There’s a specific kind of emotional clarity that only happens when everything around you is slightly… blurry.

Like that one time my brother was driving way too fast (read: mildly illegal) down the open road (gasp, coughs, Bangalore people, what that means is getting to a distance of 5km in sub-25 minutes), windows down, music up, wind turning my hair into an abstract sculpture. It started to drizzle—aesthetic drizzle, not downpour—and I did what any emotionally unstable romantic would do:
I took my glasses off.

Suddenly? Boom. Cinematic universe unlocked.

The streetlights went soft. The cars ahead turned to glowing orbs. Even the ugly billboards advertising tire sales looked like prophetic signs from a coming-of-age film I didn’t know I was starring in.
I couldn’t see a single useful detail, but I’d never felt more in tune with the universe.
Out of control. But in control.
Chaos? Yes. Inner peace? Also yes.
Retina damage? TBD. (hah genius)

I call it the Hazy Era™, and honestly, I’ve been living in it ever since.

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We romanticize clarity too much.

We act like we need to know everything. Where we’re going, what we want, whether that one text was passive-aggressive or just had bad punctuation. But maybe life isn’t about seeing everything clearly. Maybe it’s about learning to vibe in the fog.

As The Song of Achilles whispered through my bookshelf:

“He is half of my soul, as the poets say.”
Which sounds poetic, until you remember that souls can argue about where to eat for an hour, forget anniversaries, and leave dishes in the sink like it’s a love language.

And from The Tattooist of Auschwitz:

“To save one is to save the world.”
Which is what I say every time I convince myself that drinking a glass of water counts as saving myself.
Hydration = healing. Let me live.

Daughter really said:

“If you’re still bleeding, you’re the lucky ones.”
Which, okay, a bit dramatic, but also relatable – especially when you feel like the human embodiment of an abandoned Google Doc.

And The Middle East dropped:

“Blood is just red water.”
Which is both biologically accurate and emotionally offensive. But thank you for your contribution to my identity crisis.

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So yeah, everything’s kind of hazy lately. Not just my eyesight—my plans, my feelings, my future, my sleep schedule.
And weirdly? That’s fine.
I don’t need 20/20 clarity. I need a mildly tragic playlist, some filtered lighting, and the permission to feel things deeply but also dramatically.

Because, as Coldplay crooned into the void of my Apple Music:

“Nobody said it was easy. No one ever said it would be this hard.”

But here I am. Still feeling. Still spiraling. Still kind of hot in a literary, damaged-but-functioning way.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to stare out a window dramatically and pretend I’m in a French art film where nothing happens but everything means something.
Without my glasses, of course.