metaphoricallove

I can’t sleep.

This is something that I’ve been struggling with frequently as of late. Growing up, I was often surrounded by friends who dealt with similar issues; and within the privacy of my own head, I’d make hasty / passive remarks about their symptoms:

“Insomnia? Not a real problem. If they really wanted to sleep, they would. Sounds made up.”

Life doled out a heavy dose of karmic justice right before my 28th birthday; and it did so, by sucker punching me straight into the depths of humility. There was no time for me to transition, and certainly no grace period.

Over the past few months, I’ve come to accept that one’s inability to sleep may have nothing to do with their desire for it (or lack thereof). Sometimes, I crave sleep more than all of the basics combined —safety, food, water….Love.

Dry eyes, racing thoughts, and maddening hunger – these are my constant companions into the late hours of the morning. Hunger – not for food – but for a sweet release that lingers just beyond my reach.

I am a problem solver at my core, and my solutions were…Creative at the start:

• I inhaled allergy medication (despite having no allergies to speak of).
• NyQuil became a part of my bedtime routine (despite no sniffles).
• Melatonin dosages were tripled (to no avail).

My path to hell was poorly constructed with over-the-counter medication.

I’m not a particularly gifted chemist; so it should come as no surprise that Satan often sent me back to no man’s land.

Instead of following the linear path there; I, of course, took a detour to the South of Spain this year.

I wasn’t here for an extensive period of time (roughly two weeks), but I did manage to cover a fair bit of ground.

Here’s a Cole’s notes version of my itinerary for those of you that’ve been following my endless edits on Vsco over the last few months:

1. Barcelona

2. Girona (Girona, Pertallada, & Costa Brava)

3. Seville

4. Granada

Spain was kind to me – as I imagine the cool aunt might be kind to you at an otherwise insufferable family reunion. Her home is offered to you as a safe haven, one that’s free from any/all signs of pretence.

Comparatively; when I was in Switzerland a few years ago, the experience reminded me of being in the company of an organised, compulsive, and aesthetically sensitive friend. Beautiful; yet, somewhat constrained, slightly unreachable, bound by unseen rules – the counterpart to Spain.

Worth mentioning that both countries are stunning in their own right – just wildly different from one another (imagine a maximalist vs a minimalist).

I only bring this up because apart from Spain, Switzerland was the last country in Europe where I travelled solo (Ireland and Scotland don’t count, I was wedding bound).

I started my trip, as I often do: By getting a rough feel for the bare bones of the city (architecture, history, art). I’m happy to report that I was not pick pocketed during my time in Barcelona (despite endless warnings from the internet). I wasn’t particularly careful / vigilant either (am I ever?) Perhaps my luck played a part here, or maybe the internet was being slightly dramatic – the truth is likely somewhere in the middle.

The middle – it’s an awful space to occupy (much like no man’s land). One has to wonder what’s worse – the middle (stasis), or the other end of the spectrum (“unknown / potential failure”)?

And who better to answer these questions than the late Gaudi, the man whose infamous Casa Milà (La Pedrera) kicked off his cancellation era back in 1912. The critics really went to town on our friend, below you’ll find some of my favourite comments inspired by his creation:

• “The rounded hollows of the façade have been turned into dark holes through which all manner of creatures crawl in and out: not only crocodiles and rats, but also snakes, hedgehogs, owls, sea monsters...” as aptly described by Juan José Lahuerta
• “Apartment for rent and it’s not bad for selling cod after Carnival season…”

Kinda rough, right? Even worse was his untimely death (hit by a tram, unrecognised by civilians – with his last words being: “My God! My God!”) What a way to go out.

And yet, this was the same man who created:

and this:

and this:

You get the gist, right?

Our ability to build people up, and to subsequently break them down, fascinates me – it always has. Ted Bundy was a saint, until he wasn’t. Mom and dad were your saviours – until you took a jackhammer to their pedestals. You were a background character in my story – until you weren’t.

A part of me feels like you and I are – at all times, juggling multiple fluctuating perceptions as we ride our unicycles through the stratosphere. We’re amateur jugglers at best; and we are not immune from face planting on the cold hard pavement (in fact, we often do).

One such accident is exactly what led me to Barcelona in the first place, and I’m so glad that it did.

Just as disenchantment began seeping deeply into this jester’s bones, fate and happenstance renewed my faith in the unknown (by placing new friends in my path during a day trip to Girona).

I bumped into three lovely ladies at a restaurant in Costa Brava.

Together, we shared much needed laughter around the lunch table, and we exchanged sordid tales about being single 20 / 30 somethings in busy metropolitan areas – where the idea of true love often feels like a faraway dream, rather than something tangible or concrete.

We didn't dwell on this fact for too long, as there were pictures to be taken, beautiful folks to chat with, and Xuixos to devour. Our time at lunch flew by, and the coast was relatively quiet (with gentle crashing waves provided much needed white noise).

The rest of our time together was spent: Wandering down cobblestoned alleyways, climbing clock towers, and visiting endless Game of Thrones monuments.

I had a 9 AM train ride to Seville scheduled for the very next morning. My Toronto pals needed to catch their 6 AM bus to Valencia – and my California pal was scheduled to attend a business conference at 8 AM.

That certainly didn’t stop us from reconnecting for dinner during our last night in Barcelona, or from staying out until nearly one o’clock in the morning. We took a million shaky polaroids together, we laughed at the silliest things (that I cannot remember now) – and we ultimately bid each other goodbye.

It was bittersweet at the time.

The next morning, I was off to Seville (half asleep); a gorgeous sunny day accompanied me in transit.

For the first thirty minutes of my journey, I silently 'ooh-ed' and 'ah-ed' at the rolling hills, and lush greenery (these things aren’t new to me, but I don’t think I’ll ever stop being awestruck, even when I’m 85). The rest of my time was spent snoring with my mouth wide open—highly ungraceful, but deeply satisfying.

Once I got to Seville, I had a Flamenco show to catch – and hardly thirty minutes to get there, so I made a dash for it.

This Flamenco show took place at La Casa Del Flamenco – a beautiful, intimate venue.

For those that may not be familiar with it: Flamenco is a spiritual rhythmic dance; one that gathers influences from Andalusia’s Roma, Arabic, and Jewish populations. A large part of the performance leans on improvisation and chemistry. I found myself briefly suspended over my version of reality as I observed these incredibly talented artists. Their ability to effectively emote (grief, loss, pain, ecstasy) through their movements, alongside their intense facial expressions, rendered me (nearly) speechless.

As the performance came to a close, I remember distinctly thinking:

“The space that I briefly occupied while observing this group may be as real as it gets. Perhaps all of life is a mission to return to this (fleeting / magical / unseizable) sweet spot.”

You may assume, walking into a Flamenco show – that the dancers take their queues from the guitar players; thus, following the rhythm of the music. But this isn’t the case – the guitar players observe the Flamenco dancers, and set the pace of their music accordingly (see the improvisation bit kicking in here?)

Can you imagine how much unspoken dialogue must take place on that stage for a performance to flow smoothly? Can you feel the weight of those unspoken words, lodged deeply in your throat?

I can’t (then again, when have I ever left anything unspoken? It’s all here, in between the spaces).

I spent the rest of my evening walking around Seville aimlessly, there was no plan – really (shocker).

