The corridor of the train, the space in-between two wagons, there is a nested cove like area, most miss on the hunt for their assigned seats. A nook created amongst one of the grimiest modes of transport. I gravitate towards the individuality of this third space. The peace and quiet with the occasional passer by heading for the food wagon, no stranger’s legs pressed against mine, no eye contact full of infinite comments.

She sat on the top most step, with her large back against the hand rail. She chose to create her nook on the floor, the small, hard and dirty steps over an assigned seat.

Her ample figure in the edge of my vision slowly becoming an annoyance to my solitude. Her quiet presence persists and her silence becomes louder as the miles run by. Head down, doomscrolling, her chin blending into her neck, the lack of glamour, femininity and fragility transpire across her face, yet, it is painted with all sorts of make up products. The attempted compensation for her lack of genuine femininity sadly screams sorrow and a loss of self.

She got off, train now moving one way and I got asked today “where do you call home when you say you are going home? “

A split second too long, lost due to one the most basic questions about oneself, I smiled, forcefully, I suddenly felt my cheeks, I noticed the cold air on my now exposed teeth as my mouth remained stuck in this unsettling smile, compensating for the lack of words that should have rolled off my tongue.

lost in thought for a minute too long, my tea is cold, AGAIN. walking to the kitchen to chose from the two types of black tea ( I am not a fan of black tea but i guess i need the caffeine), put the tea bag in the cup and fill it with boiling water. this time hoping i wait for just the right amount of time, finding the delicate moment between scorching hot and too cold to dip a biscuit in it.

it’s curious i feel like a lot of aspects in my life are about the inbetween moments that need savouring. inbetween scorching and too cold, inbetween friends and in lover, inbetween two or three places i call home, inbetween weekends.

it’s an ode to the conceptualisation of life, the stillness between the choas of a trepidant life. Martin Heidegger described the ‘inbetween moments expose how we are thrown into time’. The texture that goes unnoticed and slips away in daily exsistence but the one that materialises the essence of you.

Sailing through tumultuous times, I saw myself surviving, exsisting more than living. Looking at these inbetween moments as time gone by, with the lack of flourishment and growth, a long tunnel with the occasional rounded window to remind me of life beyond what i could fathom in front of my eyes.

feeling constantly suspended, and easily tossed over board, Heidegger says ‘This suspension exposes Being more clearly than distraction does.’

In restrospect, I have never known what i don’t want for myself more than I do in this very moment.

human existence is not a fixed state but a tension. we are never simply what we are; we are always stretched between what has already been and what has not yet come. In this sense, the in-between is not a pause within life but the structure of life itself. Heidegger’s account of temporality shows that the present is not an isolated moment but a projection shaped by a past into a future. likewise, Kierkegaard understands the self as a synthesis of necessity and possibility. the discomfort of suspension, the feeling of not yet being settled.

attempting to escape this tension is to deny the very movement that makes becoming possible.

human exisstence is in constant dynamic tension, an omnipresent push and pull.

the in-between is not absence. It is tension. And tension is where freedom begins.

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Every look you give me through your piercing blue eyes splits my heart in half.

Completely powerless standing before your large, kind eyes, I fold.

Every shimmer, every speck of light bouncing off your cornea and directed my way feels like a command.

I remember a time when those intimidating windows to your soul would not allow me to look for more than a few seconds—intimidated, I would look away.

Falling senseless for the stories they carry: love and its absence, happiness strained by sadness, lifted again by joy.
These tired eyes have seen more than I could ever fathom, yet they are never tired of me.

They speak louder than your words ever could.
Your caged ocean drops allow only a fraction of their tumultuous waves to slip through.
The magnetism is too strong to resist—I look anyway, despite how they warm my skin and flush my cheeks.

Their strength, softened with time, the barrier that once intimidated me slowly melting under my relentless pursuit.

Let me whisper that I am grateful for my stubbornness.
These ocean drops that illuminate your face carry so immense know-how—let me learn from them, let me bathe in their wisdom.

I long to lose myself in your aquamarine eyes.

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Life can be a whirlwind at times, just when certain aspects that you craved for so long finally settle, a previously surmountable puddle quickly turns into a lake. The usual life boats miles away and the shoreline too steep to climb. But you’ve been given all the tools and it’s up to you to use them wisely. The business, the bustle, the worry and anxiety that stem from new beginings and difficult moments staining thoughts and inhibiting creative development.

Coming back from an office job,sititng behind a screen all day long the easiest thing to reach, is yet again another screen, the need to fill the quietness with useless background noise. Being an only child and a creative quite melancholic human, I used to enjoy sitting in quietness staring at the ceiling, questionning my thoughts and opinions, digging for answers, picking up a book and challenging the ideas I had just read, but this takes time.

