice because I wanted this pain of feeling time slip by as I kept getting nothing in return for killing myself at a job that would easily replace me, if I got too out of hand or just existing, weighing down on me.

    Afterward, my friend asked if I was okay. I just shook my head, too tired to form words. She stayed patient anyway, talking to me, waiting for her Hot Cheetos delivery while I grabbed my things and left.

    I felt ashamed. I still do.

    Enough

    I don’t want anger to rule my life. But it has, for a long time. Practicing patience is hard when people disappoint me, when I disappoint myself, when nothing ever feels like enough.

    Snapping yesterday wasn’t justified. But naming what happened — naming the word that haunts me — is at least a step. Maybe the next time I feel myself bristling from things out of my control, I can pause before I snap. Maybe I can remember that I don’t have to measure my worth against impossible expectations.

    For now, though, I’m still sitting with anger, exhaustion, and the weight of not feeling enough. But at least I’ve given it words.

    Reflection

    Have you ever felt anger take over at work, only to regret how it came out later? Or felt that crushing sense of “not enough” hang over you, no matter what you’ve accomplished?

    If this piece resonates with you — even quietly — liking, subscribing, or sharing helps this little archive grow. It’s how more people in similar situations can find these words and know they’re not alone.

    Thank you for reading, whether this is your first visit or you’ve been returning in silence.

    — The Stratagem’s Archive

  • Bound by Compulsion: The Hidden Cost of Rituals We Can’t Escape

    Welcome — However You Found Your Way Here

    Resting is Easier Said Than Done

    In my last article, Writing for 40 Days and Nights: Time for a Break, I said that I was going to take a break. That I was going to finally give myself time to recover from, not only publishing for 40 consistent days, working on my downloadable Stratagem’s Manifesto 1.5 and making sticker drafts you can find here, Two Manifestos + A Gift (For Fellow Archivists), in, what, less than a week? Yeah, less than a week to finish.

    As much as I want to hibernate for a month, my mind is buzzing with more ideas, more things to sit with, more things to process than I can keep up with. It’s not bad, though, it can be a lot to juggle.

    Sometimes I feel as though I’m holding myself hostage to the grind of writing and publishing, but also wanting to answer for myself, “what else can I do?”

    The only way I know how to answer this question is to take action — keep writing, keep thinking, keep breaking myself because it’s the only way forward.

    Sometimes I think that doing the things that I do are simply out of habit. However, I started wondering that it might be more than habit, discipline, or motivation fanning these flames.

    I Don’t Have a Diagnosis

    This feeling doesn’t feel like it’s OCD — at least, I don’t think so, without a proper diagnosis. But it’s close enough that the shadow it casts follows me everywhere.

    I live by certain rituals, routines, and rules not because I want to, and not because I’ve mastered discipline, but because I feel like I have to.

    Without them, I spiral. Hard. And there’s no way to swim against a current made to drown me.

    When Routine Becomes a Lifeline

    Every morning, my life is dictated by a checklist that I didn’t write with freedom — I wrote it with survival.

    I wake up between 2:00 and 2:45 AM, leave my studio before or exactly at 3:30 AM. If I don’t? My mind sounds the alarm:

    “You’re late. You’re slipping. You’re behind.”

    Even when I’m hours early for my shift, even when I still get a parking spot — if the routine breaks, so does my mental calm.

    And the rituals don’t stop there.

    I lock my door, then push on it exactly three times to make sure. If I don’t, anxiety starts building like a pressure leak. At best, it simmers. At worst, it floods my thoughts with doubt, fear, self-blame. My own mind turns on me.

    This isn’t about productivity. It’s about pacifying the part of me that believes something will go wrong unless I do everything right.

    Perfectly.

    In order.

    On time.

    It’s Not Just Routine. It’s Ritual.

    The compulsions aren’t always loud. Sometimes they show up in quiet decisions — like today, when I told myself I’d get gas tomorrow, like usual, at half a tank.

