Wash your hair before ticking every item off your checklist.

Choose your favorite mug on a regular Tuesday morning. Light the expensive candle. Wear the perfume. Use the notebook that’s too pretty to write in. Put on the outfit you’ve been saving for a special occasion and wear it to buy groceries on a random Wednesday. I wore this Issey Miyake outfit to get milk:

Don’t postpone yourself.

Today has been one of those strangely ordinary yet beautiful days that remind me how much life happens in the in-between moments. I started the morning working through a pile of emails, but instead of rushing through them and promising myself a reward afterwards, I made a latte and drank it from my favourite vintage mug while I worked. Now I’m writing this from bed, with a cup of tea within arm’s reach and a face mask slowly drying on my skin, waiting for the eclipse to begin. There are still things I could be doing. But as I sit here watching the daylight shift and knowing that for a few minutes, people all over the world will stop to look up at the same sky, I’m reminded how absurd it is to keep postponing joy. The afternoon doesn’t pause until I’ve earned it. Late stage capitalism has destroyed our birthright to enjoy life.

in this exact moment, life is happening. and I’m trying to get better at being present for it instead of treating every pleasant thing as a reward for productivity.

For the longest time, I had this strange habit of delaying anything that made me feel good until after I had been productive enough. I would look at my growing list of tasks and think, I’ll wash my hair when I’ve finished everything. As if clean hair was a medal for efficiency. As if feeling human was something to unlock?

Why am I making myself wait? Why am I spending hours feeling uncomfortable, tired, or dishevelled because I’ve decided I haven’t quite deserved relief yet? many of us have learnt that comfort, beauty, and pleasure are rewards for productivity. We wash the dishes before we sit down. We answer the emails before we make the coffee. We finish work before we buy the flowers. We tell ourselves we’ll rest when everything is done. but it never is

I think about the Diptyque candles I save for “special occasions.” The perfumes I reserve for dinners out. The clothes hanging in my wardrobe waiting for an occasion that may never happen. The notebooks with empty pages because I don’t want to ruin them. Another way I put my life on hold is by postponing my creativity. I leave my film rolls unused, telling myself I must save them for a tropical island or some mesmerizing destination instead of the small old town I live in. things worth capturing exist right here in my everyday life. So why am I so hesitant to press the shutter? One of my goals this year is to stop waiting for travel and start capturing the beauty of my real, ordinary life through film

what exactly am I waiting for?

A promotion?

The perfect relationship?

More money?

A version of myself that finally feels worthy?

There is a chance some of those things arrive exactly when you’ve planned. There is also a chance they don’t. There is a chance life unfolds differently. There is a chance you have less time than you think.

I could be gone tomorrow. I could be gone in an hour.

That isn’t meant to be dramatic but its true.

So why am I treating a candle as though it’s more precious than an ordinary Tuesday? Why am I saving a perfume for a future that isn’t guaranteed? Why am I postponing joy until a later date when the only thing that is actually finite is time?

The only things truly worth stressing about are time and health. Everything else feels negotiable compared to those.

Jean Paul Sartre and Albert Camus write against suffering longer than necessary especially if the solution is in your control. It’s our responsibility to assert agency over our immediate reality and leave passive endurance behind. I don’t consider myself a Stoic myself, but I do believe there is a lot to learn from this philosophical branch. With the core idea to focus our energy exclusively on what is in your control. Epictetus emphasized most human misery comes from mismanaging our responses to things. Do with that as you will.

I will take any chance to recommend you to read Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. And this is the perfect moment.

"Pain is neither unbearable nor unending, as long as you keep in mind its limits and don't magnify them in your imagination." (Note: Marcus Aurelius quotes this principle from Epicurus in Book 7).

“A man who suffers before it is necessary, suffers more than is necessary.” - Seneca

So wash your hair.

Before the kitchen is clean.

Before the inbox is empty.

Before every box on the checklist is ticked.

