writing & excerpts
Jan 12, 2026
This wind splits so easily through the mountains. It breathes life into the stillness of the night. It unsettles the canopy, scattering the mineraloid scent of pollen over the valley floor. The wind brings rain to the island. In the gray lit of dawn, a kestrel eases along the air currents. Its restless journey refuses confinement. The sunbeams pierce through the gloomy clouds. My cat sat on my face and woke me up. I blink aggressively, then spit out the tufts of hair in my mouth. I get up. One drop of condensation rolls down my window, accumulating with others until it reaches the bottom. Oh my god. A pigeon - or maybe a dove - is sitting on the outside of my windowsill. I'm going to take a picture. I glance at the numbers on my digital clock. The reason I like this time of morning is because of its silence. Nobody is awake.
Feb 3, 2026
I need to get ready for the day. It’s important that one takes care of themselves and their surroundings. It’s very exasperating when your workplace is cluttered. I gained this preoccupation from my mother who always urged me to clear my workspace before doing anything. She corroborated by stating that your work will reflect the environment it was created in. I am a work of myself and my messy environment. It’s obvious. Heading to the bathroom, I turn the handle of the faucet and wait for the water to heat up. I lean over the edge of the sink and release the tension in my arms, relaxing my hands under the embrace of hot water. I take some deep breaths to wake myself up and process the day’s chores mentally. I doused my face, forcing my drowsy mind back into the present moment. I gave a long stretch. After wiping my hands, I head downstairs for breakfast.
Mar 17, 2026
I've never understood why people think they need to fill every moment with conversation. Silence is underrated. Most people are terrified of it because they might actually have to think about their lives for five minutes without distraction. I disagree. Thinking about things is fun. I remember a friend telling me about people who just talk to talk. They said it really irked him when someone would attempt to build off of a point that really should’ve ended earlier or when they rephrase what was already said in hopes of appearing thoughtful. I’m guilty of that, though.
Apr 2, 2026
We decided to drive up to the lighthouse. The road winds up the cliff face, switch-backing through scrub brush and wildflowers. Purple hibiscus nod in the breeze. The ocean stretches endlessly to the horizon, a blue so deep it seems infinite. At the top, the lighthouse stands like a white finger pointing toward heaven. We climb the stairs inside, our footsteps echoing in the narrow spiral. Each window offers a different view: the town below, the mountains behind, the vast ocean ahead. From the top, everything looks attainable. Distance has its way of simplifying complexity, reducing problems to their essential shapes and colors. It makes everything less intimidating
May 9, 2026
As I turned, I was blinded by the sun. I couldn’t bear to look upwards.
Dec 30, 2025
A large part of writing is conveying a deeper meaning within your words. I think what has happened to me is that I’ve become so preoccupied with trying to create a story with any sense of profoundness that I’ve completely forgotten my purpose. There’s usually a mundane exigence for me to begin writing, so I shouldn’t automatically expect insightful commentary. Moreover, writing is currently nothing more than a hobby to process my emotions and problems. It’s something similar to journaling; however, no physical media is involved—just this website.
Dec 25, 2025
I lay in the center of a verdant meadow cradled between the furthest reaches of the hills. Shoots of grass, reaching up until my knees, hem me in. They sway synchronously, in an odd kind of murmuration, closely mimicking the movements of their neighbors. The slightest stir of my leg caused a glossy ripple effect across the field as if it was mughal satin. The faint smell of rice straw lingered somewhere above me. I reach my arm up skyward. I see but blue empty.
Apr 11, 2026
There is nothing: a contradiction within itself. It implies the existence of something though there is nothing. When stating that “there is nothing to eat” whilst looking into the fridge, you define nothing by means of what you believe something should be. Something could be what you feel or what you desire. The purpose of nothing could be to conceptualize the absence of worldly notions of time, space, and ideas or utter lack of trivial, man-made creation such as limitation or structure. How anyone could believe in nothing is absurd to me because there is always something there. Yet, for there to be something, there had to have been nothing first, and for there to be nothing, there had to be something before it. Does the absence of something signify nothing or vice versa? For example, is the lack of donut in the center of my donut something or nothing? It could be nothing because there’s nothing that you wanted, or it could be something because the lack of dough is quantifiable. All this to say that, if you’re talking about it, it’s something.
Mar 15, 2026
People who use water to make those types of drinks have always baffled me. Like, why are you using water to make coffee or hot chocolate when milk is an option? It’s a whole thing that I make fun of people for.
Feb 8, 2026
Wait, what? Is it raining? Yes, though I'd prefer it to rain when I am at home. I enjoy the sound of raindrops pelting my window. That's why the monsoon season is fun, too. The only time it is not is when a branch breaks through the roof or something like that, but that's a one-off. Ah, but the road is slippery now. I should slow down so I do not veer into a cliff face. How much longer until I reach the southern coast? Hmm. 5 more minutes. The rain has softened to a mist now. I can smell the earth, drinking it in, that petrichor scent that makes everything feel renewed. The mountains rise on either side like the spine of some sleeping creature. Fog clings to the peaks.
Jan 12, 2026
I sat by the window facing the harbor. Small boats bob in the water like corks. The rain has stopped completely now, and streaks of sunlight break through the clouds in cathedral rays.