    But when I pulled out of the lot, I felt this pull toward the gas station. A force. A whisper. A weight that said:

    “If you don’t stop now, something will go wrong.”

    So I stopped.

    Not because it was logical.

    Not because I needed to.

    But because I felt like if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be okay.

    And even though I was already up early, already prepared, already doing “enough,” my mind doesn’t care. It doesn’t measure effort — it measures control. And when it feels like I’ve lost control, it punishes me in silence.

    Living in the Gray

    This… gray space — of feeling things so intensely, needing control, needing to feel safe, but knowing it doesn’t quite qualify for a clinical label — it’s a lonely place to live in.

    Like my asexuality, like the way I process the world — it’s a spectrum. Not everyone in the gray is heard. People like me, like us, we’re often overlooked because we’re “not broken enough” to be helped and “not well enough” to be fine.

    We’re not living scar-free. But we’re not failures either.

    We’re just trying to stay afloat. To breathe. To give ourselves a chance.

    Not Impulse — But Survival

    This isn’t impulse. I’ve kept my blog streak going for over 36 consecutive days within the last three months. That’s not an accident. That’s not chance.

    But even that came from compulsion.

    What started as curiosity — can I publish daily? — became I need to keep this up or I’ve failed.

    Even rest is not safe from this voice.

    Sometimes I sit down just to breathe. Just to give my legs a break. But I still feel it — something breathing down my neck, whispering:

    “You’re not doing enough. You’re not good enough. You’re wasting time. You’re failing again.”

    Sometimes I don’t eat.

    I struggle to sleep.

    Not because I’m lazy — but because my body doesn’t feel permitted to rest until I’ve done enough.

    Even though the finish line keeps moving.

    A Harsh Kind of Comfort

    Still — and this is the part I hate admitting — the routine does give me something.

    Even when it hurts to keep up. Even when I’m running on fumes and cursing the alarm at 2:15 AM. Even when my back aches from work or my writing feels like it’s running dry. There’s comfort in the ritual. Not joy. Not peace. But order.

    When the rest of the world feels unpredictable, when my body’s tired and my mind’s spinning, the routine is the one thing that stays the same. It doesn’t care how I feel. It doesn’t ask if I’m okay. It just says: this is what we do.

    There’s a kind of safety in that — in not having to think, in just going through the motions. It keeps the chaos outside the gates, at least for a while. And when everything else feels like it’s slipping, sticking to the routine lets me believe — even just barely — that I’m still in control.

    But it’s a harsh kind of comfort. It costs me. It takes pieces.

    And I know I can’t live like this forever.

    I just don’t know how to stop without everything falling apart.

    To the People in the Gray

    If you’re someone like me — someone living in the gray space between coping and spiraling, between diagnosis and “normal,” between being fine and being far from it — I see you.

    You are not imagining it.

    You’re not making it up.

    You’re not alone.

    Your pain, your patterns, your rituals — even the ones that don’t make sense to anyone else — they have a story. They have a weight. And they matter.

    A Gentle Ask

    Have you ever experienced something similar to this?

    • Feeling like you’re not enough, worthless, and pathetic when you’re doing everything you can to stay above water?
    • That it feels like control without feeling grounded, but punished for needing a break?
    • Learning to be kinder to ourselves?

    If this resonated with you, or if you know someone who might need to hear this, I gently ask:

    ➡️ Like, share, and subscribe.

    It helps more than you know — not just my writing, but the visibility of stories like this.

    Subscribing grants you early access to behind the scenes thoughts, experiments, and my newsletter, Letters from the Void Newsletter straight into your inbox. And, you’ll also gain, as a thank you from me to you, Two Manifestos + A Gift (For Fellow Archivists), when you do join us, Fellow Archivists.

    So that this space can reach others like us.

    People who don’t have a clear label.

    People living between extremes.

    People with invisible bruises and structured coping mechanisms.

    You deserve to be seen.

    To be heard.

