I've been thinking about this idea a lot lately.
How often we crave to be seen a certain way.
How we wait quietly, restlessly to be understood without asking, to be held without explaining, to be chosen without needing to prove ourselves.

And maybe, somewhere in between all that hoping, we forget that we have the power to become the very person we long for.

if i was a music artist this would be the point in my life where i create an ultra hit teenage angsty album about my relatable patheticness that would really set off my career. like olivia’s guts era (one of the best albums to exist by the way, i would never be able to compete).

Somewhere along the way, we forgot how to sit with our thoughts. Not just silence- but real thoughts. Ones with edges, weight and conclusions. Now the moment something feels slow or unexciting, our hands scroll and refresh. Not even a thirty-minute TV show can hold most of our attention without the simultaneous pull of Instagram.

Trying to understand someone even if you’re not fully able to grasp it. Trying to help even when you have no clue what you’re doing. Trying to grow a garden, knit a sweater, learn about your friend’s nerdy interest and use examples in conversations even though they don’t fit the context and just sound silly.

here is something intoxicating about a person who is deeply occupied with something you cannot access. There is a quiet allure to someone who is absorbed in their own interests—they feel layered, self-contained, and slightly undiscovered. They move through the world with a quiet confidence, a self-possession that feels almost forbidden.

I had a birthday since the last time I wrote here. I turned 36, which is an age I once assumed I would arrive at with parents, property, a respectable credit score, and a much firmer understanding of where all the important paperwork is supposed to go.

Instead, I am, for all intents and purposes, a bit of a penniless orphan.