I did a bit of window shopping (no I didn’t, money was spent), and I grabbed a quick bite at Dona Rufina before calling it a night.

Cafe Hercules was my first stop in the morning. Upon my arrival; I was greeted by a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, warm toast, strong coffee, and silence.

The silence was my saving grace.

It was 8 AM, just early enough to avoid the crowds – and to gather my thoughts in peace. If you intend on paying this place a visit (which I strongly recommend, for a traditional Sevillano breakfast); you may also benefit from getting an early start. Otherwise, you run the risk of encountering swarms of people (and maybe that’s your thing, in which case – please disregard this altogether).

The perks of being early (anywhere / for anything):

• You’ll likely get the window spot (best suited for people watching).
• You’ll create spaces for your thoughts (which may be a plus or a minus depending on who you are).
• Your food will taste better (it’s science).
• You may have an easier time committing the moment to memory.

I’m glad that I savoured my moments of peace, because the rest of my day was spent navigating the social butterfly that is Seville, in all its extroverted glory.

I find myself torn here.

I can craft endless passages dedicated to The Royal Alcazar of Seville, or Plaza de España. I may break out my thesaurus, and scour its pages for all the flowery words fit to describe Seville’s stunning architecture – but I’m not going to do that.

Instead – let me show you:

Just kidding.

Seville happened to be the city where my camera’s SD card called it quits. I had to resort to using my phone’s (okay-ish) camera for much of the day. It’s not the phone’s fault, it’s me – I’m careless, and I stubbornly refuse any / all protective casing.

It may come as no surprise, then, that my phone often falls victim to my ire and chaos.

But that’s neither here nor there.

And what’s life without a little chaos, anyway?

You need to look no further than the Royal Alcazar of Seville to see this idea personified (beautifully, might I add). This Unesco World Heritage site is home to multiple architectural elements – all of which coexist in the same space (somehow it works). Don’t believe me?

In the Alcazar (which was originally a moorish fort), you’ll find:

• Gothic Elements
• Mudéjar Styles
• Renaissance Influences
• Baroque Additions
• Moorish influences
• Romanesque Influences (although, less prominent than those noted above).

Isn’t it kind of wild that all of these (strikingly) different aesthetic approaches can blend together to create something so beautifully unique (whilst remaining true to their origins all the same?) I often wonder what it may be like to forge a bond similar to this; it’s awfully easy to lose yourself in others if you aren’t careful – and yet, lose yourself you must if you want to create something interesting (in my opinion).

So, how do you strike that balance?

I suppose (like most things in life) the concept is easier to theorise, and trickier to execute (but it’s not like this castle was built in a day, right?)

My favourite part of the whole tour was the ending (I don’t mean this in a snarky way!)

The Royal Alcazar’s beautiful gardens (which seemed to go on forever) were simply breathtaking; frankly speaking, I may have spent my entire day photographing the flowers alone (if my SD card allowed this).

My tour came to a wrap within one of these gardens; and as I sat in a small cafe (gathering my belongings, and sipping on much needed espresso) – a flash of blue caught the corner of my eye.

It was none other than our friend here, who marched up to my table like a bird on a mission. There was no fear in his eyes (and why should there have been? I was a guest in his home, not the other way around). Upon approaching my table, my pal paused – craning his head left, right, and centre gracefully; meanwhile, I did my level best to remain calm, as I begged my camera to do its thing.

And it did.

This peacock kept me company for a while, before folks started coming around with their cameras (and less than subtle approaches). That was his queue to leave.

It was also my queue to leave.

I was -supposed- to take a small nap before venturing out again. My body initiated a factory reset instead (as it often does); and I knocked out for pretty much….The remainder of my time here.

That was Seville: Short, sweet, chaotic, slightly overwhelming, and unbelievably stunning.

And then came, Granada.

Granada, Granada, Granada.

“This place is magic!” Exclaimed Hector as we climbed our way up an incredibly steep hill on our way to Sacromonte. It’s funny, the way that excellent company can make you forget all about the horrors.

“My friends are all musicians, and sometimes the girls – they stay out until 2 in the morning, and they feel safe coming home by themselves. This place is as safe as it gets – and we have everything here: the mountains, the food, the parks…All the artists congregate here.”

Hector isn’t from Granada, he’s a San Fran dude through and through; but, he made a decision to move here a few years ago, and he committed to the bit. It’s something that I admire about him (in addition to his upbeat personality, and sparky energy).

The two hours I spent walking around with Hector on my first evening in Granada honestly felt more like ten minutes – this was a wonderful thing. Together, we explored Granada’s monuments and history; my favourite story was that of the mad queen – Juana La Loca (Juana The Mad).

Joanna held many important positions during her time in this world: The daughter of Queen Isabella I and King Ferdinand II, the heir presumptive to the crowns of Castile and Aragon, the woman who was madly (in love with ? in awe of? fixated on? obsessed with? something something) her husband, the Austrian archduke Philip The Handsome (no kidding, it’s literally in his name).

I know people often say that love is madness – but Joanna really drove this point home (she was physically kissing the man’s corpse, long after his departure from this world). Frankly – I find myself feeling slightly defensive over her, history wasn’t very kind to our dear Joanna (but is history ever kind to a ‘mad woman?’ The receipts state a resounding ‘no,’ your honour).

The battle for the crown between Joanna’s father, and her husband – ultimately ended with Joanna caught in the crossfire (shocker). Thus, a mad queen was born.

I’m not denying this (highly intelligent) woman’s battles with her mental health, I certainly wasn’t there to witness them – my time travelling machine has its limitations, after all. What I am saying, is this:

Here we have a young woman, with little exposure to the external world and men (dating isn’t exactly a thing), she gets married at the age of 16 to a man who is literally named – Philip The Handsome; during their marriage, Joanna gives birth to 6 children. This isn’t a perfect marriage, by any means – infidelity comes into play, Joanna chases Philip’s lover down with a pair of scissors, and she slashes said lover’s face in the process (good for her). She is constantly used as a political pawn between her father, and her husband – both of whom seem to have no qualms with confining Joanna, and locking her up (solitude is her only companion).

So – mad woman?

Or….Highly intelligent woman, born in the wrong place, at the wrong time, infatuated with the wrong man?

Who knows? I don’t.

Here’s what I do know: If Joanna was mad, then perhaps the rest of us ought to check our sanities at the door.

My second day in Granada started off with me in panic mode – I was running late to a cooking class, and I could not find the keys to my apartment (located in the Albaicin Quarter). I flipped the entire place upside down – only to discover the keys, still hanging on the door outside my apartment (I had forgotten to take them out the night before – super smart, super responsible).

Thank God for the safety Hector mentioned earlier, right?

When I finally made it to Nuria’s kitchen, I discovered another hurdle to cross: Nuria didn’t speak a word of English, I didn’t speak a word of Spanish – and yet, there we were, determined to embark on this baking adventure together.

Guided by Google translate, physical gestures, and sheer willpower – we made it work, the final product?

Something similar to this.

It was a lot of fun, to be honest with you. There’s something refreshing about decoding messages like a little detective (under certain conditions – ideally the person you’re decoding is physically in front of you, and said person directly acknowledges your line of communication). Nuria and I didn’t face any problems in this regard.

I digress.