Life is all about wasting time on things you enjoy doing.

unfinished…

Yet, there is a force undeniably sucking the air from between you, pulling you closer. When words fall short and goodbye is brewing — right before the attached become detached by the strained string. The warm, muffled air between you stays serenely tormented as the two bodies hover close — comfortable, yet awkward and vigilant. The untold secret louder than all those whispered before.

Once unveiled, it can never be the same. The beauty of those three words being released — a sense of freedom, of carelessness — all vigilance collapses. Yet the beauty of the in-between is incomparable and irrecoverable; we wish we could have held onto it a little longer, a little tighter. The moment right before is gifted once and can never be reclaimed, cherish it, delve in it as you may discover it may be equally as beautiful as the moment right after. The in-between fades away like steam on your shared mirror after the warm baths you used to run.

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6:20 a.m. — a soft sound wakes me up, though in truth I was already awake. Every time I have an early morning trip, my body never fails to wake before the alarm — anticipation threading through dreams and the unconscious. So when people say the body rests while we sleep, it couldn’t be further from the truth. At night, a thousand and one mechanisms work overtime to reset, regenerate, and prepare us for the day ahead.

I press the snooze button once, twice, three times, savouring the final moments in my soft sheets draping my cloud-like bed. A pillow is squeezed between my arms — wishing it were you, but you’re not here this morning. The pillow will have to do.

I jump in the shower, wash my hair — the last pumps of a shampoo whose scent I used to dislike but that has now become the smell of home. I throw on comfortable but chic clothes, dressing in the dark, still in denial that I’m awake — the light remains off.

In the kitchen, I pick my favourite mug for my last coffee. The choice of mug is my morning ritual; certain cups are reserved for coffee, others for tea or different drinks.

I haven’t been up this early in my new apartment yet. It’s a new kind of silence — it’s funny how places all have their own silences, this one being comforting.

Coffee finished, suitcases zipped, waiting patiently by the door to be dragged out into the sharp wind and heavy rain. One last glance at home before I lock up, and one last glimpse of Paris through the taxi window painted with raindrops.

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How can I allow myslef to be soft and cushion someone else in my warm embrace, in my heart now warm but for long frozen. How do I unfreeze in the face of fear. Perhaps it is normal to be a little bit frightened yet I have never had this before. I used to throw myself with no regards to the potential brain altering consequences. How is it that someone else’s warmest side can turn you so cold. Like a snowman stuck between reality and what could be — frozen, unable to move an arm, a leg, even to breathe again. Searching for the next best thing all the while being rooted to this one spot, the job twice as hard, as if the initial task wasn’t challenging enough.

Sitting in large, luxurious and ludicrous cream colored sofa, on the top deck of my friend’s boat, the evening summer whispers rising, untucking my hair from behind my ears, we have decided to lounge inside sheltered. The blanket covering my bare legs - my little white cotton pyjama shorts had failed to provide any kind of comfort- up to my neck, the AC cranked up, nothing more cosy than being in a cold room but protected by a soft blanket. It’s tricky in the summer, AC on blast and you might catch a cold, but no AC means you are sitting profusely sweating whilst doing the bare minimum. To potentially becoming sick or being uncomfortable and sticky?

We sat, my two friends and I with a mountain of pillows around us, acting like a fort for our own emotions which did not fail to take over us soon after. TV was on, a silly rom com series, one of those that does not require your full undevoted attention to follow the plot. Yet, if I could have looked at us, we were very much totally captured by the screen before our eyes. Volume up, subtitles on, popcorn bowls on our laps, the relentless crunching of the popcorn kernels under our teeth took a sudden halt.

There wasn’t enough room for our combined emotions, air was lacking and suddenly the light summer wind morphed into a dense dark cloud. Tears rolling down our cheeks, no words spoken, blankets gripped a little tighter, brought a little closer to our faces, slowly sinking deeper into the pillows turning them into coccoons. I turned my head to my left and one my friend’s face, her glistening cheek reflecting the images on the screen, was only a reflection of the pent up feelings waiting to unroll leaving a trail of sadness behind.

A rigidness overcomes me and just like that I am frozen all over again. A single word, touch, look exhibiting the faintest reminder of my own past experiences, but also maybe what I am so craving. Perhaps it the needs, want and lack that is protruding through more than the reminder of a painful past?

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“It gets easier the more experiences you go through”

The phrase being thrown around constantly, although having used it myself I no longer believe this is the truth. Why is it that experience makes you cope better? Isn’t every experience lived differently, no two people are the same, how can you possibly compare and navigate situations in the same way?