    To be understood.

    Even if you’re still figuring yourself out.

    Author’s Reflection

    It’s not easy being kinder, more patient, and willing to accept letting my grip on control loosen. I got out of bed later, left a few minutes after 0330, and my car is facing the other way instead of the usual.

    The headaches remind me that I’m doing things wrong, but the voices that usually sweeps me down volatile territory have gotten a little quieter.

    Maybe I’ll be able to be kinder, patient, and accepting myself through a different lens. The voices of doubt, insecurity, and compulsion will fight back, but guess what?

    So will I.

    Thanks for reading.

    —

    Written with rawness and care,

    The Stratagems Archive

  • Who Am I Fighting? — Turning This Burning Sensation Into a Map

    Welcome — However You Found Your Way Here

    I Felt The Fire Burning

    I was driving to work, listening to Indila — “Ainsi Bas La Vida,” “Dernière danse” — and the music lit something I’d been holding under a lid for a long time. As I got closer to the warehouse, an image from Attack on Titan (Eren, season 4) cracked through: “Fight — (you have to) fight back.” I felt the heat move through me like an engine starting.

    Only, unlike Eren Yeager, I don’t know who I’m supposed to “fight back” against.

    This is what I want to try to name out loud, here on the page: a burning that is almost anger, but not exactly. It shows up faster now than it used to. It presses. It demands.

    It’s loud enough to shove me into action sometimes — cleaning, working harder, writing more — and quiet enough that I can’t always point a finger. I’m tired, I’m approaching thirty, and stuck between things: time, debt, a body worn out from labor, a brain tired of pretending everything is fine.

    I don’t know who the enemy is. But I know the fight is real.

    The Cost of Anger Lashing Out

    Anger and spite have been my fuel more times than I want to admit. They’ve pushed me through long shifts, exhausting weeks, and situations that should have broken me. Spite is what got me up when I didn’t want to, what kept me going when I felt invisible. For a while, it worked — I could burn that energy and turn it into movement.

    But the truth is, it’s not sustainable. It’s not healthy. And it’s not really helping me anymore. Even after breaks, I don’t feel rested. I work two jobs, give up long hours, and stay up late just to steal back some time for myself. The cost is high: sleep is thinner, my patience shorter, my fuse lit before the match even touches. I haven’t slept well in weeks, and I can feel it — the heat comes faster, the snap is sharper, and it hits harder than it used to.

    That’s the part no one talks about when they say “anger fuels you.” Fuel burns out. And when all you’ve got is fire, eventually it scorches the inside just as much as the outside.

    And yet, the more I burn, the more I realize the target isn’t always clear. The anger doesn’t just flare at one person or one moment — it spreads, looking for somewhere to land. That’s when I started asking myself if maybe the enemy I’m trying to fight isn’t a single person at all.

    Maybe the enemy isn’t a person

    When I try to name the foe, it splinters into a dozen pieces:

    The job that pays but chews me up — the work that keeps my lights on while stealing my body. The debt that counts every missed hour and turns rest into a risk. The clock — always reminding me I’m “behind,” even when I’m doing my best. The expectation that I should already have “arrived” by now. The system that reshapes our time and energy into labor and coupons for rest we can’t afford. The numbness that wants to swallow the rage and leave only weight.

    None of those are as satisfying to fight as a single person. They’re diffuse. They are walls more than enemies. They are traps you push against and, sometimes, they push back.

    The fight you’re feeling might be a compass

    If the anger is a blunt weapon, consider this: the heat can also be a map.

    When you get furious at a commute, the map points at the commute. When you snap at a manager, the map points at the conditions that made snapping feel necessary. When music makes you feel bigger and angrier, the map is telling you where something is alive inside you — something that wants different ground.

    You don’t have to find the enemy immediately. You can follow the heat like a trail of breadcrumbs. Each flash of anger is a data point about what matters to you, what hurts, and what you might want to change.