As we sat together, chatting over tea, I asked Nuria for her recommendations (I had been on the hunt for a local spice shop, in the hopes of avoiding tourist traps). Immediately, Nuria pulled out a paper map; thus began fifteen minutes of circling, scribing, and enthusiastic gestures – it was adorable. As a result of my friend’s kindness, I found myself using a paper map to guide me after…God, I don’t even know how many years it had been.

Isn’t that kind of wild?

I was proud of myself for finding the spice shop on my first go (without getting lost along the way).

Azafran in Spanish, Zafran in Urdu, and Saffron in English – whatever you may prefer to call it, I found some (and I brought it home with me).

“But what about the Alhambra?”

“Did you see the Alhambra?”

“There’s so much history in the Alhamb-”

No, I didn’t. Okay? I’ll just cut to the chase and admit this right here, right now.

My silly brain didn’t book tickets in advance – I was willing to pay a ridiculous markup to get in; but even with that, I wasn’t able to secure tickets. And so – no, I didn’t see the Alhambra (unless the outside counts). Learn from my mistakes, book far far far in advance (we’re talking weeks here).

For those that have been with me for a while, you know this: Whenever I travel, I bring art home – this is a must for me. I was struggling to find paintings that resonated in Granada (there were plenty available, but none that clicked).

“That sounds just like dating in 2024,”

Indeed.

On my last day here, I came across this beautiful bookstore:

The bookstore itself was a nice surprise, of course – but that’s not what this story is about.

This story is about the second floor of this bookstore, where I found the painting that I had been on the hunt for my entire trip (an hour before my train was scheduled to depart for Barcelona).

César Eduardo Pigino is the artist behind the magic, and his portfolio is definitely worth looking at (I love his style + the attention to detail in his work).

We are almost 3500 words into this blogpost, folks.

I’m tempted to use the remainder of this space to share stories of my misadventures at the airport with you (where an officer asked me how I managed to get into Spain without getting my passport stamped – it was stamped, he just couldn’t see it for twenty five minutes – I missed my flight).

I won’t do that, though – because I think…

I think I’ve said all that I had to say. There’s always something left over, of course, something unspoken, something imagined – and that’s just the beauty of our conversations.

Often, I wonder if there will ever come a time when I don’t have any stories left in my system to share….It’s a frightening thought; after all, I am as attached to your company as you are to mine. Let us not end this on a frightening note; however, let’s set a promising tone instead: Perhaps, you and I are destined to be penpals until it is physically impossible for us to be penpals.

And maybe that’s okay.

Until next time; with love, from Spain.

Xo, M

This – this needs to be said.

And it’s something I often write about on my blog; but, as we all know, what goes live on my vsco typically comes down in 24 hours (unless it’s photography / photography adjacent). What I publish here, stays – FOREVER. Just kidding, it stays indefinitely because I’ve actually made the effort to sit in front of my laptop and type it out – rather than tapping away sporadically on my phone.

Right – what is it that needs to be said? Ladies, non-ladies that identify more closely with the ladies, non-ladies that are rebels and just want to listen in – listen up:

Anyone who sells you the concept of “the grey” in love is duping you.

I know, I know. This is controversial, people will come for my neck for saying it – but I’ve said it, and I’m committing to my opinion like MAGA advocates commit to their hideous hats.

Anyway – what do I mean by the grey? The grey is anything that resembles…

“You’re a really nice person, I’m so lucky to have you – these things take time.”

“We must hide this from the world, the world will curse our relationship vis a vis their evil eyes / curses” (as though the world doesn’t have more important things to worry about i.e World War III)

“You’ve gotta understand…I was really hurt last time, I need time and consistency” (are you training a golden retriever or being courted????)

“It’s so childish to expect commitments / decisions like this! Time, time, time.”

“There are no black and white answers in love, we must think critically – adults thrive in the grey. The in-between. Much like in life – there are no clear answers, it’s ambiguous, make your peace with it.”

Why? Why should you have to make your peace with anything at all?

Motion denied.

Now, what qualifies me (the most single girl in the group chat) to speak on this subject?

Why should you listen to me?

I don’t know, to be honest. You don’t have to listen to me about anything at all – but clearly, something about me resonates with you, it’s why you’re here. Take whatever you’d like, leave what you don’t. This is a free for all okay? Let’s get right to it.

Have you ever seen a 6-year-old having a meltdown in a video game store?

I have, plenty of times – especially if it’s a game that they really want! 95 % of the children I’ve encountered fall into this meltdown category – that’s not to say that more mature / sensitive children don’t exist, they certainly do (but they’re rare (and probably mildly traumatized)). Most kids don’t have the emotional tools / awareness / understanding necessary for curbing their impulses (this is -natural-).

So, when a child really wants something, that’s it – they get tunnel vision re said object.

As they transition into adulthood, children (usually) gain more life experiences, greater empathy, emotional intelligence / awareness, and these reckless impulsive demands retreat to the back burner in their minds – but they don’t disappear (nothing ever does), they transform.

Can you see where I’m going with this?

Have you ever seen a child vying after an object – but playing games to get to it? Have you ever seen a child saying something along the lines of:

“Of course, I really want this video game….But let me give it 3 to 5 years, and a little bit of back and forth – some signs, some signals, some code messages – and then I’ll go grab it through this extensive maze that I’ve created for myself.”

No!

They will literally swoop across the floor and dig their mini claws into the object of their desire, they’ll hold onto said object tightly (as though not doing so would lead to some sort of a heist / robbery – as though this video game is all that stands between them, and world domination).

Ladies (gents, aliens, martians), this behaviour doesn’t change! Ever! I strongly dislike comparing humans to inanimate objects vis a vis silly analogies, but in this case – I’ll make an exception, and I’ll objectify you to get my point across.

You are the video game (please forgive me!)

Often, we make things in life more complicated than they need to be – because the simple truth just stings. It sucks, I get it, trust me, I do.

But I would rather cauterize you with a scalding hot knife, than leave your wound unattended…Until it festers into a painful infection, and we have to chop off your arm (yes I do have nightmares about this, besides the point).

This doesn’t just apply to romantic relationships, by the way, and I’d like to make that perfectly clear.

This back and forth, supply / demand, perceived value / actual value thing applies to any / all relationships that you can possibly have (even the one with your cat). If you’re interviewing for a job, this is relevant. If you’re making a new friend, this is relevant. If you’re figuring out family dynamics, this is relevant.

If you’re seeing some dud, and trying to determine if he’s worth the investment…Well, this is most certainly relevant.

If they want you, you will know. There is no guessing, there are no mind games, you don’t have to decode their text messages like an insufferable game of sudoku – there’s none of that. The object of your desire will make it (at times) -painfully– clear, that they want you, and that they have tunnel vision for you.

The problem you may then encounter, is tackling your desire – and whether it’s impacted by this person’s (genuine) interest. That one’s a bit more complex, and I may not be equipped to speak on it (not that I’m particularly well equipped to speak on any of this, but whatever). I’ll try.

There’s this interesting thing that folks in sales do, you may have encountered it many times yourself: They create the illusion of scarcity – think:

Limited time drops, rare collections, only a handful of tickets, only a few invited to the gala, only a handful of seats at the table – and while these things are genuinely scarce at times, 92 % of these scenarios are grossly exaggerated (to increase the perceived value / sales volumes). Your monkey brain doesn’t want things if they’re easily available in the millions, I wish it did (wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t it make life a lot easier for all of us? But it doesn’t).