Reflecting on myself as a 25-year-old, in relationships both friendly and romantic, I realize experience has only reinforced my walls. They grow thicker every time someone throws a stone, making it more complicated than ever to trespass. I am unable to beat them down to step out, and others cannot step in. Like the scar on your knee you kept reopening as a child, the skin forming thicker each time until it lost sensitivity. Pass your finger over it and that particular spot has no feeling — the body’s clever way of protecting itself from harm. Who is to say the heart doesn’t follow suit? The body on autopilot, tears rolling down without explanation. There often isn’t one in love anyway.

So I wonder: how do these heart-wrenching experiences soften us rather than make us curl up in our caves, building walls thicker with every tear? How do we break them down and let the goodness of life seep through, after becoming untrusting, independent, utterly reliant on ourselves?

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Walking across Pont de l’Alma from the 7th arrondissement to the 8th, with an umbrella twice my size opened, sheltering me from the sky’s sadness, I walked slowly, trying to remain somewhat dry. I often wander around Paris with my headphones on—but no music, no podcast, no audiobook—just my thoughts, quietly commenting on my surroundings. Echoes of what sounded like happy manifestations bounced through the streets on a busy Thursday afternoon in Paris. Living in a big city, I can say with certainty that pure, deep, and genuine laughter is not a common sound among the boulevards. After multiple days of rain, I took notice of the sounds that emerged beyond the splatter of raindrops on pavements and under car tires.

Was it possible that more joy and happiness resulted from a grey and gloomy sky?

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The passage above was written in winter. It is now the 4th of July. I let this thought marinate, unsure whether the point I was trying to express was factual, merely a passing observation, or part of a recurring effect.

Knees deep in flimsy grass, I watched as the slow drizzle rapidly turned into a downpour that quieted the valley. The angry sky raged above us, and the loud splashes of raindrops hitting the scorched plains were the only sounds left unmuted. All the buzzing creatures—the song of the cicadas—fell instantly silent, as if a heavy, noise-engulfing blanket had been delicately laid down.

Rain is often portrayed as a symbol of sadness, melancholy, and loneliness. The cinematic industry reinforces this narrative, leaving us with a preconditioned emotional response to crying skies. It’s almost as if we’re pre-programmed to shed a tear with the clouds. The grey skies become emotional drains. The overfilled sewers, forcing muddied water to resurface and flood the streets, mirror our own buried feelings rising back to the surface. The sky’s tears trace wandering paths down single-glazed windows, fogged by the warmth of breath pressed close to the cold glass. It’s the perfect picture of what we’ve been taught to associate with rain.

But what if we changed that?

Walk out next time in the drizzle. Let yourself be temporarily sketched on by the sky. Take a friend with you and do anything—anything at all. The simplest task may become a memory etched deep into your mind. I’ve been lucky to experience this a few times. You might be surprised by how rare genuine, pure deep laughter really is in your daily life. Let the rain water your inner child.

As we set up the tent—drenched, a little cold—the explosion of laughter and hysteria was unmatched as our food was getting soaked.

As we rode those Argentinian stallions into the Brazilian desert dunes, laughter took over; I lost all control of myself, galloping blindly into the unknown, my eyes filled with rain.

As we stood on the side of the road—one umbrella, three girls waiting for a taxi—the giggles were inevitable. The silliness was unjudged and unleashed.

These moments of absurdity and lack of control are now imprinted on my heart as one of life’s necessities: laughter.I now think of rain as an opportunity to brighten my day, despite the heavy grey skies that once weighed me down.

Lately, I’ve fallen short with myself and haven’t spent time tapping into my creativity. It didn’t take long for the feeling of unsettlement to make itself comfortable within me. Yet recognizing where this feeling was coming from took longer than I expected, leaving me very lonely with my own thoughts. I was suddenly spending too much time worrying—sailing with no destination, collecting with no place to store.

Creativity comes from creativity. Stopping the flow makes it that much harder to restart. So here I am, trying to gain my flow back, unsure whether I will post this or not. I was uninspired and allowed negative thoughts to flow through, letting them completely take over—to the point where I became too nervous to write, afraid it wouldn’t be of a high enough standard. So I didn’t write at all. All these incomplete thoughts and questions I’ve had over the last couple of months vanished into the vacuum that my mind has been.

As I sit here—yet again in another airport lounge—my first feeling is regret. Regret for not having written them down, not having developed them, not having dug into them.

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“Whenever I see a butterfly, it makes me sad, because I know they only live for a couple days.”

Then I remembered this phrase, something my friend said to me as I commented on how beautiful the butterflies fluttering around the tall grass were, spreading sprinkles of scintillating, magical air.