Light the Diptyque candle. Wear the perfume. Use the notebook that’s too pretty. Put on the outfit you’ve been saving for a future version of yourself and wear it to buy milk on a random Wednesday.

The special occasion you’ve been waiting for is right now!

Thank you for being here xxx

At my core, I am still the same. Yet somehow, I am entirely different.

She had no fear of dreaming big. I, on the other hand, have become more “realistic.” She believed in the version of adulthood sold to us on television, a neat and predictable life that doesn’t really exist. The older I get, the more I realize that life is far messier, far more beautiful, and far less certain than I imagined.

It’s not all bad. In fact, there is so much growth.

When I look at her, I don’t think about who she was. I think about everything that awaits her. The heartbreaks, the friendships, the mistakes, the victories. The lessons she doesn’t yet know she’ll need.

She walks toward all of it completely oblivious.

Identity as a Collection of Temporary Feelings

I often revisit my younger selves through my journals. I consider myself lucky to have access to these snapshots of my own psyche. I can read about a random Wednesday from five years ago and recall exactly who I was, what I feared, and what I thought mattered.

Along with this privilege comes a healthy dose of embarrassment.

I cringe at past versions of myself. I see how desperately I clung to experiences as proof of who I was. How quickly I would discover a new hobby and make it my entire personality. How I would let a bad experience become a defining character trait.

Girl, just move on!!

Looking back, I can see how tightly I held onto identities that were never meant to be permanent. Every interest had to become a label. Every emotion had to become a story.

As life progresses, those sharp edges have softened. I no longer feel the need to choose one version of myself and reject the rest. I can enjoy painting without calling myself a painter. I can write without deciding that it must define me.

Memory Changes Who We Are

Are you the person you were, or the person you remember being?

I often find myself reminiscing about certain periods of my life, convinced they were simpler, happier times. Then I reopen my journals and discover that, at the time, I felt as though I was walking through hell.

Memory is a strange thing. It fades. It distorts. It edits.

Over time, our experiences stop being events and become narratives. The stories we tell ourselves are often different than the truth itself. Someone who once considered themselves shy may later remember themselves as thoughtful. Someone who saw themselves as reckless may eventually call themselves adventurous.

The facts remain unchanged. identity doesnt

The Loss of Certainty

One of the best parts of growing older is becoming comfortable with being several people at once. There is less pressure to choose.

I simply am.

I pick up hobbies and interests as I move through life and let them go when they no longer fit. Contradictions multiply, and instead of resisting them, I welcome them.

This week my favorite ice cream might be vanilla.

Next week it might be chocolate.

And that’s okay.

The older I get, the less interested I become in defining myself through fixed categories. Life is richer when there is room to change your mind.

Perhaps maturity is not discovering who you are. Perhaps it is becoming comfortable with not knowing.

The Versions That Live Inside You

I’m sure many of you feel the same way. You’re not the same person you were ten years ago.

God, I’m not even the same person I was five minutes ago.

As I watch children playing in the sunshine, laughing with ice cream dripping down their hands, I am reminded that change begins early and never really stops. Every experience leaves a mark. Every conversation shifts something, however small.

We are constantly changing. Yet somehow, I still feel like myself.

The younger version of me who thought she loved painting more than writing still lives inside me. Every now and then she taps on the glass and asks to come out.

The girl who dreamed of city life still lives inside me too. She has simply grown fond of countryside walks and quiet mornings.

None of these versions disappeared. Millions of selves live within me, each carrying a piece of who I am today.

Error 404: Identity Not Found

Maybe years do odd things to identity because identity was never something to be found in the first place. Maybe it was always something to be uncovered, layer by layer, beneath the versions of ourselves we borrowed from everyone else.

How can I become “more myself” when that self is not fixed, not finished, and never will be?

I think of the river in front of me.

The water keeps moving. Pebbles, bends, and obstacles alter its path. Life experiences do the same to us. They shape the flow, redirect it, slow it down, speed it up.

But the river remains a river.

And it keeps flowing.