This is the origin of the pick me girls, it’s also the origin of the girls that came up with the concept of pick me girls – thereby, creating their own pick me category. You want something unique, something that (from your perspective) holds value (on an emotional level, on a socioeconomic level, maybe through an aesthetic lens – I don’t know, all your trigger points are unique to you). You want something to fill the gap that you perceive in yourself – something that (you think) will increase your value in front of the world (thereby feeding your ego, which is always a nice little high).

AKA – you want the gnome that will help you spin your straw into gold, but no matter how much he spins, and how much you trade off – it’ll never be quite right, never quite enough. The more that he spins, the more your ego demands, this is not love – but it is what most of our world refers to as love, so I’ll go with it for now. The little boy in the video game store is trying to fulfill his fantasy (i.e the high / satisfaction he assumes he’ll feel once he finally attains you) – his fantasy is impossible to fulfill, much like your insatiable desire.

But I don’t want to leave you feeling hopeless, so let me reassure you, as I often do: Magic does exist.

Occasionally, a little boy walks into a video game store – and he has his eyes trained on one video game, and one video game alone (it’s the most challenging video game in the world, and he may have to spend his entire life dedicated to it). The boy is up for the challenge – and overtime, he genuinely becomes emotionally attached to this video game (one which accompanies him through major life experiences). He develops a fondness for it, he sits on the porch with the video game until he expires (or until the video game expires, whatever comes first).

Occasionally, Rumplestiltskin barges into a castle – and the young maiden in question thanks him for his time, instead of asking him for more. She digs her claws into his core, she wants to know more about this magical gnome that can spin straw into gold – she’s more invested in who he is, rather than what he can do for her.

Occasionally, all of this happens.

But to get to that occasionally – you need to stop entertaining all these maybes!

Repeat after me:

• “Situationships” do not exist in my universe, I am either being courted (officially), engaged / married, or single.
• I hereby deny any / all notions of the grey (yuck!)
• I do not chase things (unnecessarily), and I strongly believe what is meant for me will find me (in good time, assuming I put in the effort too. We’ve gone over the whole faith without action thing in my older blog posts).
• If I have to chase it, it isn’t for me (unless we’re playing a game of tag, which, I think we should totally do as adults, another topic for another time).
• I’m committed to filling any gaps I perceive in myself (by myself), human beings are not acceptable substitutes for my incessant, insatiable vanity.
• If I have to enjoy my own company – so be it. Maybe I’m insufferable to be around – why don’t I spend some time making myself a little bit less insufferable, so that I can start finding pleasure in my solitude.
• If someone tries to chase me down with the word ‘nuance,’ I’ll channel my inner roadrunner and zoom right on by.

Okay? Kapeesh?

If you made it this far, then, I don’t know. Virtual cookie for you.

I hope you got something out of this: Maybe it was just dry enough to put you to sleep, maybe it’s a pep talk that found you at the right time, maybe it’s something to sneer / scoff at. Whatever purpose this served for you (or whatever purpose it didn’t serve), I’m glad you’re here!

There’s no rhyme or reason to these journal entries (much like my thoughts) – they just are. I am not qualified to speak on any of this – I’m just a stupidly observant person, one who needs to put words to things until they make sense for me (and maybe for you?)

Xo,

M

[Wed, Dec 27, 2023, 14:19]

As a child, there were two fairy tales that I had an unhealthy obsession with: Sleeping Beauty, and the Princess and the Pea.

My fascination with the latter may make sense to those who are familiar with the fable. A mattress fort that is 20 stories tall, illustrated in bright colours no less? I never stood a chance.    

The story was intriguing enough — the notion that one's true worth could be validated by something as seemingly simple, yet complex, as the sensation of a pea mushed under twenty mattresses. A part of me found this concept to be wildly intriguing – intriguing enough to request over a hundred retellings. (I may be exaggerating, but you get the point, right?)

And then there was Sleeping Beauty.

The story told to me was the Brothers’ Grimm adaptation titled ‘Briar Rose,’ this version is more gritty, slightly darker – and below you’ll find the passage that I asked my parents to repeat to me every night:

After the princess fell into a deep sleep, a dense thicket of thorns grew around the castle. Over the years, the thorns became so thick and impassable that any prince who attempted to reach the castle found himself stuck.

Until one day, a powerful prince with his mighty sword successfully trudged through the thorny maze (I always visualised the maze as more of an intricate labyrinth, with hues of burgundy and brown – hunched below gray overcast skies).

Emerging from the thicket, led by arms adorned with scars from the battle – our prince makes his way towards the castle...

That was it, that was the part.

I wasn’t particularly curious about the kiss that finally awoke our princess like a revolting alarm clock. 

It was the labyrinth, and the thorns that intrigued me – visualising these together soothed a part of my brain – and so I did, every single night.

Stories are powerful.

There are the stories we tell ourselves, the stories we are told, and perhaps the most interesting – the stories we create. You may be wondering what the difference is between telling yourself a story and creating a story – I’ll leave that with you, I know you can figure it out.

Enough of my silly riddles, though. How’re you?

Odd question, all things considered – I’ll start. 

I’ve missed you.

I’ve missed creating spaces between the words for you.

I’ve missed your clever inferences.

I’ve missed our shared vulnerabilities, our subtle hushed understanding.

It’s been too long.

It’s been so long, in fact – that I hardly recognise my own voice.

And so, I’ll hand these words over to you – in the hopes that you’ll recognise it instead.

---

Let’s begin with an origin story…

[Wed, Dec 27, 2021, 10:00]

A few days ago, I woke up thinking of a dreary summer morning from 2007 (one of my -least– favourite years, by the way).

There I was, all of 12 years old – sitting in the middle of homeroom: hot glue gun in one hand, popsicle sticks in the other (worth mentioning that I ultimately did not pass the assignment I had been working so diligently on).

I barely noticed the sensation of something lodging itself onto the back of my head. It often takes me a while to register significant moments in my life, especially when they unfold in split seconds rather than gradually, over time.

Cautiously, my fingers began treading through thick locks of hair to determine the source of my pain, it didn’t take long before they latched onto something…Something sticky…And gooey, and just gross.  

Gum, folks.

It was a nauseatingly bright pink wad of chewed gum.

The funniest part of this story isn’t that some silly boy in the back seventh-grade homeroom decided to spitball a piece of gum into my hair.

The funniest part of this story is that it took me nearly an hour to -finally- tell my homeroom teacher what had happened.

That’s right: in 2007, I sat petrified in the front of my homeroom class for an hour, with a hot glue gun in one hand, popsicle sticks in the other – and a giant piece of gum lodged on the back of my head.

Gross, right?

When I finally processed what had occurred, and notified my teacher, she immediately redirected the tiny perpetrator and I to the principal’s office.

Let’s name this boy…Eedijot, just out of respect for his confidentiality.

As Eedijot and I began our walk towards his impending doom, my brain was, of course, preoccupied by the logistics of this whole thing: were they going to whack the gum out of my hair? Would I have to spend the rest of seventh grade with a bald spot on my head? If going bald was the only option, then did I have a smooth enough surface to work with?