Who am I disappointing by not having developed these ideas that could have been? Only myself. But who chooses to see it as a loss rather than a gain? Keeping this one-track mind of negative space filled with disappointment and regret would have never enabled me to sit here and type this morning.

Nietzsche’s concept of eternal recurrence and regret affirms that life is not about living with your “failures” and wallowing in them—but about turning these low points into moments of strength. To live in the now as a force of affirmation for your own life. To be the driver, not the passenger, in your own story. Whether the outcome is what you expected or not, the strength lies in being able to stand by your decision. Power is held within the act of choosing.

I regretted those moments when I could have turned my thoughts into something more—giving myself grief behind smiles and giggles. Yet I pushed my mind to jump that hoop. I saw it as a lesson learned. Perhaps this break in creativity meant I could focus on something else. As I researched and stumbled on Nietzsche’s concept mentioned above, I aligned with this sentence:

“True strength means transforming even suffering and failure into something you can affirm.”

So how does this have anything to do with the flutter of colorful butterfly wings? As he mentioned the ephemeral presence of these delicate creatures, a light that had dimmed within my headspace brightened again. I was reminded of the vanishing, fleeting present moment—and the beauty of ephemeral things. I was reminded to notice, not just look. And there’s a big difference. Passive looking is not enough to appreciate the life you are living.

I had forgotten to notice. To take in the smaller things that used to crease my cheeks into dimples.

This is about all I have in me right now and I am proud of myself for sitting down and finally putting fingers on keyboard.

C’est le va et le vient qui ne cesse jamais apart pour les petites horaires de l’aube. Le movement constant, la rafale de gens qui entrent et qui sortent avec une seule inquiétude:, vais-je rater mon train?

Ceux qui arrivent a la Gare du Nord sont en vigilance permanente, à l’affut de l’annonce de leur quai avec l’horaire precise graver dans leur esprit, afin de ne pas se retrouver a courir après un train déjà parti vers nouveaux horizons.

C’est une valse entre les descentes et les montées tous précipités a découvrir ou bien échappés cette mégapole qu’est Paris.

Un approchant cette facade majestueuse du XIXe siècle, je m’imagine la beauté et l’élégance d’un temps passé. Les robes à crinoline, encombrantes, volumineuses mais aristocratiques et raffinées. Quand j’étais petite, en visitant Venise ma maman me disait toujours de prêter attention aux pavés d’origine sur les quels je piétinais - presque lissent du a la popularité de la beauté de Venise. Elle me faisait rêver et mettais en scène mes environs, repeignait les coins ordinaires de la ville avec des images somptueuses, donnant vie a l’architecture et laissant mon imagination prendre le devant.

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“Imagines seulement si les murs pouvaient nous raconter et nous décrire les tenue, les histoires, les femmes qui se promenaient avec leur robes énormes et les chevaux qui trottant sur les pavés. Ecoutes les bruits et sens les odeurs.” Me disait-elle.

Peut-être que c’est pour cela que j’ai grandit avec un air tant mélancolique, toujours observant mes alentours avec une pincée de ce qui aurait pu être. Je ne lui en veux pas pour cela, au contraire je la remercie.

Car aussi belles que soient mes pensées, j’aimerai tant pouvoir les partager, mais ca restera notre petit monde à toutes les deux.

Je suis entassée parmi les gens de la gare là où la joie et la tristesse ce rencontre, la banalité et l’excitement se font face. Mes visions d’une vie passée, d’une gare romantique, remplies d’espoir sont brusquement secouées quand je distingue un contraste austère. Tant d’ âmes errantes, manquant de direction, avec un aire de souffrance accompagné par une absence de choix, les gardant prisonniers au pied de cette édifice, et me voilà a bord du train direction Londres St Pancreas.

ENGLISH:

It’s the coming and going that never stops, except during the quiet hours of dawn.
The constant movement, the rush of people entering and exiting with a single worry in mind: Will I miss my train?

Those arriving at Gare du Nord are in a state of constant alertness, scanning for the announcement of their platform, the exact time etched into their minds, all to avoid chasing after a train already bound for new horizons.

It’s a waltz between arrivals and departures, all in a hurry — some eager to discover, others to escape this sprawling metropolis called Paris.

As I approach the grand 19th-century façade, I imagine the beauty and elegance of a time gone by: crinoline dresses — cumbersome, voluminous, yet aristocratic and refined.
When I was little, visiting Venice, my mother would always tell me to pay attention to the original cobblestones beneath my feet — worn smooth from the weight of beauty and time.
She made me dream, turning the world around us into a storybook, repainting ordinary corners of the city with sumptuous images, breathing life into architecture and letting my imagination take the lead.