At this very moment, I am listening to The Child in Us by Enigma.

If you have a few minutes, I recommend finding a stream, sitting quietly beside it, and listening to this beautiful song.

The children are still laughing in the distance. Their ice cream is melting, their games will end, and by tomorrow they’ll be slightly different people than they are today. So will I. There is something comforting in that. We are all unfinished.

But I digress.

The novel follows Antoine Roquentin, a man in his thirties who slowly becomes aware of his own existence. He names this realisation “Nausea” a psychological state we experience alongside him through his diaries. As a fellow diarist, I love being able to know a character through their personal writing. Even though Antoine warns of the danger of diaries and the tendency to exaggerate, to stretch the truth, there is something intimate and irresistible about reading them.

He journals almost every day, sometimes twice. It’s so thrilling having this much access to his mind, as if I’m reading something I’m not entirely meant to see.

Like with many books centred on male protagonists, I couldn’t help but notice how early women seem to encounter certain existential thoughts. Why is this thirty-year-old man panicking over an idea that struck me when I was twelve? One day, seemingly out of nowhere, I experienced what Sartre calls “Nausea” the sudden, overwhelming awareness that I exist. Yet I’ve never been able to articulate it the way he does.

I related deeply to Antoine. That sense that there is something else, or perhaps nothing at all. His nausea begins with the “disgusting” sensation of holding an object. It passed from a pebble through to him. for me, it was something different. I remember standing in my house, surrounded by loved ones, laughter filling the room and suddenly thinking: I am alive? All these people and things exist?

As Nausea takes hold, Antoine loses interest in his work. As a historian, he begins questioning the weight we assign to history as a society, when it is simply something that was. Sartre somehow makes us feel time itself, as though we can almost perceive its texture. Which so far I have only been able to experience through Clarice Lispector’s masterpiece: Agua Viva.

None of the ideas in this book are entirely new. But that’s not why we read.

What makes Sartre extraordinary is his ability to put into words thoughts humanity has had, long before I was even born. That, to me, is what makes a writer feel almost superhuman.

When I think about how I cope with Nausea, I think of travel, of movement, of adventure. Antoine reflects on how we build memories in the present, even as we are constantly pulled into the past through recollection. His friend, who seems to embody optimism, admires Antoine’s life experiences. Yet Antoine feels none of his travels have truly changed him. Something I already covered previously on my page.

That thought keeps me up at night.

Antoine’s writing style is something I admire deeply. He often tells himself to stop writing in a “flowery” way, to let the pen move freely, to write in a stream of consciousness instead of searching for pretty words.

To navigate life, you must write it.

And yet, he is constantly confronted with the question: what actually exists?

He arrives at a troubling conclusion: nothing exists outside the present, not even your thoughts. This highlights the radical freedom we have, so much so that we assign meaning to objects that have none inherently. And yet, we struggle to imagine nothingness.

I look at my coffee cup. I know it is a coffee cup, or at least, that’s what I’ve been told. But beyond that label, there is… nothing.

Despite its existential heaviness, the book also beautifully captures existence itself, something slow, delicate, almost floating, dissolving as soon as you try to grasp it. I often feel trapped in my own thoughts, so reading Antoine’s inner turmoil, his desire to stop thinking, is strangely comforting. He realizes that because he is thinking, he cannot stop existing.

The novel echoes Descartes’ famous line: “I think, therefore I am.” (Ergo Sum) It’s not a new idea, but Sartre’s way of expressing it feels fresh, unsettling, and deeply personal.

"My thought is me: that’s why I can’t stop. I exist because I think… and I can’t stop myself from thinking. At this very moment - it’s frightful - if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing."

At some point, everyone wonders: why do we try so hard each day, when there may be no clear purpose? Perhaps maturity lies in accepting that we are responsible for creating meaning ourselves, even in the smallest things. This morning, what got me out of bed was the smell of coffee.

Maybe that’s enough.

That’s how we endure it.