My train of thought was derailed by the noises of Eedijot whimpering and begging besides me. When I finally turned to face all 4”2 of him, I saw something I hadn’t seen in Eedijot before: fear, pure frantic fear.

“Please don’t tell them what happened, please!” He begged, rubbing his palms together like a rabid raccoon. A part of me wondered if Eedijot realised that, regardless of what I shared or omitted: the damage had already been done.

I became curious regarding Eedijot’s parents, and if they were brutal or violent. I found myself dissecting Eedijot’s life trajectory (all 12 years of it) – I questioned what the root cause of his sudden fear may be; after all, Eedijot hadn’t been afraid when he first decided to pick up that straw, he had been quite bold…Brave even.

What did he think was going to happen after the fact, I wondered – or did such people exist for whom the impact of their intent simply did not matter until it was far too late? All these questions kept swirling around in my head on our walk to the principal’s office. Any reasonable 12-year old’s only thought in a situation such as this ought to be:

“Good riddance nitwit.”

But that simply wasn’t the case – this was: we finally arrived at the principal’s office; and faculty had to threaten me with a suspension for me to finally snitch on Eedijot.

You see, the guilt Eedijot managed to leverage over me was powerful – but ultimately, not more powerful than my fear of being perceived as a disappointment, or, God forbid, unworthy.

You may be tempted to ask, “unworthy of what?”

And that’s truly the million-dollar question, one I’m afraid I will have to plead the fifth on (but you’re not even from the States! Spare me).

Isn’t that the beauty of these journal entries, though? I hint, you infer – so it goes.

These days, I often find myself waking up and reminiscing over nonsensical moments from my past – much like this one. What interests me more than these memories is the ever-present question of why certain moments stick, while others don’t (pun intended).

The narratives we build out for ourselves in our heads can often influence our reality, we’re all the main characters in our stories, after all.  

Perhaps, what I considered to be my “I’m not like other 12-year-olds” moment, was, for Eedijot, his vigilante / anti-hero coming of age origin story.

I think about all your origin stories, and I think about them often.

---

Onto charmers and dandies...

[Mon, April 4, 2022, 18:00]

At 24, I sat fidgeting in a rather uncomfortable salon chair, while a hair stylist I hadn’t met before ran her clunky fingers through my scalp. I had rushed to this salon after work, with a tight deadline before me, and a haircut long overdue. I wasn’t looking for anything fancy, really, just something convenient and quick.

In a moment of unanticipated vulnerability, I turned to face the stranger with her claws in my hair and asked her to diagnose what was wrong with it. I should pause here to note that this may have been one of the silliest asks of my past, and I’ve had -plenty-. The woman looked perplexed, as she pointedly noted: “the middle of your hair is completely uneven from the rest.”

To this I countered back:

“Yes, but that’s not what I asked. I don’t want it to -look– even or full, I want it to be even and full, I’ve been struggling with hair loss, as you can see…”

The hairstylist hesitated for a moment, and then she gave me a piece of advice that I really wish she hadn’t – mostly because I had heard it before, several times, from countless other strangers: 

“Well, you know dear, some people just aren’t born with hair that’s meant to grow long, you may always have to keep it short...”

Another hair stylist who had been eavesdropping in the background decided to chime in then, with words of sage wisdom that may only be found in environments that are at least 60 % commission based

“Yes but, you just have to believe – if you believe every day that you have thick hair then thick hair will grow.”

I wish I could say that I rolled my eyes at this piece of wishy-washy advice and called it a day – but I was a flustered twenty-something under a lot of stress, and admittedly, I was willing to believe anything I needed to if it meant getting the job done.

I willed myself to believe that I had thick hair in the coming weeks, during showers – where I lathered in overpriced shampoo I had purchased from the salon. I willed myself to believe at dinner, and as I fell asleep.

Do you know what magically happened?

Absolutely nothing.

In fact, I think I lost more hair, it was glorious (from a comedic perspective) and devastating (from, you know, a personal perspective).

Suffice it to say, faith without action is a terrible way to lead your life.

When I finally got my blood work done the following year, my doctor caught something that should’ve been flagged months in advance, and I ultimately ended up paying for it in my own way.

Spoiler alert: I am quite capable of growing healthy, shiny, and yes…Long hair.

I know what you’re thinking: what’s with the strange hair obsession?  

Valid question.

I find it fascinating how something as insignificant as hair can mark otherwise significant passages of time.

After all, hair doesn’t grow (dramatically) overnight – it can take months, and for some – years, before getting anywhere.

We often forget to cut our hair, and by the time we remember, we are inadvertently brought back to the last time we cut it – and everything that occurred in the interim.

• If you’ve lost 100 pounds in six months, your hair knows.
• If you’ve just had a child, your hair knows.
• If you’re at a breaking point, your hair knows.
• If you’re waist deep in the trenches of grief, your hair knows.
• If you can’t get out of bed, your hair knows.
• If you’re running off 2 hours of sleep, a slice of pound cake, and endless impulsive decisions – your hair knows.
• If you’re severely anemic, your hair knows.
• If you’re under the false impression that a balayage will miraculously alter your personality, well – your hair knows.

And isn’t that a fascinating thought to get lost in?

---

All’s Well that Ends Well…

[Thursday, Dec 22, 2022, 10:00]

It’s tempting for me to classify Eedijot as my personal Disney villain. It’s equally tempting to label my old hair stylist an opportunistic leech – but, as someone who once threw her best friends’ things off the seventh-floor balcony (just for kicks, I was six), and as the self-declared pied piper of job opportunities, I can’t bring myself to do that without hating just a little bit of who I am, and who I have been in the process.

Anger is so much more fun when you lack a certain level of self-awareness, I am envious of those that live in blissful ignorance. At times, I regret leaving the cave – and often, I find myself wistful for a time when I was handcuffed to the walls inside, at ease with the shadows on the wall, at ease with my perception of reality.

These days, the glaring light from the sun hurts my feelings.

Some of us aren’t built to live our lives in the cave, though. This realization is as heavy as it is liberating – while freedom may be at the tips of our fingers, so too is the loneliness. Some of your closest allies may hiss at you if you so much as try to coax them out.

So, there you find yourself, alone once again, venturing through the unknown.

I’ve learned a lot about myself since I last wrote to you. I don’t really know what to do with all of it – by it, I mean all this knowledge (some useful, some incredibly useless).

Do I take the wisdom of my twenties and pound it into a dough? Do I create a pizza, slightly burnt – topped with disbelief, joy, anger, and limitless grief? What shall I do with myself while I wait for your first bite? Will you burn the roof of your mouth recklessly, impatient to taste my pain? Or will you savor the moment – absorbing my nerves as though they were your own, delicately cutting into my thoughts with a fork and a knife?

Will I be just another pizza joint, or one of your favourites?

Who knows?

I certainly don’t, I never do.

Here’s what I do know: so long as there’s a story in my system, and hunger in your stomach – this space will continue to exist (in the form of cryptic captions, an unreliable narrator, and occasional journal entries).

As I reach the crux of my twenties – here’s my advice to those just stumbling in:

I hope that you... 

-       Have the audacity to do things: things you’re unqualified for, things you’re frightened of – especially things you’re frightened of. The world is a stage, and some of us are simply better actors than others. You will learn by trial and error, you will become a better actor, the world will forget who you thought you were, and be satiated by whoever the hell you want to be (exceptions apply, please don’t jump off a roof and attempt to fly).

