26/06/2026 - A Mild Unnamed Irritation
Love sure is a horrific thing, indeed. Is that the common consensus? I believe it is, and it shall be so, for I find the whole experience of being in love conceptually mortifying and humiliating and yet simultaneously the cause of only a mild irritation that is ongoing and a faint ache that emerges only on occasion. Perhaps that is because this love of mine is something that only lives inside of me, never to see the light of day. For it to be revealed and, more so, for it to be reciprocated would be a far greater horror than for it to remain an irritable secret in me. Is it even fair to call it love then, I wonder. At what point does a crush become love? At what point does love become a fixation? Is love something that can be planted directly in your head from the outside, or does it simply come to be in your heart? If it is the latter and not the former, then this love of mine is not love at all. But if the idea has been planted in one's head before you have even met the object of your affections, then how is one supposed to discern where the sentiment has even stemmed from once she feels it growing inside? And worse yet, if one is in constant close proximity to the aforementioned object of this love, then how is one supposed to cope with it? These all feel like questions I should have already answered by the time I had graduated high school, but fate has chosen to bring these unwelcome and unsightly emotions and questions to me only now. And for that, I am spiteful.
22 / 06 / 2026 - A Dream Most Grotesque
Some nights, I see clumps of flesh and bones in my dreams.
And I do realize how horrific that must sound on paper, but I do no believe that to be a fair characterization. For, while it is grotesque, it is such only in the way our bodies made of flesh and bone are. Maybe that is why as I wake I remember only the clumps and none of the context, which I think you'd believe me when I say, would be so dear.
Last night I saw flesh and blood and guts again, spilled all over the bathroom carpet. I remember staring at my own guts spilled on the floor which should've been, by all means, inside me where they belong. But when I brought my hands to my stomach, my chest and then to my sternum, I found all to be mortifyingly hollow inside. Like all my innards had gushed out of me and it was only a shell (a shell of fat, muscle and skin) that remained.
I do think however that it would be too uncharitable on my part to name it a nightmare. For, when I awoke I remember feeling not horrified or saddened, but only mildly annoyed. Which seems to be the only the feeling this mortal body manages to wring out of me. Never mortified, never inconsolable, only mildly annoyed. At the ways it works, and the ways it doesn't work.
19 / 06 / 2026 - Record of Existence
In between working on a piece for this month's issue of the magazine I write for, I come here to see what others across the world are creating, altering and evolving every day here. It is a piece on how from Roman graffitis and medieval manuscripts to essays sent to magazines and songs made in bedrooms uploaded to Soundcloud, humans have always been motivated by a need to leave their name on something. We have a perpetual fear of being forgotten which manifests itself in the form of attempts to record our existence across a plethora of mediums, for people are mortal but words and images carved into some medium or another are outlasting.
This website is a creation which by all means has no reason to exist at all. There is no deeper meaning, no practical purpose for it. I do not share any creations or information that could possibly be of any real benefit to anyone. And yet, I have put considerable effort into making this website anyway. And if that act is not the perfect example of the sheer human need to leave behind something, anything at all, then I do not know what is. This blog post on the site, posted 19/06/2026 is a way to say "I was here. I have existed." for all who stumble upon it to see, as much as “Gaius Pumidius Diphilus was here on the 3rd day of October in the consulship of Marcus Lepidus and Quintus Catulus” scribbled on a wall in Pompeii is.
18 / 06 / 2026 - The Tabby Cat and the Black
There is a pair of them, of course. After all we were all created in pairs. Something about apples. Adam and Eve, Zeus splitting the apple in half to bring forth us, separated from our destined others… That sort of thing.
The black one is the man, I think. Adam. He is overbearing, creeps slowly towards the tabby cat. She welcomes him, solemnly. That’s how you know it’s a she. Even cats can’t escape from the scorching judgment of our notions of bioessentialism. They can’t escape from my pen either.
I lift my head up to look at them, they are pulled into each other as close as can be. I like to think they are making love. (I like to think a lot of foolish things). For if it looks like this, I think it is beautiful. The poets taught me love is meant to be beautiful. I dared not challenge the idea… I take a pause here.
When I lift my head again to look at them the tabby cat looks at me, they stand parted now. Good girl, sees me looking and jumps down, good little lady. Modest, bashful. She wishes not to be caught in a moment like this. “Tis most improper, my lord.” Some 80s bodice ripper line repeated in my head over and over. Now that’s how you know it’s a she.
And here she goes again! The one who wields the pen. She does it once more.
“Why are you projecting your shame onto some poor cat?”
How unfortunate for you, this is my canvas and I do not have to answer to you. Neither about my feelings on love or shame.
Or cats.
God, I envy them.
I envy a lot of people.
17 / 06 / 2026 - Filth
Rotting flowers, stone statues invaded and overtaken by moss, run-down manors with floorboards that creak and rot and show the bones and dust underneath. Imagery. That’s how all my stories start. I am good with imagery. Or at least I like to think that I am. I like to think that I am good at a lot of things. Not always, not even most of the time. It comes in bouts, like bouts of typhus. Only I do not spit up blood on a handkerchief. I vomit all over the pages like this. It is a good vomit, the kind that doesn’t leave a smell or small unrecognizable chunks of yesterday’s dinner. The filth is the same though. Everything that spills from my pen is filth. I like to make my mark, to leave the filth behind me as I dust off my skirts and pretend I don’t know where that came from. “Didn’t see who did it, officer. But it sure is horrible, isn’t it?”
Sometimes even I am surprised by the filth that spills from my pen, the acid in my stomach, these putrid clumps of distaste that I seem to puke up on the pages of my journals. It surprises me, because I am clean. In every sense of the word. If cleanliness really is next to godliness then there is no girl on earth godlier than I. Twenty first century saint, Mother Theresa in patent leather shoes. The Virgin Mary. Someone did call me that once, eight months or so ago, a jest that made the whole table chuckle. Whether you believe it or not. It felt strange, to say the least, but I didn’t shun the comparison. I shouldered it with solemnity and (though I would never admit it aloud) with this austere sense of pride.
If you never step into the filth you never have to get clean. I never got clean, I barely dipped my toes into the swamp of filth. I only watched it from afar and let it fill my pen, so it could spill later. And God, did it spill good…
06 / 06 / 2026 - this is hello
Today, I launched this site in the exact way I wanted it to be at last. It feels like something worthwhile and intimate. Though I have stayed far from anonymity in the traditional sense through my pictures, I feel still that there is a level of comfort which I can continue to maintain so long as it is people far and wide who visit my little shrine and interact with me. I shall use this page the way a blog should be used: full of everything nobody would actually care about, that is! Unless you came here seeking it...