About Me

What's the point of defining oneself, really?

When I was in primary school, I wrote journal entries about my desire to understand my purpose and reason for existence. Unfortunately, I wrote these musings in a school-designated journal, which earned twelve-year-old me a trip to the counsellor's office. Still, I appreciated their concerns.

I don't know what I am. I don't know what my "aesthetic" or "-core" is. But I think there's beauty in not knowing, in being messy and weird. If I never dared to walk in the rain, I would have never heard the trill of a Common Flameback.

Recently, I've discovered the university library is digitally subscribed to a few magazines I used to adore, so I've been reading those to substitute my doom scrolling.

I feel like I can never truly stop grieving the things and people I've lost. I think about death and the afterlife a little too much for someone in their early twenties. Sometimes I wonder if religion was created to shield our minds from the cruelty of it all, to reassure us that someone is watching over us, that there will be justice in the end.

Recently, I tried to curse my enemies with folk sorcery. Not sure if it worked but I do feel a lot better now that I've done it.