To ensure the human condition, we need courage.

Antoine asks himself: what is the use of touching something? He describes in detail what it feels like to hold objects, prompting me to ask: what does it feel like to hold this pen? This notebook? I invite you to try the same.

It reaffirms our physical existence. And yet when we try to describe it, we arrive at nothingness. The latter part of the book moves faster. I felt completely immersed in his mind. The story began to take over my own life, I couldn’t wait to finish whatever I was doing just to return to it.

In the end, Antoine fears living a “mushroom life.” He wonders how he will fill his days, going to the cinema, reading, shopping.. only to realise he cannot stop writing.

For him, and perhaps for us

Nausea recedes when we write.

the thought of coffee touching my lips is the first thing that gives me any real motivation. That familiar warmth and bitterness it’s enough to convince me to try. Enough to find a small, fragile will to see another day through. I move on instinct more than intention at this point

I open the blinds, expecting the same dull greyness that has greeted me for weeks. Instead, to my surprise, it’s sunny. Properly sunny, not the weak, reluctant light I’ve almost forgotten how to recognise, but something brighter.

For weeks now, I haven’t seen a day like this. The grey skies have taken over all winter, pressing down relentlessly, seeping into everything. They’ve made enjoying life feel like a chore, like something reserved for another version of me in some other season. The tree overlooking my window looks different too. Greener. Fuller. Lush in a way it wasn’t yesterday, or the day before that. As if it’s quietly been preparing for this moment while I wasn’t paying attention. I open the window and breathe in the cool air: I am witnessing the start of spring. A very late start, maybe overdue, but unmistakable all the same. And despite everything, I’m grateful.

I write. For a while. Long enough to lose track of time completely. The coffee cups grows colder between sips, but I keep drinking anyway, letting the warmth settle somewhere deeper than my hands. Words spill out, unfiltered, feelings I didn’t even know I was carrying.

My thoughts are still scrambled, even after trying to line them up neatly on the page. Some refuse to cooperate, some contradict each other, some don’t make sense at all. But I keep writing anyway, just to acknowledge them.

Eventually, I write a list of what I am grateful for. Small things. Ordinary things. Things I usually overlook. The sun. The tree. The coffee. The quiet. The fact that, somehow, I’m still here to notice any of it at all.

My head hurts from staying up too late watching the news, from absorbing too much of the world at once, from feeling my faith in humanity loosen its grip a little more than I’d like to admit. I sit with that dull ache and debate something far less existential: Should I have tea? I decide on chamomile

As I sip from the hot cup, I turn my attention outward and let my eyes rest on the world beyond my window. I focus on the tree. It must have been changing for a while now, but today is the first day I really see it. maybe it needed sunlight to announce itself. Squirrels dart between branches, pigeons land with their usual lack of grace, smaller birds flit in and out. The tree is overflowing with life.

Watching these tiny creatures against the grandeur of the tree, I think about how much I’d love to trade lives with them, even briefly. I wonder what the world looks like from their point of view. How light feels on their backs. How instinct guides them without hesitation. I’m certain none of them have a 9-to-5 that quietly induces anxiety, no emails waiting, no deadlines hovering. Their lives seem governed by presence alone.

The best part of the morning, I decide, is coffee. That first ritual. And just after it, is choosing a CD to listen to while I get ready for the day. It feels deliberate, an act of care. Today, I choose Björk. Her voice feels right for this morning: unconventional, alive, a little otherworldly.

I finish my tea, it’s time for breakfast. Avocado on toast, topped with a fried egg. Two Brazilian nuts. My vitamins. A carefully assembled plate, the kind that suggests I’m trying to take care of myself, to participate in the routine of being functional.

I eat while listening to the news. Not a great start, objectively, but what is my excuse? Habit, maybe. Some misplaced sense of responsibility to stay informed, even when it costs me a little more peace than I can afford this early in the morning. The words blur together as I chew.