“Just imagine if the walls could tell us stories — describing the outfits, the women strolling with their enormous dresses, the horses trotting over the stones. Listen to the sounds, smell the scents,” she used to say.

Perhaps that’s why I grew up with such a melancholic air — always watching the world with a touch of what might have been.
I don’t blame her for it — quite the opposite — I thank her.

Because as beautiful as my thoughts may be, I wish I could share them fully, but they will always remain our little world, just for the two of us.

Now, I find myself crammed among the people in the station — where joy and sadness meet, where the mundane and the thrilling face each other.
My visions of a past life, of a romantic station filled with hope, are suddenly jolted by a stark contrast.
So many wandering souls, directionless, carrying the weight of suffering and the absence of choice — trapped at the foot of this grand building, and off I go into my train direction London St Pancreas.

Sitting in the back of our rented white Jeep, squished to the side between the door and my friend’s warm salty sunburnt skin, I let my mind wander in the quiet in between moments of the songs on shuffle being played. From Madonna to INXS to Bad bunny, the genres of music reflecting the complex, vibrant and different personalities occupying the Jeep.

These were not my first choice of songs, at the moment I lean more towards Erykah Badu, SiR or Deem Spencer, where the mellow melodies appease my thoughts whilst stimulating creativity, allowing my mind to create and not be suffocated by exterior thoughts. The songs’ notes accompanying and complementing my thoughts, feeding and watering the seeds of my thoughts.

I have always placed immense importance on the music I choose to plug into my ears. I’ve always thought of earphones as direct instruments feeding my brain information, an exterior object directly penetrating my inner core, hence finding it particularly crucial to take care of what was being transmitted through the air particles and to my eardrums.

The warm air entering the car from the rolled-down window caressed my cheeks, the smell of a warm spring Caribbean evening floating through our Jeep.

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Rushing to find the only opened gas station on a Sunday evening, the air grew thicker the anxiety of being stuck on the side of the road rose. As we found it, we approached it slowly, turned the motor off.

Suddenly the air was no longer thick with warmth, but light with angelic tones. An angelic aura engulfed our jeep, the amalgamation of imperfect voices and pitches, an imperfect melody spurred our curiosity.

I approached the small church like structure that was in fact more like an assembly hall repurposed for a Sunday evening gospel. The Gospel chants completely captivated me, as I vigilantly stepped into the little structure, I felt out of place, like a complete outcast, like a poppy in a field of sunflowers but not unwelcome, not unwanted.

The voices that kept me dubious were chanting in my head, the perception of inadequacy was only seen through my now, glassy eyes. It did not take long for me and my two other friends to immerse ourselves in the present moment, kicking in and all restricting thoughts to the side.

In no time were we swaying, singing along and feeling - completely present.

My glassy eyes reflected the uprooting emotional imbalance that had struck me. I was unsure why I was tearing up, I was almost embarrassed to feel so much in an environment that is totally unfamiliar to me.

Once again, I pushed the thoughts away and allowed myself to feel but more importantly understood the importance, the blessing and the luck I have to have been given the gift to feel to such depths.

It would sound almost naive to say that this was the experience I did not know I needed, after quite some time of lack of inspiration and especially the absence of strong emotions towards a single thing, person or experience, this moment devastated me much more than I thought it could have.

Music has the power to strip you from all your senses, leaving you devastated, senseless utterly decomposed.

Accompanied by the perfect warm, humid breeze whispering through the glassless windows, the curtains waltzing from left to right took part in the communal dance, unaware I had now allowed my body to express itself.

The moonlight peering through behind the makeshift altar cast a light on the plants, drawing shadows on the walls, the whole room adjourned by the dark wooden benches was in an unspoken sway, in complete harmony.

The choir of imperfect voices had created this magnetic environment through the simplicity of loving all without fail and abandoning judgement.

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I longed to be a storm shattering your direction, leaving you bewildered unable to stand on your own two feet.

The intense desire to have ravaged you feels only fair, in a world where I was left crippled, crumbling on the cracked marble floor.

I want to share my pain, I want to bring you with me through the tantrums of life ever since you abandoned my side.

I love you but I want to hurt you.

I don’t want to hurt you but I want you to feel my hurt.

Caressing your skin with your delicate fingers do you trace over the raw flesh, scathed by the stories of our past? Or have you slipped away unwounded?

The scar will taint your beauty I was told, but never did I mind it so long as it scram louder than words ever could, what we held so precious.

The memory of you forever withholding its space on my body.

Kept you alive at the cost of my own suffering.

But I question, will the scar of you survive the powdery pink blush I apply giving me the rosy cheeks of a youthful girl, the lipstick I draw on my chapped lips that had first caught your eye, the mascara I delicately whisk on my lashes to revive my lifeless eyes?

