im so glad that discovering music is endless

literature today has, in many ways, turned into a kind of fast fashion. the aesthetic of reading often matters more than the act itself. on the surface, this seems harmless, after all, at least people are picking up books. but what’s troubling is how often these books are misread, oversimplified, or distorted.
this shift is very visible if you look back at booktok around 2021. that was the point when literature became algorithmic. books weren’t gaining popularity because of their originality, but because the algorithm decided they would. colleen hoover’s rise is one example. she became the face of contemporary romance largely because tiktok’s cycles elevated her work, not because her writing offered anything innovative. the same applies to “dark romances” like haunting adeline, which were consumed and romanticized without much critical thought. in response, more writers began writing for what sells, not for what they truly wanted to express. the result is a sharp decline in quality.
the smut driven turn in contemporary romance also speaks volumes. somewhere along the way, romance novels started treating explicit scenes as a prerequisite and marketing tool rather than letting character, intimacy, or originality drive the story. the formula repeats itself endlessly. if you’ve read one, you’ve read them all. experimentation exists, but it rarely reaches the level of visibility these books enjoy.
then comes the other end of the spectrum, performative “serious” reading. classics get misused as markers of intelligence, reduced to aesthetic props. but reading dostoevsky or any other canonical figure doesn’t automatically make someone insightful. especially if the text is stripped of nuance, and distorted to fit personal convenience. white nights, for instance, is one of dostoevsky’s most delicate works, but it has often been butchered by shallow interpretations simply because it is short and easily marketable.
the real issue here is that literature is not being allowed to breathe. it’s treated either as a prop, an accessory for identity performance, or as a product designed for the algorithm. both ends flatten the complexity of what literature is meant to be. please do not reduce literature to a prop. it deserves better. and i hope we start to see more writing that is not afraid of depth, more books that actually take their time, and more readers who want more than a consumable trend. i’ll eventually share a long, inclusive list of recommendations.

bro same. i’ve literally never had chai, except maybe like two three sips once, and it was so bad i swore never again. i honestly hate chai 😭. and it feels like a crime to say that in this country because people come at you like “how could you hate chai??” but yeah, i do. i’d pick coffee over chai any day. please don’t come at me 🙏

jutti meri

day by day mere dimag ka antenna hilta jaa rha h behenchod

andar hi andar backlogs ki chinta mujhe खोखला karti jaa rhi h

Eating snacks
Scrolling pinterest
Listening talks about books and movies
Not a single chance of thought occuring

yes, i love being a woman just because i get to apply kajal every morning

the only way to cope monday mornings is makeup

not going strong anymore 💔 they gave up on me after being with me for about 5 years. i don’t think a new pair is going to replace your comfort. you will be missed dearly soldier.

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Drop your screen wallpaper!

tell me if you recognize this

please don't call me pretentious

IKR! i might even say it's my roman empire

i’ve had this poem from bojack horseman as my wallpaper for a while now, and it has helped me alot. i won’t go into details, but i’ll say this, it’s one of the most beautiful anti-suicidal texts i’ve ever encountered. the first time i heard it, i cried and sobbed, like i did through so many episodes of bojack. it isn’t really about death in the abstract. it’s about the way despair seeps into the most ordinary textures of life. the poem begins beautifully, pointing out trivial details you wouldn’t usually hold onto. and that’s what's special. it romanticizes mundanity only to twist it into something unbearably heavy. its devastation lies in how it avoids the cliché of grand tragedy. instead, it reminds us that the real violence of depression is in its banality, brushing your teeth, walking down the street, washing dishes. things that should be simple become impossible burdens. the poem becomes a mirror. it doesn’t dramatize suicide, rather it demystifies it. it tells you that despair isn’t cinematic and that’s exactly what makes it terrifying.

the said poem

this is much better.