As 9 a.m. creeps closer, I feel the familiar spike. Almost time for work. Almost time to log on, to perform attentiveness, to start pretending I care about anything other than my own creative endeavours. there’s a dull grief in that thought. I daydream about the art that will go unmade today, the ideas I won’t get to touch, the words and images that will remain suspended somewhere in my mind, waiting for permission that may never fully arrive.

And yet, instead of creating in this current moment, the one I do have, I remain still. Frozen. Staring out of the window as if it might provide an alternative. I imagine quitting. Just walking away. The fantasy is vivid but fleeting, dissolving as quickly as it appears.

I get my things ready, moving on autopilot. Before I leave the room, I pause to observe my cat. He’s stretched out, perfectly at ease, unbothered by time or obligation. I would trade lives with him right now without hesitation. All he has to worry about is when his next meal will be, and even that’s guaranteed, delivered on schedule.

“He’s never going to know what an Excel sheet is,” I say out loud, as if he could understand me. He doesn’t respond, of course. He blinks slowly, indifferent and serene, as if to confirm that ignorance, in this case, really is bliss.

I envy him deeply, and then, reluctantly, I turn back toward the day.

Its time to leave the house.

Do you trust yourself enough to follow your taste?
And if not, how do you develop it?

The answer isn’t mysterious. Taste is simply the accumulation of what you notice, what you seek, what you return to. It’s built through intention, attention, and a willingness to explore without waiting for an algorithm to spoon‑feed your interests.

How to Develop Your Taste

• Do the work. Choose curiosity over passive consumption. Log off and go look for things yourself.

• Practise presence. Train your eye to find beauty in the unremarkable.

• Expose yourself to art. Films, literature, cultures. The eye needs to travel, even if the body doesn’t.

• Follow rabbit holes. Self‑discovery happens when you let yourself become obsessed.

• Archive. Collect. Curate. Keep what resonates. Let it shape you.

here are the things that have been inspiring my creativity:

CDs

I’ve been collecting CDs for years, and I always return to them for sensory inspiration. There’s something grounding about the ritual: choosing a CD, admiring the cover art, listening to an album as a complete, intentional piece rather than letting an algorithm interrupt with noise. No ads, no distractions, just me and the art. It sets the tone for my whole day. Here are some CDs I have been listening to the most:

Hiromix

I recently picked up my developed film from Thailand and felt a wave of inspiration. Lately I’ve been obsessed with Hiromix and her way of capturing girlhood, soft, intimate, unfiltered. My own photography has focused mostly on travel encounters, but Hiromix has nudged me toward documenting everyday life. The mundane suddenly feels worth capturing.

Perfume Bottles

I’m obsessed with scent, almost to the point of becoming the main character from Perfume, minus the murder. Perfume satisfies all my senses at once: the intricacy of glasswork, the design, the typography, the stories tucked into each bottle. They’re tiny sculptures, tiny narratives. They make my creativity feel multi‑sensory.

Asian Cigarette Boxes

I don’t smoke, but Asian cigarette packaging captivates me, the colours, the typefaces, the design choices. I want to buy them just to look at them, like small pieces of graphic art. In a way, they remind me of Wong Kar Wei movies.

French Cinema

The pacing of French cinema is what draws me in: the slow scenes, the willingness to sit in silence without forcing emotion or drama. Hollywood treats silence like empty space, it’s so refreshing to sit in calmness, I also think they capture the human condition perfectly. Betty Blue is based on a book as well, and it might be the only time I will say that a movie exceeded the book. I rewatch the following movies on a yearly basis, studying the scenes instead of rushing to get to the end.

Chloe Spring/Summer 1999

For some reason, I keep returning to this Chloe runway show. The colours, the light, the softness, the models look like human orchids. There’s a tenderness to the whole aesthetic that I can’t stop thinking about.

What has been inspiring you lately?

Thank you for reading The Search.