-       Are protective of your privacy. I know this is ironic coming from me – I mean just look at this space – but believe it or not, I keep some of my most intimate experiences close to my chest. When my memory fades, so will they, and there’s great comfort in knowing that something finite exists in a world dedicated to preserving so much more than it ought to.

-       Remove excess: in the form of friendships, and any other ships.

-       Remain hospitable to your anger.

-       Start creating parameters around what you want, and what brings you peace. This is especially difficult if you, like me, tangle your sense of self with that of others. I’ve done a lot of pushing back in my twenties, this has brought me great distress – followed by even greater relief. There is something cathartic about allowing your decisions to guide you (for better or for worse).

-       Generate a sense of community – because no one is going to do this for you, and the myth of the lone survivor is just that, a myth.

-       Stop propelling your loved ones onto pedestals that they never volunteered to be on. At some point – I don’t know when, you’ll realize that you’re the same age your mother was when she gave birth to you. You’ll find your father standing at the podium of the fancy hotel room that you’re standing in; he’s 26, while he gives a speech in a language that’s completely foreign to him. You’ll find him holding his head like a hero when he wins first place. At some point, you will need to confront the painful realization that your parents are just as human as you – and that if we can give ourselves the grace to stumble, and fall, and learn – then surely, we can afford the same opportunity to those that never had the luxury of traversing through self-discovery. I’m not asking you to excuse behaviour that is hurtful, I’m not asking you to lower your protective boundaries – but I am asking you to empathize, to put yourself in the shoes of another so that you can avoid repeating their mistakes.

-       Never, ever – EVER, travel with more than a carry-on. I started this habit when I turned 22, and I haven’t looked back since. Doing so forces you to be more mindful of the baggage that you carry, and it provides you with more control around who has access to said baggage. 

-       Do not publish your emotions in the spur of the moment – tricky as this may be, you ought to be calculated with your grief, and strategic with your anger.  Hit them where it hurts, hit once, and hit when the time is right – no sooner, no later. You may be wondering: Well, when is the time right? The time is right when you are completely detached from what you’re addressing – when that thing, or that person, or that feeling no longer holds any power over you.

-       Eat a breath mint after you’ve had black coffee; always carry cash, an umbrella, a lint cleaner, spare shoes, deodorant, an emergency contact (with their number committed to memory), and your will to exist.

-       Get.your.drivers’.license!! This is important, this is liberating, this is time sensitive.

-       Put on your lawyer hat and defend yourself if you’re ever in a collision. Do: gather the other persons’ insurance information, drivers’ license, and any evidence to support your innocence (i.e., pictures, videos, witnesses, timestamps – you’re crafting a story here, go all in). Do not: delay reporting the incident to the police or settle for any off-hand deals.

-       Understand that there’s nothing more painful than losing the façade of a friend to the reality of a foe.  This is a rite of passage, one I really wish we could skip over, one I thought I was smart enough to skip over. I was wrong, I was arrogant. I hope you take the fall with grace, because there is no avoiding it. 

-       Start eating vegetables.  I don’t know why I’m adding this one in here, but I feel like it needs to be said. I know pizza at 2 AM is lots of funsies when you’re stumbling down the sidewalk in your high heels with a strange case of the giggles, trust me – I do. But you know what’s even more fun? Functioning hemoglobin levels, a lack of brain fog, not shedding your hair like a cat. That’s a lot of fun. This is your boring big sisterly reminder to go shopping for some spinach, tomatoes, cabbage, carrots – really the whole nine yards. If you grab the frozen stuff, it won’t expire as quickly, and it’ll be fresher – a win win.

-       Are patient with yourself, and that you give yourself ample room to make all kinds of mistakes: Some silly, others painfully serious. Cliché as it may be: Where there are mistakes, there is growth.

Most importantly: I hope that you come out on the other end, wearing your battle scars proudly. A little wiser, slightly vengeful, and charmingly twisted.  

---

[Time/date unstamped]

Hello old friend,

as always, I find myself apologetic because I’m running three years late to our reunion. I fear that these gaps may get wider as I get older. It’s a strange experience, approaching the exit of my twenties. I started this journey feeling like I -knew- everything, and lately I’ve been feeling like I know nothing at all, like I’ve only just scratched the surface of a brand-new artifact.

I write to you, feeling at peace. It’s a warm summer day, and the breeze is just right. I can hear the rustling of the leaves above me, and the clacking of my fingers below me, but apart from that – everything is quiet. I’m slightly out of my comfort zone here, this stillness is new to me, I’m pursuing it with all the gawkiness and grace of a 13-year-old leading her first dance.

By the time you read this, I will no longer be here, I’ll likely be in a bustling airport – nervous about catching my flight, nervous about the people I will be meeting, nervous about moving forward to this odd new phase of my life. Nothing ever lasts forever; I’ve always found great comfort and even greater grief in knowing this.

But I hope our conversations last – because you, are my dearest confidant, and my longest love affair.

As I inch closer to thirty, I find myself feeling curious about a lot of things:

-       Will my kneecaps give out at the stroke of midnight?

-       Will I ever get a speeding ticket again or have I been permanently frightened into submission?

-       Now that I know what love is not, will I be brave enough to be curious about what it is?

-       How much longer can I keep getting away with being the youngest person in the room? How much longer can I use this to my advantage?

-       Can I keep on discovering new, interesting facets of myself that people find to be shiny– or is this it?

-       If this is really it, then is that awful?

That last one can really mess with my head if I let it. If I let it – which I don’t.

I distract myself by spending hours in art galleries, and leeching off the emotions of strangers like a little vampire. I distract myself by dancing in my kitchen and obsessing over how finely I can chop certain vegetables. I sell dreams with my words; I create the finest sculpture out of the stranger in the mirror. I scour bookstores around the globe for different perspectives on stories that I know (sometimes, if I’m lucky, I come across new stories too). I make friends that I may never see again and etch them to memory.

The adventures at our disposal – simple or complex, are infinite, we know this.

Just between us, though: I had a choice, once – you know.  

I was too young to recognise that a choice was presenting itself in front of me. I had been on a return flight home from Montreal, and I was chatting with someone, who at the time – I considered one of my closest friends. I whined and droned on about how delayed my flight was, and about how, as soon as I landed – I would have hardly eight hours of sleep before I was off again. After a momentary pause – my friend asked me this deceptively simple question:

“Why are you always on the go? Why can’t you sit still for once?”

The moment I read the words; I felt a pit forming at the bottom of my stomach. From any other source, any other friend – this would’ve been a casual question, a sly joke. But I sensed, even then, that my friend and I were sharing a rare, serious moment between us.

With a few taps, I responded carelessly, and honestly: “Because I have places to be. I can’t sit still, you know that.”

And that was it.

Knowing what I know now, I often wonder if I could go back and change my answer – would I? Would I say: “if only you’d ask, I’d anchor myself into stillness forever”?

Or would I spit out the words vehemently, with my fists balled in a fit of anger: Is there a reason I shouldn’t be on the go? Can you provide me with one?  

The scenarios play out in my mind, back and forth, back and forth – until ultimately, I decide that I wouldn’t change my response; even if it means having to revisit the grief over, and over, and over again in my mind.

