I'm using ChatGPT to do an assignment. That's how you know I talk the talk but don't walk the walk. 😭
At least it's not a poem I'm working on!🤷‍♀

I wanna be a tooth when I grow up
Teeth are made for the world
For biting one's nail
Biting one's tongue
Peeling bits of skin in healing
They're made for tearing flesh from bone
To be bared to scare off love
And danger


Teeth are bones that don't shy from gaze
Showgirls of the skeleton
Only they're not... bones

They ache like a bitch
They stain like a bitch
They bite like a bitch
So far I've been the sliced, the skin

Don't know what this is supposed to be.

Somebody yawned to this.😭 My disappointment is immeasurable and my day is ruined.😂

Today and teeth...🤔 I see it everywhere.

You sit long enough in the gutter and you start to reek of it. Like you're one with the stench that clings to you. And you wouldn't be entirely wrong as you can't escape your own shit. You can't escape the filth inside your intestines.

Fernando Pessoa

"She walks in beauty." Intentionally. Swiftly. She was my first object of worship. My muse, my nemesis. She is too young to be my mother. Yet my little brain saw her as one of the gods. She was perfect. Infectious. She marked the places she went to, branded the very air she passed through. Owned every perfume she wore. She excites extreme emotions in others. Always extremes. Because she is truly alive and what a life! From the time I was a little girl trying on my mother's heels, I've always known it is too big for me.

I loved her in imperial purple as a child, then I learnt her bloodied lore and she became my crimson queen as a teen. Now I love her in grey. Kalypso of the typhoon. Because what I feel for her is turbulent, violent. She is many women. And she has no right to trust the world with her heart after everything it did to her. But she does. She always does.

There are times that I have failed to see her for the windshield she is to my life. God forgive me. Mom forgive me.

- One of the things I wrote about my mom some months ago.

Absolutely beautiful!💜

Monday
May
Under-prepared for my exam.
My favorite octogenarian is still killing it.
Life is good.
Have a pretty day!💜

"To experience the joys of people while actively avoiding them."

- Cliff Sargent on why he reads

I'm a Man UTD "fan" who knows nothing about it except for Rooney. Yes, I'm old and so are you.

Anyways, congrats to Arsenal fans. Your happiness is contagious!

Blessed are the amnesiacs for they can't remember the past.
Me, I'm suffering from photographic memory.

Why am I doomed to entertain the past so? Why do I lie and say I don't look back? I guess I don't. Because it's a plus one to the present. It never passed. Maybe time isn't linear and it never was.

I started early. Ran so fast. But I was on a hamster wheel.

So I can't truly have ambitions. Because what is the point of achieving things when everything that could happen to those I would protect has already happened? Everything bad and then some.

I reason that the people whose pain I'm feeling by proxy haven't given up. I don't have the right to own their pain and give up for them. But
sometimes, it gets to them too. And that gets to me.

This is what happens when you pull the divine rug you stand on from under you. For better or for worse.

I'm tired. I'm writing this semi-comprehensible letter to the void that stares me down. Through the internet, which is a mirror. A shallow, two dimensional reflection of you. Sometimes it's unwise to believe the mirror. Sometimes it's the only right thing to do.

I have to release this shadow that follows me. Oscar lied. That's not where the soul resides. At least, I can't believe that. I have to cut my shadow from around my ankles. Lead life reflection-less, possibly soulless. A vampire eternally forgetful. I can't risk looking back and being turned into a pillar of salt. Salty.

Or I have to love my shadow and breathe it into a companion. Like Maui's mini-Maui tattoo. I don't think I'm the type, though. I can't look at suffering as learning. I don't respond well to being preached to about the Grand Plan. If this was the plan, it is more like a plot. Even if this was the diversion, the detour to the grand plan, I can't accept it. It shows neglect. Negligence. Cosmic apathy. There can't be a plan. There can't be a planning God. There can't be a planning God that's Good.

How the mighty have fallen, right? I am just tired of being cooked on fire to be ripe and digestible. This is me raw, lukewarm and spit-out-able because I don't want to be consumed anymore by higher appetites.

I don't like moaning about life. Who does? I know I can excel at anything, fit anywhere. I just don't see why, haven't wanted to for a while. So if you do see me moving mountains, know that it happened despite my best efforts.

And if you have to diagnose me, please be creative about it. Don't slap pop psychology at me.

Days like this, a whistle will topple me and I can't carry a feather more ; I have run out of shoulders, which makes it impossible to mingle with people.

That's why I'm writing this. To make room for tomorrow. To welcome unwelcome surprises. I've done good. I have to do better.

Eid Mubarak!

So y'all would let me say anything?

Jk. Here's a Pessoa poem.


I Am Tired
I am tired, that is clear,
Because, at a certain stage, people have to be tired.
Of what I am tired, I don’t know:
It would not serve me at all to know
Since the tiredness stays just the same.
The wound hurts as it hurts
And not in function of the cause that produced it.
Yes, I am tired,
And ever so slightly smiling
At the tiredness being only this —
In the body a wish for sleep,
In the soul a desire for not thinking
And, to crown all, a luminous transparency
Of the retrospective understanding . . .
And the one luxury of not now having hopes?
I am intelligent: that’s all.
I have seen much and understood much of what I have
seen,
And there is a certain pleasure even in the tiredness this
brings us,
That in the end the head does still serve for something.

Desperately need this guy in my life right now.

Call her pet names
when her face brings you sorrow
Play these cute games
postpone truth to the morrow