“No Writing Is Wasted. Did You Know That Sourdough From San Francisco Is Leavened Partly By A Bacteria

today has been very pleasant

I think the human condition is just finding magic in the compositions of people's mundanity. Knowing they love strawberry perfumes and aloe moisturizers, knowing their favourite ice-cream flavours and the song they can sing in their sleep, gosh knowing their sleep schedules and sharing dreams during breakfast. Knowing the motifs of their grief and the childhood stories behind the swings, the joy of knowing how they completed their day with 15 math problems, one incomplete art assignment, a sandwich for breakfast, a kind smile of a stranger who passed them, and not to mention dropping their phone 5 times. The inherent comfort in knowing the stories inside their kitchen, where the glasses are kept with their favorite mug adorning a Studio Ghilbi character and why they eat noodles in a dented red bowl. Their heat/cold tolerance, their spice tolerance, coffee orders and their favourite snack aisle at the grocery store. The art accounts they follow and their comfort youtube videos and their unhinged coping mechanisms. Oh the mortifying ordeal to be known but oh the gratifying relief in being known. Comfort lies in these compositions of mundanity. I think love hides in mundanity and I think magic is just being human, just being unfiltered like toothpaste stains pajamas, just being in the presence of each other

Despite how open, peaceful, and loving you attempt to be, people can only meet you as deeply as they’ve met themselves.

Matt Kahn

Mortality constantly staring you in the face is a wonderful thing. Isn’t this one of the enduring harms inflicted by religion, imbuing everything with eternity? Perhaps this is why everyone does things as they do it. Death is shrouded by ritual and custom, and truth is masked under familiarity. You know you are going to die, but do you actually believe it?

do you ever get that really hollow feeling when you show someone something you like and they don’t necessarily appreciate or like it that much and it’s like you’ve just revealed the secret to retrieve the library of Alexandria to a hunchbacked old woman from the Victorian era who doesn’t know how to read?

there is something so beautiful about hearing people speak in their first language, their mother tongue. it’s as if you’re hearing them truly speak for the first time and suddenly you see rolling fields, cliffs and mountains, wind running through a forest. every day i wish that i could understand every language of the universe so that it can be more than music to my ears.

To love another as myself is the highest love possible because it signifies an erasure of division, no other, no rigid self either. The light of life is united through recognition and similarity

The distance between us and the stars

Stardust, (2007) / Lady Windermere’s Fan, Oscar Wilde / Starry Night Over the Rhone, Vincent Van Gogh/ War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy, trans. Louise and Aylmer Maude/ Great Expectations, Charles Dickens/ Starry Night, Edvard Munch / Stars, Mary Oliver / Never Alone (an Expressionist interpretation of Starry Night), Mas.s 

The feeling of regained humanity pervades the maple grove,

As branches rustle in the evening light - glinting golden,

their music pleasing dissonance, a swift breeze blows

over the horizon, blotting out lurking shadows.

Knives of love cut wounds that bleed ambrosia,

for what is the taste of ambrosia but the derisive emptiness

of a secret forgotten?

Faded flowers lay waste, that once were wreaths of worship

on altars sacred. At sea one instant, fragmented and lost,

on an isle the waves break unforgiving, and by the shore,

Robed in the receding Mist of dawn, towering and dense stood

The Maple grove, an unremembered grave of forgotten secrets.