    Ways to turn the energy into movement (not punishment)

    I’m not providing a list of “fixes,” and I won’t pretend a checklist makes this simpler. Still — here are small, usable options to try when the burning shows up:

    • Name it: Give the feeling a label — “cold rage,” “restless fire,” “sharp exhaustion,” whatever fits. One word can make it less shapeless.
    • Write it fast: Five minutes of furious, unedited writing. Don’t stop for spelling. Burn the page with the heat so it has somewhere to go.
    • Small targeted strikes: Pick one tiny thing that the map points to and act — look for a different shift, call HR about a specific hazard, set one debt payment goal this month. Small actions beat diffuse fury.
    • Channel it into work that isn’t punishment: Lift, paint, code, write prompts — use the energy to build rather than to punish yourself.
    • Grounding when it spikes: 5–4–3–2–1 grounding (name 5 things you see, 4 sounds, 3 things you can touch, 2 smells, 1 breath). It doesn’t solve the problem, but it buys you space.
    • Find one person: A single witness who understands you don’t owe a polished anything. Say the heat out loud to someone who doesn’t gaslight it away.
    • Make a cheap boundary: One small refusal (I won’t work extra on Tuesdays, I’ll leave at X time, I won’t answer texts after 9pm) can start to rebuild a sense of agency.

    These are not cures, these might not always be helpful enough. Although, they are ways to move the force so it doesn’t only burn you from the inside.

    You’re not crazy for needing this energy

    There is a voice in me that wants to make this a deficit — you should be calmer, more grateful, less volatile. But we live in a system that will try to pathologize any emotion that refuses its timelines. What you feel is a human response to pressure. Naming it and moving it is survival, not failure.

    I know the tiredness that sits under the heat. I know the guilt that says you don’t have the right to be angry because you “have it good.” That’s comparative guilt, and it’s a trick. Your experience is valid even if others have worse things happening. Survival doesn’t need a ranking system.

    A small experiment

    If you’re carrying this with me now (if your chest is hot, if you feel like you need to fight but can’t point the sword), try this:

    Pause and write one sentence:

    • “Right now I am angry at ______.” Fill the blank. It can be “my shift,” “debt,” “myself,” “no name.”
    • Write one tiny next step you could take in the next 24 hours — something you can do that nudges the system you’re fighting.
    • Do it, even if it feels symbolic. Notice the difference.

    If you feel brave, leave that one-sentence in the comments — one line, no explanation. If you can’t, that’s fine too. Keep it in your pocket.

    If the heat is too much

    If you ever feel like the anger is pushing you toward hurting yourself or someone else, please reach out for help right away. If you’re in the U.S., calling or texting 988 will connect you to the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If you’re elsewhere, please contact your local emergency services or a trusted professional. You don’t have to carry this alone.

    Whether you found this in the middle of the afternoon or at 3AM when you couldn’t sleep, I’m glad you’re here. Take a breath. Take what resonates. Leave the rest for another night.

    To the fellow archivists reading late

    If you’re awake and holding this heat, know this: your fire is not a defect. It’s a signal. It’s a raw, honest engine that can carve a path out of whatever is pressing down on you — not because you have to be violent or perfect, but because you deserve more space to be whole.

    If any of this landed, I’d invite you to reflect for a moment: what does the heat point to for you? One sentence in the comments is enough. If you’d rather keep it private, you can reply to my newsletter; sometimes a single witness is the only thing that keeps the furnace from burning you out.

    I’ve talked about this anger turning itself on me in my post, Some Days I Don’t Want to Be Here — On Surviving When Everything Else Feels Heavy

    You are still here. That is the fight and the proof.

    — Stratagem’s Archive

    Reflection on Fire

    When I first wrote this, I thought anger and spite were enough to keep me going. They did for a while, but they’ve also worn me down in ways I’m only starting to admit. I’m tired. My fuse is shorter. Even on days when I take a break, I feel like I’m still grinding myself into dust. Writing this now, I can see how much of that fire was survival, not healing.

