Darling, are you ok?, She asks, the fakeness of concern oozing out of Her every last pore. …

Climbing into bed, giddy with excitement and anticipation. Having trouble falling asleep, as the morning would bring a sublime delight. — It’s called “anticipatory comfort.” Or “eager slumber.” When we were children, the morning might have brought a school trip, Santa’s gifts, or the first day of the summer holiday. Do you know of it, as an adult? Some nights you’d go to sleep smiling, already dreaming of the next day.

Nostalgia, literally translated as “sadness for the past.” — Bizarre, isn’t it? Looking back and realising love meant cooking endless tasty meals, care meant excessive cleaning, validation meant new clothes and proper posture, memories waved into smells and nostalgia was spent in the chores you were assigned. I relive, recollect, and rewatch those days, yearning for the triumvirate of…

There’s a certain romance to defining ourselves. A woman. A father. A whore. A lawyer. A tyrant. A saint. All these labels come into place and tell the story of Us. We move in haste and give them meaning. I’m an only child, I don’t know how to share. He’s…

Children are amazing like that, you see. Fantastic how raw their feelings are. How they’re not afraid to look someone in the eye and say, “you’re mean.” How quickly they forgive. Adults? No, baby, we are not that free. Adults need to be in nondescript cubicles, and they must buy…

the nights are wild and long and the sunsets are deep coloured and mesmerising I know of passion and of carpe diem, I know of living in the now and living free, no guilt, no pain, no face, no number. I know of regret and I know of bad decisions…

Let’s see if you can still do it. If you remember how you do it. — Your fingers play, the move is there — 1–2–3, 1–2–3, like a dance, the steps all fall into place. Then the thoughts creep in. What if you don’t have it in you anymore? What if you gave all that you were? What if that was it, the brilliance of it…

Enclosed were the four walls and trapped I felt. Day after day, night after night, I just saw the reflection of life through the double-glazed windows. Life was happening outside of me, while I was locked up in a prison of my own making. The mirror was not reflecting, but…

96 entries, 1,492,490 words. — I kept a journal for 48 days, with 96 entries — I wrote 1,492,490 words. Then I re-read the whole thing. And I wrote about it because: a) One year from now I won’t remember a thing. b) I just felt like it. Journaling has become on of the buzzwords…