I love traveling, partly because it gives me an excuse to run. To tell myself that in a different city, a different country, maybe I’ll think less, worry less, feel less. Spoiler alert, you can’t. Wherever you go, the sadness, the anxiety, the overthinking, whatever burden you carry, they all fit neatly in your suitcase.

I’m in Thailand after what felt like the longest, most chaotic travel day of my life, but that story deserves its own chapter. All I knew was that I needed a break from my 9–5, so I did what everyone working a soul‑draining corporate job eventually does: I booked a trip. I’ve been coming to Southeast Asia for years, but Thailand always felt like the place you’re ‘supposed to experience in your twenties’, maybe the movie The Beach left a long lasting impact in me. So here I am. I ran away from the grey skies and skin cutting cold back home and landed in a place where the sky is impossibly blue and the mountains look so green that i am doubting my own eyes.

“This trip is going to change my life. I can already feel it,” I whisper to myself as I stare at the horizon, the blue water stretching endlessly. For a moment, I let myself believe it.

I woke up with this sudden, almost urgent need to write. i’ve been in Thailand for four days now, and I’ve already forgotten the version of myself who doesn’t live in slippers, who actually checks her calendar and email constantly, who worries about anything beyond the daily question of:

What should I have for dinner, creamy Tom Yum or Shrimp Pad Thai?

It’s strange how quickly a place can strip away the layers in your personality you thought were permanent. but it doesn’t last long.

After spending the whole day soaking in the beach and eating food so good it almost feels unfair, I notice a storm gathering on the horizon. there’s a lot to learn from the tropics. there’s always something unexpected rolling in. Almost nothing goes according to plan here. Punctuality is… optional at best, and expectations are better kept low.

As a Virgo, I’m wired to over plan, to prefer order over chaos, to map out every minute. Life back home has become so predictable that I cling to structure like a safety net. But Thailand has other ideas. It’s teaching me sometimes gently, sometimes by force to loosen my grip, to stop choreographing every step of my day, and to live more gently.

I say this after internally panicking when the boat that was supposed to take us from Railay Beach (Krabi) to Koh Phi Phi showed up at 10 a.m.

Late. I’m a whore of time.

And still… somehow everything worked out.

The beach I’ve been spending most of my time on is filled with Russian tourists. I sit there watching them as I sip my 50‑baht iced coffee from 7/11—honestly, they look like people who truly know how to enjoy life. At this rate, I might as well start learning Russian myself.

As the self‑proclaimed observer of this beach, I’ve been mentally collecting everyone’s arrivals, departures, conversations, even their arguments. The water is crystal‑clear, almost like a pool, and the mountains rise behind it in every shade of green. I’m floating in all this beauty when I turn around and suddenly the largest grey cloud I’ve ever seen swallows the mountains whole. Even the hotels lining the coast, those concrete interruptions that ruin the wildness of nature, seem to disappear for a moment. A tiny part of me wishes the clouds would make them vanish for good.

In seconds, the sky turns dark. Plans change. I get out of the water. First comes irritation, then resignation, and acceptance. I pack my bag quickly. A few drops hit my shoulders, the rain is here, and immediately my stress spikes.

I look around: kids are still playing in the sand, completely unbothered. A couple of older tourists are still snorkeling like nothing is happening. And as I find a spot to take cover, the sun breaks through again.

It’s been ten minutes.

i don’t deal well with unpredictability. being ready for change, being ready to accept reality for what it is without overthinking is a luxury I haven’t been able to even grasp.

A storm in the horizon will come and pass, maybe for a little while, or not. I unpack my bags, put on sunscreen, grab my snorkel, feel the sunshine on my skin, i get in the ocean, the water is warm.

nothing outside of me is ever going to change me. I carry my stress everywhere like a second skin, even when everything around me is practically begging me to relax. It doesn’t matter where in the world I go, I can’t outrun my thoughts.
But there is a sexy tension between doing and resting, between escaping and surrendering. It’s almost addictive. So I leave the water and go for a walk.