I want to be your most vivid memory like you are mine. I have allowed you to live surrendering a part of my mind to keep you afloat.

“The reality we have known is made up of the past that survives in our memory and the present moment of which we are merely conscious” - Marcel Proust

Our present happiness being a fleeting one, I held on to the memories of our happiness, an enhanced, idealised more intense version. I fed the image of you and allowed you to grow stronger whilst I was diminishing in the shadow of you.

Humans spend half of their days recalling, recollecting and reliving past experiences as a source of temporary happiness. The ability to time travel within our own minds and travel through our memories keeps us alive, adds a layer of depth to our already complex psyches. We self inflict happiness that we so often know will result in pain.

Joy and sadness oxymorons that describe so well our eternal fate.

I am no longer saddened by the thoughts of you, I am only left with questions for myself.

If pain creates a poetic, deeper significance to our existence, were you necessary for my personal growth? It is a tortuous double edged sword I am tormented with ever since your departure.

I am no longer sad, only curious.

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It feels familiar yet new—something I have lived through and lived with, but not quite in this way. Of course, it has changed, just as I have. Over the years, I have evolved, refined by life’s constant pressures and unexpected events. These feelings, once foreign, now fit into my life like a missing puzzle piece. They have shifted and adapted to my present self. How beautiful it is that we have the power to define our moods, labeling them with emotions that match our current reality.

"I feel my frontal lobe developing," my friends kept saying over the past few months. I nodded along, smiling, concealing the fact that I hadn’t a clue what they were referring to. I assumed it was just another phrase trending on social media. But today, four weeks into this new state of mind—one I barely have words to describe and am still trying to pin point and understand—I have come to the conclusion that this must be my "frontal lobe developing."

For the past month, I struggled to write. As my mind cleared, certain feelings dissolved and disappeared, leaving me empty, devoid of what I once thought constituted me and who I was. Yet, as these emotions washed away, they left space for something I never could have imagined. For the first time in my life, I gained a true sense of self and identity. I finally understand myself and the person I want to be, I no longer attack my own thoughts and shut them down, I welcome them with open arms. After spending years as a passenger of my own life, at 24, I have finally taken the reins, steering myself in the direction that I alone have choosen.

"We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold." - Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

This quote reflects the powerlessness of drifting through life, of moving without real control or choice. I have felt as though my life was playing on a big screen before my eyes while I sat back, only able to react. No direction, minimal input, aimlessly trying to please those around me—namely, my parents. I had forgotten that by merely floating on water, the slightest breeze could push me in any direction, spinning me out of control like a plastic beach ball in a windy spring pool.

A year ago, I read The Unbearable Lightness of Being without realizing how much of an alarm bell it would turn out to be. It quickly became one of my favorite reads, but only now do I fully understand how deeply it resonates with my current state of mind.

"What can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself?"

This line emphasizes the urgency of taking control, of stopping the waiting, the hesitating, the uncertainty—and most importantly, of refusing to wait for someone else to give us answers. Life is only lived once. We all get just one shot at it.

Today, as I sit in my living room, I realize something I never had before: My happiness depends on me alone. For so long, my sense of joy was tethered to someone else—the person I loved. When their presence suddenly disappeared, I became hyper-reliant on my friends and my parents, so grateful I am for having had them yet they have no idea, they were my safety nets for the past four years of lay life. Yet my happiness was shaped and created through external forces, making me incredibly vulnerable to changes beyond my control.

I thank my frontal lobe for finally developing.

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It became easier to book the next flight than to build a cocoon of my own. My luggage was always half-open in the corner of the room, clothes spilling out—a mix of warm wool jumpers layered over linen trousers and straw sandals. Who knew where I was going next? Certainly not me. My suitcase was supposed to be my safety net, my cocoon, preparing me for any and all weather. But the incoherence of my belongings mirrored the extremes within me: craving routine yet longing for adventure. The physical mess I ignored for so long turned into an emotional whirlwind, leaving me unable to stabilize myself.

I needed a room of my own, but I needed it on the go. I wanted a singular place to call home, yet I kept running. The endless chase left me absent of all valuable substance—empty, stripped of my personality. In my pursuit of a better place, I had neglected what I had left behind.

By simply sitting still, I found what I had been searching for. My cocoon flourished in the most unprecedented of places—not anywhere I had imagined, not with anyone I had expected. It thrived, nourished by years of longing, suffering, and growth. Without realizing it, I had done the work.

My home, my cocoon, is wherever I choose to let it be. It exists within me, and nothing can take it away. The seed had been planted, strengthened by rain, storm, and hail. I thank them for thickening my roots. I thank the sun, warmth, and bees for the unimaginable colors and intoxicating scents that have shaped this sturdy yet delicate bloom.

