Some Of Us Are Just Born With Tragedy In Our Blood

I sometimes think that people’s hearts are like deep wells. Nobody knows what’s at the bottom. All you can do is imagine by what comes floating to the surface every once in a while.

~Haruki Murakami, Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman

i’m a slow reader, i feel no shame in admitting that. it takes time to appreciate the words- i want to savor them, really see them, have them penetrate my mind before going the next and doing it all over again

taken by me

There is a stag in the snow. Blink and he will vanish. Was he a stag at all or was he something else? Was he a sentiment hanging unspoken or a path not taken or a closed door left unopened? Or was he a deer, glimpsed amongst the trees and then gone, disturbing not a single branch in his departure? The stag is a shot left untaken. An opportunity lost. Stolen like a kiss. In these new forgetful times with their changed ways sometimes the stag will pause a moment longer. He waits though once he never waited, would never dream to wait or wait to dream. He waits now. For someone to take the shot. For someone to pierce his heart. To know he is remembered.

- The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern

Watching qala was like watching an accident happen in slow motion....from the beginning the tone is set. Qala's interview with all male journalists, her voice quivering when asked abt marriage or her mother, cuts to her mother grieving abt her lost son as she even tries to take her daughter's life. Every scene leaves you unsettled as you watch qala slowly coming undone, knowing the thread could snap anytime soon. At the party, when u see qala surrounded by dancers in black quills, it's made clear how she has left her innocence. Even when she poisoned jagan u don't villainize her rather than u feel sad, knowing the path she has chosen.

are you a social media algorithm? because you've mastered the art of keeping me hooked and emotionally manipulated (digitally influenced rizz)

I can’t stop thinking about how perfectly Barbie portrays girlhood and growing up… How you’re born in a perfect pink world, where you make the rules and get to prioritise whimsies and friendship and beauty, and then you notice something has changed, you discover that something is wrong with you, and you’re offered an illusion of choice, but even if you’d rather keep wearing your heels and go home and be safe and comfortable, you have to choose the Birkenstock, you have to leave your home, you have to grow up. So you’re thrust into this gritty, unfeeling world, where you’re scrutinised and suppressed, where you want to disappear into yourself, because everything is harsh and big and you are tiny and fragile and inadequate. And as overwhelming and impossible as it seems, you survive it. You find truth in the things you believed in when you were young, the inherent good in humanity, connection and love; your friends who look at you while you are crying, and tell you that they cannot imagine what it is that you do not like about yourself.

my brain has too many tabs open

"I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot explain it to myself."

- Franz Kafka

Let's open a coffeeshop that is also a bookshop, that is also an art studio and a flower shop.