navigate my posts

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This master post has been pinned to the top of my blog. Updated occasionally. All posts under each appropriate heading are tagged and sorted into their respective categories accordingly (click the headings to be redirected). Some posts overlap. Constantly in the process of further re-organisation. Please be patient!

Continue reading “navigate my posts”

feels as though i am always so choked up with emotion (whenever i’m alone) i might one day implode! tonight (night, i say, at 4:27am, ha!), that emotion is love — and i do, a lot. spent two hours on a subreddit, then had a talk with megs, which i am sometimes quite bad at because she is very Aware so a lot of the times it feels as though my advice is Null and Already Thought Of (though by no means a fault of either of us!! it just is what is!!), but i was quite giddy on an arbitrary wave of happiness and positivity and felt even better afterwards. checked wordpress and saw soph’s Memory post. remembered the warmth of school (soph always brings me joy somehow!) and now i am going to bed happier than ever. looking forward to my dreams tonight.

(i know i don’t usually do this. but today’s events — which honestly didn’t comprise much — and, i suppose, my very unpredictable temperament have both been very kind to me. which is rare. i am in good spirits.)

a sudden loss of vitality. i hurt every night and put off sleeping to continue indulging (getting distracted by News I Do Not Care About and Opinions That Are Mindless — faux, faux, faux) and therein perpetuate my own cycle of self-destruction. i am tiredly hefty and further withdrawn. i talk to old friends and fill the silence with rambles, tumbling over my own words and thoughts, saying all that i don’t even need to say, and i look back and know i am completely losing it. more than sad, i am exhausted.

this heartache of a truth proving hard to swallow – i am short of $29 in my dreams and i am choked up, under stress – always short of something – too much

The Woes of Narration

There is a loneliness that cannot be replaced.

So many hallways and hierarchies I only traverse in my mind. So many characters I keep in constant company that only exist in my head. So many lost figments of time I will never cry through, rejoice through, rage through, live through.

I create too many narratives in my head when I’m alone. They run wild. They take me to countries I’ve never been. They turn me into a person who doesn’t dominate, but who still exists in, who I presently and physically and concretely am.

I conceive—

Dylan: pining, indulgent, brooding. I’ve killed myself four times and wake up after every one of these deaths in sweat and tears. I am hip-hop without the heritage. I am in neighbourhoods I shouldn’t be in. Fucking faceless, nameless, replaceable bodies. I am indifferent to their faces.

Sophie: beautiful, fascinating, charismatic, self-absorbed, terrifying. I am the soul to my art, the soul in my art, the soul of my art. I am Billy Joel on the piano, Basquiat on canvas, Black Sabbath and Sum 41 in my bedroom, Courtney Love on the streets. A hypocrite.

Freya: distant, libido-driven, good-hearted, guilty. I am the throng of thoughts that fill your heads in the aftermath. Heaped with onerous responsibility and expectation. I am the terrible anxiety people should be so lucky to never get, and yet here I am, hard-pressed for penitence and pertinence and potential, fighting against the vacuous strobe of a violin, playing from my heart, without fully being happy.


Tearing Down Walls

Wrote this article a while ago. I don’t think it ever got published so I’m putting it up here because it’s a little glimpse into the fashion world I’m slowly trying to understand, hehe. No images, just in case.

What’s in a name? For Gosha Rubchinskiy, it’s an entire eponymous brand, built upon a rich foundation of youth culture, social scrutiny, political tension and religious heritage. What Rubchinskiy has observed and continues to observe, he constructs into a tangible narrative of design, outlined by an artistic vision fixated on his Russian roots.

For his Spring/Summer 2017 collection, Rubchinskiy pushes cultural boundaries even more, highlighting that streetwear is no longer under unstated American ownership, but has instead become a crucible of international interpretation. Continue reading “Tearing Down Walls”

Tuesday. Not even mid-week. We’ve just barely started. I keep thinking of putting my hands on the sky, like it’s a ceiling, and lifting it up. Peer through the gap. And I can breathe! Then the ceiling cracks. Shattered fragments of sky, crumbling and falling all around me. I blink and find myself in a room, white on the walls, white from the ceiling to the floor, white against my naked skin (but that isn’t the point). And I sit, knees to breasts, lips to the nook they make. It stretches into the quietest silence—