I am my home.

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“People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use.” - Søren Kierkegaard

The more I write, the more I observe and question everything around me—every action, no matter how small. Brushing my teeth, choosing what to wear, deciding what kind of day I want to live—each becomes a subject of scrutiny. Writing, for me, was meant to be an exploration, a way to unravel and dissect my strange thoughts. I believed it would give me answers, clarity—the vision glasses I had been searching for to navigate this eclectic and ruthless world.

But writing is less of a revelation and more of a self-inflicted surgery. I am both the patient and the surgeon, delicately maneuvering through my thoughts, threading them together in an attempt to create a seemingly perfect beaded necklace—harmonious ideas.

Yet, I feel deceived by the world of words, the glamorous illusion of being a writer. I wouldn’t dare compare myself to Didion or Allende, yet, in the barest sense, I am a writer. I write. I string words together, I share them, and in that act alone, I claim to be a writer. Still, I remain an outsider to this intricate world of ideas—an observer standing at the foot of a towering edifice built from dissected, inspected, and debated thoughts. For years, I admired it from a distance. Now, I have finally gathered the courage to step inside and become a contributor.

To the outsider, the writer seems godlike—omniscient, fearless, effortlessly assembling words into existence. The writer is the one who dares to sit with their thoughts, who embraces the mystery of what the next sentence will bring. The writer is not afraid of their own thoughts, looking forward to the words that unravel from the tip of their pen. To the outsider, writing appears like magic—controlled, deliberate, unfolding with purpose. The writer is perceived as the listener, the observer, the one who notices the slightest shifts in the room, who perceives things from angles unseen by others. They are the quiet architects of thought, stringing together more perfect beaded necklaces than most.

Yet, as I slip through the backdoor left ajar, I see that the grandeur of this intellectual fortress is more fragile than I suspected. Its walls, once appearing impenetrable, tremble under the weight of scrutiny. The perfect beaded necklaces of thought are subject to endless inspection, pulled apart by opposing opinions, forced to withstand the test of time. The writer who enters through the backdoor sees what lies beneath the calm façade—the instability of it all.

The amateur writer that I am, is now consumed by an avalanche of thoughts, questions splattered in every direction, becoming incomprehensible even to the surgeon. The mask of serenity and that accompanied the one of omniscience, slowly degrades to be replaced by the fury of bombarding thoughts. The perfectly beaded necklaces come alive as these thoughts are aligned on paper whilst they are bouncing around in complete disorder in the writer’s mind.

Daily, nightly, all the time.

“People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use.”

The freedom of thoughts is rarely mentioned, yet ultimate deliberation from your own imprisonment protrudes through the act of untangling your your thoughts, sitting with them and reflecting. The weird feeling of hyper questioning, scrutinising and reflecting comes with the comfort of knowing that my freedom of speech comes from a truly liberated mind. Yes being a writer is not as peaceful as it may appear, but the internal battle is worth the feeling of being in a weightless wonderland

This is going to be a bit different to what I usually post, because as I sit here, back against my grey-ish sofa (used to be pearly white), bum on the floor (no pillow) and lights on with the TV off, I am reflecting on my what I did today.

You know in cartoons when you see the characters waking up, sitting straight up not lingering in bed, just totally brain turned on from the minute they are awake, and ready to start the day, that was me this morning. My brain felt like it was consciously making decisions and thinking before I was awake, a strange feeling. It gave me no time to piece together my dreams.

Routinely made my morning coffee, but guess what? COW milk has made a comeback in my kitchen. The word kitchen feels foreign, as it usually implies moments of pleasure and delicious flavours with enticing smells. I can say that the kitchen in this home is far from my latter description.

A territory full of anguish, meddled thoughts and emotions that often lead me to sit exactly where I am right now. The kitchen, often the central part of the home for many, I could easily live without it, actually I would live better without it.

A fridge! Yes a fridge is all I would need, to store my cow milk and perhaps the occasional kombucha bottle. Otherwise most of the living I do is in the bathroom and my bedroom.

My mother came recently and made the comment “your oven is squeaky clean, do you clean it?”, my thoughts “it’s never been cleaned because it’s never been used”, if course I did not say them out loud as she would become worried as any mother would. I chose my words carefully and let out a white lie.

Is this the romanticised life of a single girl in her 20s or is it accumulated trauma tied to the kitchen. Either way, my kitchen is not a place of cooking, warm and enriching aromas floating in the air. It echoes the ghosts of my anxieties and warm coffee mugs previously filled with coconut milk.