    If you’ve carried this kind of heat too — the kind that feels like it both fuels you and eats at you — I want you to know you’re not the only one. This archive is proof of that. We don’t have to carry it alone, even if we don’t always know how to put it down yet.

    — Stratagem’s Archive

    My Brief Reflections

    All of this fire, all of this energy, it needs somewhere to go. However, with no goal, no “enemy” to fight back against, and no direction, of course it’ll attack itself. It’ll burn the host instead.

    I think the worst part of this journey is the waiting:

    • Waiting to get out of debt (how long it’s been)
    • Waiting to hear back from a new career opportunity
    • Waiting to finish work that keeps taking and not so much giving equally in return
    • Just waiting and seeing nothing change or change has been incredibly slow

    That’s what this feels like for and to me—wondering when things will end or change or have something that’s mine that I can be proud of. And, yet, because of all of the waiting that I do, I have to give up something (sleep, eating, taking care of myself) in order to have something I built, that I chose to do, instead of someone telling me to do it.

  • Can Sharing Honestly Be Enough? Reflections From Blogging Without a Strategy

    Welcome — However You Found Your Way Here

    I’ve been writing honestly on WordPress for three months now, with no strategy except to show up. Since the end of June 2025, I’ve published over 70 posts — some sparked by daily prompts, others just raw reflections written on tired days, quiet days, angry days, and confusing days.

    I’ve made a downloadable The Stratagem’s Manifesto and started a newsletter, Letters from the Void Newsletter. I’ve noticed return readers, quiet likes, and even one person brave enough to leave a comment.

    And yet, the question lingers in the back of my mind:

    Can sharing honestly be enough?

    Three Months of Honest Blogging

    I didn’t come here with a strategy. At least, not one that looks like the question, “Where do you see yourself in 5 years?” I still can’t answer that for myself outside of this blog.

    I just had an idea: share whatever comes to mind, and see what happens.

    Other than that, I didn’t bring credentials, a network, or a plan to outsmart the algorithm. I didn’t want to pretend to be someone I couldn’t believe in just to be seen quicker.

    I came with words — messy, sincere, uncertain, sometimes tired, sometimes angry.

    I Didn’t Come Here With a Strategy

    I started writing here because my first attempt at blogging failed quietly. But this time, I had too much to say and no one to say it to.

    I have people and family I can talk to, but not about the topics I share here — not without pushback, second-guessing, or leaving those conversations doubting myself even more.

    So I chose to write.

    To have a record.

    To prove, if only to myself, that I was here.

    Fools Can Only Hope

    Some days I feel like a fool — not the clever archetype, just someone who thinks maybe all this matters more than it looks like it does from the outside.

    Maybe if I tell the truth long enough, someone else might feel less alone in their own head.

    I call myself an autodidact — I prefer learning things on my own, at my own pace. I don’t have a degree that opens doors, or mentors clearing paths for me.

    What I do have is curiosity. And a stubborn hope that it’s still possible to build something slowly, honestly, and from the ground up.

    And it’s hard.

    Because some days, the work feels invisible — like shouting into a void, shining the small light I have at the edge of nothingness.

    Which is something I’ve covered in this earlier post called, Do You Ever Feel Like You’re Writing Into A Void?

    Other days, I notice a familiar like, a new newsletter sign-up, or a silent reader who keeps coming back.

    And that means something.

    That means I’m not writing into the void anymore.

    I’m writing from the space in-between.

    And someone’s out there, hearing it.

    Can Honesty Be Enough?

    So… can honesty be enough?

    I don’t know.

    But I’m still here.

    I’m still writing.

    And maybe that’s the answer for now.

    A Note to Fellow Archivists

    If any part of this piece resonates, I’d love to invite you to pause for a moment and reflect on your own journey.

    What part of your story feels messy, uncertain, or unfinished right now? Where are you weary, wondering, or wandering? What small reminder do you need today that you don’t have to fit neatly into anyone’s expectations?

