biting the apple

I want to preface this by saying that I am NOT an arbiter of taste or style or anything in that realm. It's just difficult not to notice the group of college kids sitting across me in this Starbucks and how they're all dripped like they just stepped out of the same hyper-curated zoomer Pinterest board. But the effect is strangely dull. What's meant to signal individuality ends up reading as imitation or repetition. Playing up the effort to look extremely cool, almost polished, but with zero sauce. Individuality today feels more like an idea than something we actually see. The concept of being “unique” still exists in language, but in practice, it has become increasingly difficult to identify. These days when you look around, people tend to appear strikingly similar, mirroring each other in style, habits, even behavior. Instead of standing out, most of us fall prey to quiet uniformity. But this shift isn't accidental. A big part of this comes from how we consume informat...

Every year, approximately 10 trillion songs get released into the wild and pop up on streaming platforms. And somehow we're all expected to remember which ones actually slapped and pretend we'll remember any of them in 12 months. This list exists because I did not, in fact, remember most of them. So this is my brave and slightly chaotic attempt to separate the absolute bangerz that actually stuck from the "why the fuck am I listening to this?" moments that lingered for only a brief moment in my sad life. There is zero logic behind this list, just maximum delusion, and the firm belief that if it went platinum in my room, it meant something. No charts were worshipped, no algorithms were consulted, just pure vibes from moments of intense overthinking. So welcome to the Best Songs of the Year, as decided by one person, my AirPods, and an entirely subjective taste. Your favorites may be missing. That's fine. I've already made peace with that. Yamaha - Dijon Abso...

I  feel burdened by the weight of being seen through someone else’s eyes, and by how much space their opinions can take up in my chest if I let them. We don’t talk enough about the quiet pressure of being perceived, of being labeled, remembered, and reduced to versions of ourselves we’ve already outgrown. Sometimes I catch myself believing the way others see me must be the truth. That if enough people misunderstand me, maybe I am what they think. But perception is too unstable to carry that kind of authority. It shifts with moods, memory, assumption. It often reveals more about the observer than the subject. What hurts most is being misunderstood by the people who are supposed to know me. The ones who have seen my softest moments, who were there when I was still figuring myself out. They remember who I was in my mess, in my uncertainty, and sometimes they cling to that version as if it's the only one that counts. It feels like they're talking to a ghost of me instead of the per...

I still don't understand how someone I barely knew could leave this much behind. We never dated. There was no beginning to ruin, no ending to explain. Just a short stretch of time where something felt real, and then it was gone. It was small things that did it. The way talking felt easy. The way I didn't have to try so hard to be myself. For a moment, I felt seen, and that feeling dug in deeper than I expected. I think my heart noticed before my mind did, and by the time I caught up, it was already too late. What hurts most is that nothing actually happened. There's nothing to point to and say, this where it went wrong. It just... it didn't go anywhere. And I'm left carrying feelings that had nowhere to land. Loving someone quietly, alone, is exhausting. It feels embarrassing sometimes—like I made it all up, like it meant more to me than it could ever have to them. I replay moments, wondering if I imagined the connection, or if it was real but only on my side. I thi...

T hursday afternoon. The light outside is soft, almost kind. I wish I felt the same way. I’m drowning myself in music, still looping the sad playlist I found last night. It offers a kind of sadness that doesn’t ask questions. It just sits with me, giving me enough stillness to write. I’m not looking for sympathy, just some release. Maybe I’ve run out of ways to say the same things without feeling ashamed. I hate how often I’ve had to unpack everything onto the same few people. The same thoughts, the same grief resurfacing, the same quiet unraveling. It’s gotten to the point where vulnerability feels like embarrassment, so I retreat to this instead. I’ve been trying to learn how to let go, or move forward, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Everyone says it gets easier. I’m still waiting for that part. Some days I convince myself I’m okay. That I’m past it. That I’ve accepted what happened. But if that were true, I wouldn’t feel this defeated. I wouldn’t be sitting here, ashamed of how m...