I have never seen an ugly person.
And no, I’m not face-blind.
Nor am I trying to pull some feel-good crap about how everyone should love themselves, that we’re all beautiful.
The truth is, I recognise beauty. I can discern it. I can consciously note someone having good features, or being attractive.
What I do not register, is someone being ugly.
I can be attracted to people, but I don’t consider people who I am not attracted to as ugly, or even unattractive. Nor have I ever used those types of words to describe myself.
This may seem a pretty…
For reasons unnecessary and too long to explain, I woke up this morning with the determination — nay, an urge to make strawberry lemonade.
(Alright, so the reasons may just be the fact that strawberries go off really fast but I still buy them ’cause they’re pretty.
Don’t lie — we all secretly know that strawberries don’t taste that good but they get away with it because of pretty privilege)
I mildly scoured the internet for the recipes. …
Our favourite green little friend has been both adored and critcised by different generations, been the epicentre of controversies that no one really cares about (Markle versus Middleton), and has created an unprecedented level of anticipation in my household. “Are they ripe? Are they underripe?” Alas, they turn out to be rotten.
My point is, avocados have become a symbol of this century. A generational difference, an Instagram icon — I believe health food posts get flagged if they do not contain the trendy vegetable* — and perhaps even a conversation into how our actions affect the environment.
I don’t want to tell you that your hobbies can be making you money, or that all side hustles are doomed to fail. I don’t want to sell you a course, and I don’t want to buy one either.
I simply want to think.
Every now and then, an article pops up on my feed about side hustles. It’s a trendy topic for sure, but apart from that, there seems to be a hunger for this idea — an addiction. A last hope, a lifeline.
The thrill of the feeling that all our dreams might just come true, cash bonus…
I’m not just trying to justify my own Disney and Studio Ghibli film obsessions, I swear.
In fact, I like an edgy, dark, potentially traumatising movie every once in a while. Movies that are so mentally disturbing, that I can recite certain scenes from memory after only watching them once (Girl, Interrupted, anyone?).
Yes, I generally tend to stay from horror movies. Could you tell?
But I digress. My point is this:
As adults, our troubles are so much more real than what we see on TV.
These movies have been specifically designed and directed to evoke the greatest emotional…
When we were young
I think the stars were brighter.
Maybe it was imagination that glittered
(or your eyes)
But I swear it was real.
I’m too scared to look up now.
If there is a shooting star,
Wish it in my place
(I would’ve wished for you)
And promise not to tell.
I wince like the moon
When she pulls up the river
The water is heavy with what we threw away
(how could you?)
I meant the plastic and rubble, not us.
I never said a word out loud
But you heard it all, I can tell.
Your stony expression…
In my opinion, there are two types of people in this world: those who eat cereal for breakfast, and those who do not. I am the latter.
Our mother tried, she really did. We went to the supermarket, we looked at all of the beautiful, well marketed, cereal boxes on display, and with shining eyes we took them home each time —that maybe, just maybe — this time would be different.
I mentally prepared myself for it at night. Tomorrow, I would eat cereal for breakfast, and I would like it.
But on a cold November morning, only vaguely awake…
Wind, teach me how to breathe.
I tried to to find peace, but the silence only screamed at me. I’m not personifying you, I was hoping you could humanise me. Maybe then I could yell escapably. And my howls I would be outrunning, free.
There’s so much you can lock up in a gentle breeze. Like bitter storms and unfaithful leaves. A caress one moment and a slap the next.
I think what vexes me most is not that my lungs are roast but that no one can taste the charred mucus in my throat but me.
No one knows…