Monthly Archives: September 2016

Some mornings, when the way of the world allows me to bask a bit under my intentional naiveté, I read in bed and listen to music. I have been reading morsels of important Taoist teachings through the guise of Winnie the Pooh’s accidental wisdom and I have been listening to Sakamoto. Still.

I have practiced the art of thinking nothing before and I found it very healing. Some people call it mindfulness. I like it.  But I guess while I do love thinking about nothing, I also love thinking while not thinking. It is my form of mindfulness. How do I think and not think at the same time? It’s easy. I just rebel against my professor’s orders way back in college: do not read in bed, do not read before bedtime, do not read after waking up, do not read without a pencil, don’t don’t don’t. Because I might be running the risk of reading devoid of intelligence. Well, I say there’s a proper time for that and it’s not when I want to learn and not think. Some things, you don’t have to think about because you know them already. You just have to be acquainted with them again – preferably in least expected, adorably arresting ways.

I’m just very at peace with the notion that things are as they are. That I’m alright just as I am. Like how my ankle-grazers fall just right to reveal my ankles. Or how my hair appears short when I loop a scarf around my neck. How my blanket quietly drapes over my writing chair. How my heart anticipates the melancholia of the violin riff in Sakamoto’s Seven Samurai and how my heart sinks when it’s done. They’re nice and most of all, familiar.

This world moves so fast. This world moves fast enough to make yourself a stranger to yourself. But you can stay still and just let it all pass. Stay in the middle of a big whirl of colors in motion blur. Get a good hold of who you are and you’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.


You know that an experience is great when it makes you want to write. No, I did not climb a mountain. I did not spend three months alone in Europe. I just made a cup of hot chocolate from scratch. It’s glorious.

My boyfriend and I always go on obscure and unprecedented grocery runs. And every time, he gets chocolate for us. However, for the only time that he threw some chocolate into the basket for himself alone, he got the wrong chocolate. You know, karma just being a bitch even before you decide to be one.

So he got the very, very dark one. So dark you can’t eat it. It has been sitting in my fridge for quite some time now that’s why I decided to do something with it. For the same principle why you talk to flowers for them to grow. Or to your hair. Whichever is less bizarre.

I made hot chocolate with soy milk and coconut sugar. I gave it a quick whirl in my blender for some texture and froth. Delicious. I would pay for this. In fact, I already paid myself for making this through writing (through writing? Fucking Obligations and Contracts). Writing again. How I miss making something out of my incoherent thoughts and realizing something about myself in the middle of it all. Jokes on you, self.

I don’t exactly know what this attempt is for. Attempt to slow down. With hot chocolate that I made from scratch and some cake from my sister’s birthday party. Without actually thinking about the consequences of sugar. Without actually thinking about the consequences. Without actually thinking.