I call this a home and not a house because I’ve lived in many different cities, apartments but none have quite felt like this one. None have allowed me the freedom to sip a cup of cow milk in my bedroom after having brushed my teeth in my bathroom.

Through the highest purest form of happiness, when all stands still and yet a thousand sparklers are lit up within your beating heart, this euphoria is languished by an inexplicable melancholy. There’s almost this unbeatable need to capture this specific moment, to grasp it and make it eternally accessible. The peak of comfort, connection and calm intertwining and meshing, creating a unique formula for ultimate joy. In those moments, emotions are so vivid that they seem to imprint themselves in memory, as scientific research has showed that experiences tagged with strong emotions make them that much memorable. Moreover we are biologically predisposed to create memories, the hippocampus’ main function is memory creation. So perhaps it is not a conscious craving for melancholy and nostalgia- it’s a deeper, innate inclination within each of us, driven by our biology.

These instances of heightened emotions are often associated with love, arguably being the strongest emotion humans experience. Love has the power to embalm our physical bodies, our psychological state and completely alter us in ways we cannot anticipate. The reward system that love activates in our brains forms bonds that are difficult to break, leaving us tethered to feelings of connection. It could even be said that love represents the highest form of happiness. As Victor Hugo famously put it, “The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved”. The deep emotional fullfillment that love provides—infused with purpose, meaning, and resilience—creates a sense of joy that also encourages us to better ourselves. Yet, even in love’s most glorious moments, a conflicting emotion lingers. Why is it that these rare, almost cosmic moments of happiness are often bound up with a powerful wave of melancholy?

Melancholy is often misunderstood, in literature, melancholy actually describes the happiness of feeling sad, which at first glance seems totally paradoxical. However, upon reflection, we can begin to wrap our minds around these contradictory states, which in retrospect feed off of each other. It is inevitable to feel down after a peak of joy, the moment has gone, all we are left with is the after taste but we may also be unable to truly appreciate and comprehend happiness without the feeling of sadness. I cannot imagine my life devoid of sadness, the contrast allows for appreciation and the intensification of happiness.

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Maybe we can use melancholy as vessel to truly appreciate a pleasant experience, in other words: “the pleasure of feeling sad”. Beyond this, melancholy enables us to experience a somber feeling through self-reflection and pensiveness. Often these acts of self awareness come hand in hand with one’s enhanced happiness. My trail of thought tris to evoke to the idea that melancholy may allude to pensiveness which in turn may highlight moments of genuine happiness.

Taking a moment to think back at a moment in time, whether alone or with a loved one, facing a sunset or sitting arm in arm on a cosy couch in front of a wood fire. There, pierce through to a moment of stillness amongst the swirling waves of emotions to grasp a moment of quietness unveiling what matters. As humans we tend to questions ourselves and we are able to contextualise, question and weight out different things in our lives. In this specific snippet of a wonderful moment something that may seem so completely overwhelming may suddenly appear benign or vice versa. By doing so, our brain enables us to comprehend what our priorities are and what we place most importance in. By default then, melancholy is needed in order to have these moments of “eureka”.

Achieving happiness through self-questioning and self-actualization is natural, as it nourishes our ego and self-esteem, pushing us toward our higher potential. However, as philosopher Kierkegaard famously argued, excessive self-reflection can lead to self-doubt and, in turn, depression. The constant search for identity and purpose can give rise to existential despair, leaving us feeling lost and disconnected. This anxiety stems from the desire to be and achieve more. Thus, while self-reflection is essential for growth, it must be balanced with acceptance of the present moment.

I’ve had many conversations with friends about tangible goals and where we see ourselves in 2, 5, or 10 years. While I won’t deny that having goals, aspirations, and targets is crucial—they provide guidance, a sense of security, and the feeling of working toward something meaningful—most of these discussions tend to follow a familiar path. The focus often centers on money and building a strong CV, with priorities set on achieving one milestone to make the next one more accessible, ensuring a seamless progression toward success.

However, amidst these conversations, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there’s more to life than just chasing the next financial target. Being surrounded by people who measured their self-worth solely by their earnings, job status, and the validation of their employers made me question this approach. It pushed me to think differently.

Rather than being drawn into this seemingly robotic system, I became more interested in building my self-worth and value based on my own abilities and the satisfaction of personal growth. Having studied at prestigious institutions, I’ve been fortunate to encounter fascinating people, topics, and ideas, which allowed me to accumulate a wealth of knowledge across various fields. One thing I can assert with confidence is that this knowledge is mine—something no one can take away. As Sir Francis Bacon famously stated in Meditationes Sacrae (1597), “scientia potentia est,” meaning “knowledge is power.”

I hope this space will serve as a platform for engaging conversations, sparked by the diverse topics I aim to reflect upon.

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