“You can’t get away from yourself by moving from place to place” - Ernest Hemingway

I need this quote tattooed on my forehead. I can’t keep running away. I feel so privileged to have traveled this much, to have met people from every corner of the world and absorbed pieces of so many cultures. But none of it has changed me…not really. Because no matter where you go, no matter how breathtaking the place is, you arrive there with yourself. Your mind, your patterns, your fears, your inner narrative, your psyche. no one else, nothing else. it lonely up here, but its all you’ve got, so you better start getting used to it.

I always travel with the mantra “be a traveler, not a tourist,” and I can’t help but think of Anthony Bourdain. Even though he carried his own struggles (including addiction) he seemed so worldly, so effortlessly cool. How could someone who had seen so much, tasted so much, connected so deeply with the world… still choose to leave it?

nothing external, no country, no adventure, no stamp on a passport, can heal you the way your own mind can. Or hurt you the way your own thoughts do. i’m striving for an inner understanding of the world and at the same time the wildest separation from it.

As i keep sipping on my bitter coffee, and enjoy some mango sticky rice, i take the view in, and observe. I have been reading Herman Hesse during this trip, and somehow I feel like he is directly speaking to me.

Until next time.

Thanks for wandering through these stream of consciousness thoughts with me.

but i’ve been trying to accept my own contradictions.

In a world demanding constant definition, sharp edges that fit into the wider puzzle. I choose to be formless, to flow.

To be formless is a radical stand, that doesn’t come at a cheap price.

‘Find your niche’ - is what people have been telling me when I started posting on social media. ‘it is the only way to get your work noticed’. To have various passions is almost a crime right now. Are we heading to a world where we need to clarify our niche in our IDs? or when we meet someone new? ‘Hi my name is x and my niche is y’

I refuse to define myself any further. Have we forgotten that each human being is an infinite universe? we are complex beings, i like to imagine myself as a galaxy, full of stars constantly being born, and dying, expanding infinitely. or as the complex root system of plants, making connections as my life unfolds in front of me. I crave being free of the algorithm rules, while also being able to share and connect.

I like sharing my thoughts on what I read, but I also love fashion, and wellness, I guess i’m too complicated for the algorithm to understand that. My roots spread, they change, develop. ‘booktok’ ‘fashiontok’ … you must belong to a community. When was the last time you met someone interested in ONE thing? i woke up today with a not newly acquired urge to complain, so this is the topic I chose today.

It isn’t just about social media. Being vegan in 2016 taught me early on that labels simply aren’t for me. They often do more harm than good, they box you in, limit your flexibility, and quietly discourage the natural evolution of your thoughts. My identity isn’t fixed it’s a shifting idea, constantly reshaped by experience. I’m an unfinished product, moving through space and time, and the expectation of perfect consistency has no place in who I am.

We talk a lot about specialization and sticking to one lane, but hyper‑specialization feels like it’s narrowing us more than it’s helping us. What if we just allowed ourselves to be? What if we talked about all the things we love, even when they belong to completely different worlds? What if we embraced coexistence within ourselves instead of forcing a clean, curated storyline?

Maybe all of this labeling stems from our innate need to feel like we belong to something bigger than us, to a community, to a collective identity. And yes, belonging is a deeply human desire. But sometimes the “belonging” we chase through labels is an illusion, a polished performance rather than a real connection. that’s the uncomfortable truth: the community built on online labels alone is often a false sense of community.

when i discover new interests i don’t question them, or how they ‘fit’ with my current self. Constant change is a condition we must accept as human beings being alive.

Keep a running “Interests Map” (preferable on paper): date started, what you tried, one thing you learned. A log, not on how you’re improving. I actually think everyone should have hobbies they are horrible at, you don’t have to be good at everything.

Iterate yourself, iterate, iterate, iterate. For as long as you’re alive, you can change. I give myself permission to be a walking contradiction, and inconsistent.

To ‘burn in water, and drown in flames’ this is my lifelong project, to be creative with my life.

