Kookamati Returns…

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Decision Paralysis, but Make It Literary

I wrote something similar last year. Different words, same existential gridlock. If nothing else, I’m consistent in revisiting the same confusion with upgraded vocabulary.

Last year it was disease–emotions–spiritual–whatever. This year, I’m tempted to write about Dubyaman coming back to life as Trump. Which, frankly, feels less like fiction and more like poorly disguised reportage.

The idea is to build twenty-six episodes around invisible wars—the emotional and psychological residue of WW1 and WW2—with generous spillover from COVID, Ukraine, and whatever else humanity refuses to metabolize properly.

In short: history, but with unresolved trauma.

Here’s the part I didn’t articulate last year. My body has a very efficient—if slightly dramatic—coping mechanism. It gathers all unfinished business, every open loop, every unresolved thread… and dumps it all at once.

I get overwhelmed.
I freeze.
I fall sick.

System reset.

Everything inconvenient gets quietly swept under the carpet, and just like that, a new set of problems walks in as if they’ve paid rent.

Elegant? No.
Effective? Debatable.
Predictable? Painfully.

So the real question is—what exactly am I doing here?

Why am I writing this A–Z series?

Let’s remove the polite filters:

1. I get to impress people I don’t know with an intellect that may or may not exist.
2. I get to convince myself I’m working without producing anything particularly measurable.
3. I get to have opinions uninterrupted—which, in most real-world settings, is a luxury.

Now that the self-sabotage has been properly documented…

What can I actually gain from writing every day for a month?

Discipline, possibly.
Consistency, theoretically.
A structured container that prevents me from wandering into seventeen unrelated intellectual rabbit holes.

I’ve written daily before. That’s not the problem. The problem is that lately, I think far more than I execute. I circle ideas. I don’t land them. I treat contemplation like output.

So this A–Z challenge is less about creativity and more about containment. One letter. One idea. One page. No escape routes.

Also, let’s not pretend there isn’t a system benefit. This gives me a platform—a funnel—for my work. Something that looks cohesive from the outside, even if it’s held together internally by duct tape and mild panic.

And yet, there’s a voice—my inner homo brutus—that keeps interrupting:

“Lady, you’re not having fun.”

Which is inconvenient, because it’s correct.

I’m reminded of a character from Agatha Christie novels who derails a perfectly promising career simply because things start getting too serious, too structured, too… meaningful. When questioned, he shrugs it off: everyone was taking things too seriously.

I get that.

There’s a fine line between discipline and self-imposed rigidity. Between meaningful work and performative seriousness.

So here’s where I’m landing—for now:

No grand, suffocating plan.

I’ll write what I want.
I’ll force it into an alphabetical title.
I’ll let the chaos reveal its own pattern instead of pretending I control it.

Kookamati lives on.

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Now, I’m curious:

What’s a recurring theme or trauma you find yourself returning to—despite your best efforts?
Have you found a way to work through it, or are you still negotiating with it?

And what would you like me to explore as this series unfolds?

Let’s make this less of a performance—and more of a conversation.

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