What on Earth are we doing? — I sometimes wake up angry. This has never happened to me before. I’ve read about it, but never actually lived it. I just never saw myself as one of those people who passively live their frustrations and take it out on the tootbrish or their zippers. Others were strangers to…

What we are afraid to be — Being childish, what does it mean? Really? We think of our childhood as naive. But a child cannot be categorized itself as clever or not, naive or not, happy or not. It is only when we grow up, we can look back and judge our childhood. Being childish is then an act which children seem like doing…

An ode to growing down I forgot to imagine. I forgot that I liked boredom, that I wanted it as soon as there was a chance. I forgot what it felt like going through the magazines spread over the coffee table during my forceful visits to the doctor’s office. I forgot to draw mustaches to…

Look, I am trying. I am trying to become a “better version” of myself almost everyday, I am trying to teach myself to be on my own rhythm, I am trying to forgive people who have been rude or disrespectful or hurtful to me (now that I think of all…

Today is my birthday. Not that you care. Nor should you. The caring is supposed to be done by the birthday-person, faked by the close social circle, and fuck-all from the rest. On my last birthday, I was in the Netherlands. (Sidenote: in the Netherlands, as a birthday person, you…

Memory Archives — 20.04.2025- Earth It was a midday kind of a morning. The leaves ruffled far down the street, the sky was monotonously gray and waking up to this cold brightness somehow broke the conventionality of time. She stepped barefoot out of the bed. The hardwood floors were rough…

Welcome to my ramblings; a “sort of ”discussion between me and me. Hopefully, my thoughts will provoke something in you enough to join the madness. We all have pressure points, open wounds. In a battle, if you’re smart and are not very fond of close contact with the opponent, you…

what is it? intramural, locked up and waiting for a slit of light what is it? mother’s hands, the fear of letting go and losing sight the bluest of all can be painted black, loud and lousy towards the end is where the ice would crack, over you and over me the windows would be first to snap, the ceiling would glide by the garage door, under the sky the bluest of blue on the way home but nothing is forever true

Welcome to my ramblings; a “sort of ”discussion between me and me. Hopefully, my thoughts will provoke something in you enough to join the madness. And this will sound sinister. I have to double check, this will sound sinister to you. Okay? Good. I would like to tell you what…