A Clockwork Orange
1971

Stolen Moments of Joy

I feel like I’m stealing moments of joy from my own life. Borrow from my bedtime for a little more fun, a few more pages of a book. I steal from my work hours just to catch a bit more sleep. In a world that grinds us into the gears of its vast, rusting machine, we carve out seconds, minutes, whatever we can spare, just to feel alive.

How did we become thieves of our own time?

How I love this man

The falling in love with the ordinary:

There’s something poetic about appreciating the mundane. Finding joy in the way sunlight hits a coffee cup, the rhythm of footsteps on pavement, watching trees dance with the wind or the quiet intimacy of folding laundry.

Falling in love with the ordinary is an act of resistance in a world obsessed with the extraordinary. We’re always chasing something bigger, better, more thrilling, yet the things that stay with us are often the smallest. The scent of rain, a familiar song playing in the background, the way someone says our name.

And yet(sighs*)here we are. Existing. Trying my best to fall in love with the average.

Aching for a youth we’re not even fully present in. We romanticize it, but we spend most of it drowning, just trying to keep up. We watch others sprint ahead: achievers, winners, the ones who have it all figured out; while we cling to whatever is ordinary and mundane. Not because we want to, but because we have no choice. Because in a world that is dark and cruel and fucked up, sometimes all we have are these tiny, fragile moments that make it bearable.

Like my cousin making me laugh until my ribs ache, until for just a second, I forget how heavy everything feels.

Like the way the light filters through the window in the morning, turning the room gold, even when I don’t have the energy to appreciate it.

Like the comfort of an old song, the kind that reminds me of a version of myself I barely recognize anymore.

I don’t know where this is going, and I don’t think I care. Some days, there’s no lesson, no grand revelation, just survival. Just trying to make it through one more day. Just looking for a sigh in all of the chaos.

And love isn’t in grand gestures but in noticing the details, the pauses, the in-between moments. The secret to happiness isn’t chasing magic but realizing it was always there, hiding in plain sight. Or not in the extraordinary but in the little everyday moments that will stay with us as memories.

Missing the Good Old Days… That We Hated

It’s funny how we romanticize the past, even while we’re still living it. We scroll through old photos, reminiscing about “simpler times,” even though we know we were miserable back then too. Nostalgia has this sneaky way of making everything look golden in hindsight, turning stress into adventure, boredom into peace, and bad decisions into “the good old days.”

Right now, we’re exhausted, overworked, and constantly overwhelmed. But give it a few years, and we’ll be longing for this exact moment, convinced we were somehow happier, freer, more alive. Even though, if we’re being honest, we’re barely getting by.

It makes me wonder, Are we ever truly present? Or are we just living for a future where we can look back and pretend it was all better than it actually was?

-Running on Empty-

Ever feel exhausted to the point of nausea? That is where I am at right now. There seems to be a lot to do constantly. And I have no choice but to oblige. I am dead beat tired. I might vomit any minute. All of the sudden I want to go to America by any means possible and identify as a cat. Find a husband who has a kink for it due to the fact his mother didn't love him enough. And do absolutely nothing. Just meow and purr my way out of life. The Art of Being Exhausted hehe.

In all seriousness, There’s a kind of exhaustion that goes beyond just being tired. It seeps into your bones, sits heavy in your stomach, and makes you want to throw up—like your body is trying to reject the sheer weight of existence. Lately, I’ve been living in that state, a nauseating blend of fatigue and frustration, where even rest doesn’t feel like rest.

It is the endless cycle of doing, failing, trying again. It’s the world itself, loud, demanding, always wanting more. Or it's just life, where even breathing feels like work some days. It has a way of draining us until we become shadows of ourselves, moving on autopilot, pretending everything is fine when really, we just want to lie down and let the earth swallow us whole.

People will tell you to "take a break," as if exhaustion is just a minor inconvenience, something that can be solved with a nap or a weekend getaway. But true exhaustion: the deep, soul-wrenching kind doesn’t go away that easily. It lingers, reshaping how you see the world, how you move through it. You start wondering if this is just how life is: a constant struggle to keep up, to stay functional, to not collapse under the weight of it all.

And yet, we keep going. Not because we’re particularly strong or resilient, but because, at some point, exhaustion itself becomes a routine. You wake up, you move, you push through, because what else is there to do? Even when life drains us dry, we still find a way to keep running on empty.

(Sleepless night rant)

Self-pity is unattractive as fuck