    You don’t have to share your reflections out loud — sometimes it’s enough just to notice them for yourself. But if you’d like, you’re always welcome to write them in the comments, or even send them my way privately.

    This space is here so that we can remind ourselves and each other: you’re not alone in this.

    If you’ve found something meaningful here, liking, sharing, or subscribing helps fellow wanderers find this little pocket of the internet too. And if you subscribe, you’ll also receive Letters from the Void, my newsletter where I share more quiet reflections, behind-the-scenes projects, and updates before they appear anywhere else.

    However you choose to engage — silently reading, reflecting privately, or joining in the conversation — you’re part of this archive. Thank you for being here.

  • Writing Through 30 Days and Nights

    Welcome — However You Found Your Way Here

    The Compulsion to Reach 30 Consistent Days

    I didn’t do this to go viral.

    I didn’t do this for praise.

    I did it because I had a lot to share and I wanted to see if I could do it.

    30 days ago, I made a quiet decision:

    To show up every day — no matter what happens throughout my day — and write.

    Not for perfection or validation — Just to write.

    To give myself the space to express what the world often ignores, in my opinion, and share it anyways.

    To build something from within the silence and put it out there.

    The Early Days: Lighting Candles in the Dark

    I started this project with uncertainty; Unsure if anyone would read and if I had enough to say.

    But each post, each idea, each sentence was another step forward.

    Not toward a finish line — but toward myself.

    I began this journey with questions, with frustration, with hunger and anger.

    I had something to say, even if it wasn’t always loud or pretty.

    Through Trial By Fire

    There were days I didn’t want to write.

    Days when life pressed down so hard, I wanted to collapse into the ground and stay there.

    But I kept writing. Even when it felt like shouting into a void.

    Even when I was tired, numb, or raging silently behind the screen.

    Not every post was polished. Not every word perfect.

    But they were real. And they were mine.

    What I’ve Learned (Without Realizing It)

    After 30 days, I see it after the fact now:

    I’m stronger than I thought — not because I didn’t feel pain, but because I kept going with it. I’m no longer looking to be saved. I’m building my way out. The silence after hitting “publish” doesn’t mean failure — it means space. For breath. For those who might find it later.

    The Work Still Matters No Matter Where I Am in Life

    I’m still not “free.”

    I still work two jobs that breaks my body physically and emotionally.

    I still write in the cracks between fatigue and survival.

    But now I’ve built something that didn’t exist before.

    That’s proof of life. Of my life.

    This isn’t the end.

    I’m not done.

    But I wanted to mark this moment —

    To say: I proved to myself that I did this. And I’ll keep going as long as I’m able to.

    I’m not trying to glorify this 30 day milestone has been the answer to my problems. It’s not. I’m exhausted, I’m feeling worn down, the voices in my head are screaming at me for how much of a failure I am. However, as much as I don’t believe it myself, I’m too stubborn to not want to see this through. So, seeing this through writing 30 days and nights I go.

    For Those Who Wander

    Did any part of this sit with you?

    If you’ve ever felt the same — or even something close — you’re not alone.

    I’d love to hear what came up for you, if you feel like sharing. Whether it’s a quiet “me too,” a story of your own, or just a thought you’ve been holding, the comments are open — and so am I.

    No pressure, no performance. Just space

    To those reading this — tired, wondering, still searching — this place is for you.

    I call it The Stratagem’s Archive — a place to rest, reflect, and remember that your story still matters.

    No matter how quiet. No matter how heavy.

    You’re welcome here.

    You’re Invited

    If something here resonates with you:

    Leave a comment or share your own experience. Like or Subscribe if you want to follow this journey. Doing so allows people on similar paths to find this space and call it their own too. Or just sit quietly and read. That’s enough, too.

    Thank you for walking with me — even for just a moment.

    We may not always know where we’re going, but if we’re still writing, still working, still getting up, then we’re still alive.