Two days ago, I completed one year on this platform.
Compared to other creators, I haven’t done anything meaningful or noteworthy during this time. I have hardly moved on the long road to success and need to focus on what I could do differently next year.
From my point of view, it’s been nothing short of phenomenal. One year ago, I dared to publish my first piece, which I wrote just for myself.
However, the article’s content was more important than the milestone of becoming a writer on this platform. …
I want to go on a tropical vacay, but I could also settle for a few nights of continuous sleep. One month after my Pandemic Anniversary, this is my answer to the question, “What do you really want right now?”.
Weirdly, two diametrically opposite things come to mind, and I cannot choose which one I want more.
Initially, I tried to answer a writing prompt and list my pandemic reflections, but two days of staring at the cursor rapidly blinking on a blank page taught me that I am not in the headspace to do so right now.
Liquid pouring on my wrists,
rubbing it in my hand,
A fix for my face,
no remedy for the soul.
Cobwebs in my eyes,
distorting my field of vision,
Remove them, tear them off,
my palms are empty.
Look at a mirror,
stare at the reflection,
Everything is clear,
but can’t focus for long.
Lights in the sky,
the red glow of pollution,
Shush, squint your eyes,
pretend it’s Aurora.
Living in a minefield,
another piece of shit town.
False promises of eternity,
of immortality and impact.
Where reality ceases to exist,
and dreams go to die.
Filtered faces, filtered…
2 a.m., it’s time,
wrap up your day, my love.
Riding the high, waiting,
waiting for it to shut off my mind.
Could there be a button for it?
Or maybe one called sleep.
The mill churns out memories,
flashbacks of my war.
Could I call it one, though?
When it’s only in my head.
Crooked wrinkles and
creased fine lines,
Let them all out, let it out,
the murmurs of the night.
3 a.m., it’s time,
close your eyes and keep ’em closed.
Take long breaths,
not short jagged ones. …
I am a fully grown 30-year-old woman who is mildly addicted to everything made for teens. I like to think that I am a well-adjusted adult, but my Netflix viewing history says otherwise.
I am not entirely sure what it is, but the feel-good vibes that emerge from a cheesy rom-com or a teen drama are my go-to guilty pleasure. It takes me to a happy place, although ironically, my own teenage years contained scarce bits of happiness.
A recent accomplishment of mine was that I couldn’t sit through Dawson’s Creek’s first season. …
I’ve wanted to share my thoughts regarding my body for more than a year now and haven’t been able to.
This was one of the first topics I wanted to cover, even before I started writing on this platform. I wanted to talk about things that no one talks about, and although body positivity has been a massive movement in the recent past, there was still stuff that I wanted to get off my chest.
At first, I believed that I didn’t get to writing this piece because I wasn’t ready for it. That I wasn’t brave enough. …
Writing after a few misses sucks big time. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been here before or how many inspirational articles I’ve read about the extreme benefits of writing every day.
The hollowness in my chest, the pit inside my stomach, and the massive throbbing self-doubt telling me that I don’t know what I am doing are as impactful and omnipresent as ever.
I would like to think that I’ve grown. That I’ve taken the time to process my negative feelings of loss, pain, and disappointment. That I’ve figured a few solutions out over time.
Taking a break…
New Year, Ordinary Me, and the Same Old Shit.
The optimist inside me died a slow death last year. For whatever reason, I could not spend the final weeks of December basking in hope, believing that 2020 and everything it represented is finally coming to an end and 2021 is going to breathe back happiness into our lives.
As January comes to a close, I can safely say that I was right, that things are pretty much the same as before. But the cynic within me refuses to rejoice.
She’s confused, and so am I. What now?
We log into…
I’ve never really understood the fascination with manicures. Sure, they look pretty in magazines and pictures, but I have no clue how one actually maintains it in real life. Seriously, do they even last the ride home?
I’ve gotten two of these in my lifetime, and the experience wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as promised. It felt weird throughout.
Someone worked on my misshapen nails for one hour, and the result was eerily similar to me hastily filing and painting them at home. The end product looked nothing like the displayed brochure or the copy of Vogue in my lap.
“I hate my name,” Dolores scribbled in her diary. If I was called Jeniffer or Kirsten or Brooke, I could have had a better shot at life. She peeked out her bedroom window and noticed that the sun was about to set.
What a dull scene, she thought to herself.
After rapidly pouring out her heart in the diary’s beige-colored pages, she hid it in the new spot — her closet’s top-shelf. Dolores had an errand to run.
She wore her most used pair of jeans — a loose fitted one, with her long black T-shirt. She also threw on…