There are certain moments in time, when we make decisions that impact our life trajectories significantly. And yet…These moments often present themselves to us with deceptively casual demeanours. We run the risk of missing them if we aren’t laser focused on the details.

Luckily, I haven’t.

Every choice, every action, every mistake – all of it, brings us to this moment, to this letter – to these words that are so intimate that I hesitate to say them out loud, for fear that they simply don’t have the right audience yet.

Yet.

Xo – M

The Art of Conversation:

I hate that title, it sounds horribly pretentious – and like every self help book out there – which, this isn't, evidently.

I should've put in parenthesis: Your crash course on learning how to listen to people.

Because truly, that's all it is.

I had to put words to this thing, as I've spent the last month involved in an absurd number of meetings – both in my personal and professional life. There's one detractor that I've taken away from these discussions, especially the virtual ones, and that is: Some of you are in a toxic relationship with speaking.

Which is fine, we've all been there – none of us came out of the womb with a speakerphone and a 'vote for me' pin stamped on our chests.

Nevertheless, I am going to discuss this (once, and only once):

A. Because this is a question I'm often asked.

B. Because I was fortunate enough to be around someone who taught me this at a very young age.

Yes that's right, I didn't come out of the womb with a speakerphone either.

These things are taught, practiced, learned – rinse and repeat (this is the secret to basically everything in life by the way – barring strange circumstances, of course).

Okay okay, get to the point – here it goes:

When you're speaking with someone – know that this is not a monologue.

You're probably going “well, no duh????”

I know that it seems obvious, but I don't think it sinks in for many of us – not really.

You are not standing in front of the mirror speaking to your reflection, or to your journal, or your therapist – you are speaking to a living, breathing, human being (one who likely isn't being paid to tolerate your company, they're doing so because they either have to – or they'd like to...If it's the latter, let's keep them motivated to keep doing so).

The thing about living, breathing, human beings – especially in 2024 – is that our attention spans are finite (highly finite). In fact, if you've even made it this far, kudos to you.

When I'm speaking to people, I always have an invisible stopwatch ticking away in my head – I'm timing myself (not in an anxious way) – in a “how much reasonable space have I taken up in this conversation” way.

Make sense?

If you ever find yourself leading a conversation wherein you've been speaking for 10 minutes straight -without carving out an opportunity for the other party to jump in – we've made a blunder. You are not on a stage, this is not an audience – these are your partners, your friends, your colleagues.

Not only should you be mindful of how much time and space you're taking up in a conversation, you also have the responsibility of carving out pathways for the other person to jump in (it's common courtesy).

Think about it like this:

The conversation is a set of crayons, there is only one set, one piece of paper, and one drawing to fill out – but there are two of you, and you're both vying over the same coloured crayons (you'd have to, this colour scheme needs to be cohesive after all – we can't go around picking out weird colours all willy nilly).

It's your turn to colour first, you pick up the yellow crayon – and kick off the process. While it may be awfully easy for you to get lost in this drawing, thus, transcending the presence of time and space – you have an obligation not to do so. Because your friend is just sitting there, staring at the side of your face – in good faith – hoping they'll get their turn soon.

Let's say you are mindful of the time – you spend two minutes colouring in the circle, and not a second longer. Would you then sit there, holding onto the yellow crayon, and staring at your friend's face?

No – you ought to lean in – pass the crayon along, and maybe say something along the lines of:

“here you go, you can do whatever you'd like but I left this white space here for you specifically, so it might be easier to continue.”

And so it goes with conversations.

The person on the other side may be incredibly confident, and capable of carving out these spaces for themselves – or they may be shy / more reserved, silently hoping you'll provide them some sort of an opening to share their thoughts. You can bring humour into it, that helps sometimes. When I'm talking to candidates, for example – and I'm describing anything dry /tangential (i.e total compensation, or work culture) – I pause every now and then, and say something along the lines of:

“I know this is a lot of information! I'm going to pause here to make room for any questions you might have about x,y,z that I've shared?”

or

“This is a lot to absorb, is everything alright for you so far? Is it making sense or is there something I might be able to provide clarity on before we continue? Thank you for baring with me, by the way, I know this is dense content”

I'm doing a few things things here:

A. I'm reflecting the person's experience back to them verbally (they already know this information is dry / a lot, they now feel like I know the same thing as them – like we're on the same wavelength – this brings a certain level of comfort without the other person realizing that it's even happening, it's subtle).

B. I'm creating spaces to stimulate the person on the other side of the conversation – thus, (hopefully) keeping them engaged.

C. I'm encouraging the person to jump into these spaces – this is what makes a conversation a conversation, rather than a monologue.

D. Most importantly: I'm talking to the person, not at the person.

So – let's do a quick recap: Mental timer, space carving, crayon sharing – what's left?

People reading.

This one is tricky, it takes a lot of practice, and it's somewhat controversial – so I'll do my level best to be careful while addressing it.

Let's start with a basic principle:

Most people love being heard – this is why we pay hundreds of dollars to therapists, this is why every friend group has that one timid / shy friend, this is why folks form parasocial relationships with celebrities, and this is also the secret to every great conversation.

When I'm speaking with people: They are the centre of my metaphorical universe.

But there's a trick to executing this efficiently, because if it's too obvious – people will know, and the magic fades. You need to fine tune your approach, and subtlety is key. If you can remember things about people, this part becomes infinitely easier. For example, if I'm seeing a family member post holiday season, I may say something along the lines of:

“I remember last time I saw you, you were telling me about that frustrating admissions essay! What happened there?! I've been so curious!!”

Am I particularly riveted by / invested in this admissions essay? No.

Is the person on the other side likely still stressed out about it – and just looking for a good opportunity to vent? Yes. I'm tapping into that, and allowing them to carry the rest of the conversation.

The discussion will now centre around their experiences, with me throwing in a :

“When I was submitting my admissions essay a few years ago – they had a fixed topic, I wonder if that's changed?”

&

“Admissions essays are so silly, sometimes I feel like the whole system is rigged, and the world is on fire – the war for example...”

Again – I've done my homework. I'm not mentioning the war just for the sake of keeping the conversation going. I already know that this is a person that's highly politically charged, and that they have very strong opinions on warfare – this creates yet another opportunity for them to dive in and share their perspective.

Can you see how we're keeping the conversation flowing, while simultaneously centring the other party and their interests? These are universal topics, so they may not realize it – but here's the thing: I've never submitted an admissions essay in my life (I've observed others doing so). And I'm not nearly as politically charged as this person is, but I keep up with the news everyday.

“But that's deception!!!!”

No – that's a conversation.

What if you don't know this person? What if it's someone brand new, and you don't have fun facts to refer back to?

Then you're going to do a little improv, and we're going to start a knitting project.

Engage in the conversation with open ended questions, the moment this person reveals something about themselves that's niche – we're going to latch onto that, that's our yarn, and our base for the rest of this oddly shaped glove.

“The traffic in this city is a nightmare. So, what brings you to Toronto?”

“My cousin's getting married this summer – so I'm here for that...”

“No way! My friend is getting married in the summer too, it'll be a busy season. Is your venue also in xx by chance?”

Not likely.

“No it's actually in xx – I've never been...”

“I think I've heard of it! It should be relatively close to you if you're staying here – weddings are always tricky though, does your cousin have a registry going?”

Not an open ended question, but one that doesn't need to be open ended because everyone and their mother is dying to bitch about the nuances of gift registries.

See how we knit a conversation surrounding this person's upcoming experience? We're tapping into what we're guessing they may be anxious about. We're asking questions that are opening spaces for this person to divulge more information.

Honestly folks, if I actually do a deep dive on this one, I'll be writing my way into oblivion. But I think these basics should be enough to get you started.

I hope this helps, and I hope you use these ideas wisely – and with good intent.

Keep in mind, that we've all had these tactics used on us at one point or another, I'm just teaching you how to be on the other side (it's for the greater good) – because if I have to sit in another meeting where I'm being talked at for nearly half an hour, I will do bad bad things.

My Advice to...Whoever This Resonates With:

I don't know what to call it, but I promise you that it exists. It isn't imaginary, it isn't symbolic; it isn't lost to the brutality of language, or nuance, or man's inherent selfishness – it exists, I know it exists because I have seen it. I have seen it many times: In an infant's firm hold on the first finger he encounters, in a backyard overflowing with grandma's favourite jasmines, in a friend's tight embrace as I break down sobbing unexpectedly, in a mother's calmness as she watches her child wither away – and in her resolute faith in the coming of spring.

I have witnessed it crossing oceans, and transcending time. I saw it before I was granted the gift of sight. I promise you that it exists, because you exist – and you're bursting at the seams with it.

But you must learn to discern – and in order to discern, you must know what it is not:

1. Your loneliness, and the rabbit hole this leads you down.

Rabbit holes can be scary, even more horrifying are the creatures you may encounter post-dive – I empathize with your desire to cling to something familiar, anything at all. But the cheshire cat is not your friend, the mad hatter is not your ally – both of these characters can only dream of something you possess in heaps: Your courage, and your steady hands.

The burden of their their origin stories is not yours to bear. There's a reason that these two are still here, after all these years – their stories passed down from generation to generation. My great grandmother was once caught in the web of their riddles, followed by my grandmother, and my mother after her – I too, wasn't exempt from this rite of passage.

Families started, and shrank; children were born, some didn't stay; wars were fought, land was conquered; humanity failed itself, before making an inch of progress; years transpired, centuries – even. But the cheshire cat and the mad hatter remained in Wonderland. They function as permanent fixtures here, destined never to leave – women are bound to encounter them, again, and again, and again – this is our curse.

This place is full of grief, your grief, their grief – our grief – you must make it out in one piece – and even if you lose yourself along the way (which you inevitably will), you must get reacquainted with your lost half to escape.

The only way out is through. The only way out is through. The only way out is through. The only way out is through.

1. Your fear(s) – so many, I see them all: Your fear of rejection, your fear of repeating patterns, your fear of being just like them, your fear of wasted potential, your fear of love – your fear of love's crushing force, your fear of the danger that it poses to your very being.

Some of these fears are justified, I confess. But if the wrong people come to know your fears – they will use these as bait to hook you (there are plenty of bored fishermen out there, these are the men I abhor. They aren't fishing for sustenance, they're fishing just to toss you back into the ocean once their boredom passes. You are a shark, swallow them whole – show no mercy).

1. Your skepticism.

Within life's long list of sadistic habits, there's one that stands out to me: That is, its tendency to show us the worst aspects of humanity, followed by a simple remark, delivered with nonchalance and ease: “if you want to find 'it,' you must become a blank slate.”

You must bear the burden of the earth, while flowing with the sea – you are not Sisyphus, but you are the sentient hill that he climbs day in / day out.

You still remember the first time you saw Sisyphus conquering your peak – you were proud of him, you had swallowed every drop of his sweat as though it were your own, you had silently rooted for him – aiming to make yourself a little softer, if only to ease the pain on his bare feet.

And then – the rock rolled down – as did Sisyphus, you saw his pain repeating itself in a steady pattern, over, and over, and over again – you cemented his burden in your roots – in your very being.

But life insists that if you want to find 'it,' you must have faith that one day – Sisyphus will find another hill, a kinder hill, one that doesn't doom him. Life insists that one day, you may become this very hill – outweighing the curses of the Gods and their incessant vanity.

Your belief in this is impossible. Your belief in this is necessary.

1. Your battle with the mirror.

I don't know what to say about this. I truly don't. Mirrors confuse me because they aren't entirely man made – and yet they are.

Mirrors – as nature intended them, had once been based on others' perceptions of us. On good days, mirrors could be found in river streams – but the streams were fluid, moody, forever shifting. There were no resolute perceptions, no resolute reflections, and no guarantees – what man has created is something else entirely.

Object permanence isn't a particularly revolutionary concept, but the way object permanence has evolved – specifically with respect to man's relationship with his reflection is something that's fascinating to me. The accessibility we now have – the immediate feedback loop...I sometimes stay up until the late hours of the morning trying to figure out which is worse.

But you shouldn't have to.

This is all you need to know: Make your peace with the mirror, because it is here now – and it will stay, much like death, taxes, and furniture. 'It' will not find you until you do – and I know that this is easier said than done so I don't care to elaborate on this train of thought much further. It gets preachy.

Do whatever you need to do, whatever this means for you.

But a little kindness goes a long way – or a good old existential crisis so you can permanently dismiss the mirror's existence altogether.

1. Your needs. The gaps in your soul, ego, vanity, dependence, you – you, you, you – none of you. None at all.

This is probably the trickiest one on my list, one that I still struggle with – which is perhaps why I'm also struggling to deconstruct it here. Stay with me, if you'd like.

There are no resolute reflections in reality, there isn't a single, functional, streamlined version of you out there – so it may be fair to deduce that there isn't a single streamlined version of 'it' either. If that's how we're defining 'it', then it doesn't exist – and in knowing that, maybe you'll find some comfort in the realization that a part of it has always existed precisely for this reason. You're here, aren't you? Reading this?

I think – I think when you can let go of you – which may be impossible (much like a happy ending for Sisyphus, or the evaporation of mirrors) – I think that's when you'll find it.

Because maybe it's been here all along, maybe it never left. Maybe it just got lost, in all the nonsense.

Maybe this piece helped, maybe it just led you into a frustrating loop.

I apologize for that – truthfully, I never have a conclusion in mind when I start writing, I wish I could give you a firm answer that would satisfy both of our needs – but that would be doing a disservice to my thoughts, their authenticity, and your faith.

It does feel good to write again, though. Those of you that have been with me since 2017 on vsco – thank you for your continued patience with me while I found a new home for my sporadic thoughts. It was important for me to find a platform that maintains a certain level of anonymity (i.e no unnecessary engagement in the form of likes / comments / follower – following visibility) – this was a surprisingly difficult task (shocker).

But I think I may have found a new home for us – and I hope you'll continue to stay here with me. I've said this several times, but I'll reiterate it once again: You, are my dearest confidant, and my longest love affair. Your presence makes this journey tolerable, and I'm forever indebted to / in gratitude of/for your company.

I've been holding onto a few journal entries and an interesting narrative for the last four years, which I'm very excited to share with you on March 11th! This is only 12 days away – so I thought I'd be a polite host, and get us started with an appetizer.

Bon appétit.