No Longer Human deeply impacted me when I read it five years ago, and I’m curious to revisit it now to see if my perception of it has changed. Dazai explored existential despair through a distinctly male lens, whereas Tsushima examines similar themes of alienation and isolation but from a female perspective, which I understandably found far more relatable.

In Territory of Light, we follow a mother and her young daughter over the course of a year after her husband leaves. The plot is deceptively simple: they move into a sunlit apartment, a space repeatedly described through metaphors of light. Across twelve chapters where each represents a month we witness the mother’s quiet struggle with loneliness, depression, and the crushing weight of single parenthood. Here’s a quote that I found myself reading a couple times, the way words flow with tangible and concealed such as light was so beautiful it reminded me of Clarice Lispector trying to capture a moment through writing.

“I used to think I must never tell anybody about this discovery of mine. No one else must know about this place that made me yearn to dissolve until I became a particle of light itself. The way the light cohered in one place was unearthly. I gazed at its stillness without ever going in through the gate.”

Reading this felt almost like birth control. We all know single motherhood is hard, but inhabiting the mind of a woman slowly unraveling was terrifying, enough to make you think twice about having kids or at least plan carefully. Tsushima explores the relentless pressure on single mothers: juggling bills, emotional breakdowns, and societal judgment, all while her “dream-chasing” husband shirks responsibility. (this is even sadder when you realize Tsushima herself was actually a single mother) Set in 1970s Japan, the novel vividly captures the stigma surrounding divorce and women raising children alone; a reality that, sadly, hasn’t changed much.

“Living right in the heart of Tokyo itself is quite like living in the mountains – in the midst of so many people, one hardly sees anyone”.

What struck me most was the evolving mother-daughter relationship. It begins tenderly, then deteriorates into blame and resentment, culminating in moments of violence.

Territory of Light, winner of the 1998 Noma Literary Prize, draws heavily from Tsushima’s own experiences as a single mother and her sense of abandonment. Originally serialized in twelve installments in a Japanese magazine between 1978 and 1979, the structure mirrors the twelve months over which we follow the protagonist. The work belongs to the Japanese “I-novel” tradition, a genre that blends Western realism, focused on the inner lives of characters (like Flaubert) with Japanese diaristic forms. Other notable writers in this genre include Osamu Dazai himself.

As I type these words on the screen I realize i don’t have much to say about the book, while the introspective parts are universally relatable, the single parenthood parts felt ‘far away’ from my own existence and while i felt bad for the mother the whole time, and oddly found it terrifying, i couldn’t connect to the level that a single mother would. But I appreciated the realness of wanting her life back and even missing having a husband, while also embracing the freedom she found after the separation.

However, I enjoyed the way she writes. Tsushima’s prose is sharp and unadorned. There’s no need to read between the lines. the simplicity itself feels meditative, turning the ordinary into something profound. If you enjoy quiet, introspective novels that find depth in the mundane, I highly recommend Territory of Light.

This man was my daughter’s father and my husband, but he knew nothing of the life I had been leading for over a month now – an existence that was uneventful enough in its way, and yet the tranquility of the days ahead only fed my apprehension – and I could give him no idea of that life. Having been presented with this unstable object, I’m starting to grow too attached to it to be able to slip back into married life with Fujino as if nothing had happened. The way he spoke to me, as my husband, didn’t feel right anymore.

I’ve realized I enjoy being a beginner at hobbies. There’s a certain thrill in learning, in embracing imperfection, and in not feeling pressured to perform at my best. To fail without fear. Honestly, I sometimes lose interest once I become good at something. With film photography, I’m far from ‘good’ and I’m glad for it.

Beyond the tactile experience of shooting with a film camera including loading rolls, changing film, and waiting for development that delays instant gratification, what I cherish most is how film has taught me to feel at ease with imperfection.

When I used to take photos only with my iPhone (occasionally a digital camera), I was obsessed with perfection, always chasing that ‘Instagram-worthy’ shot. Sometimes I’d take fifty pictures of the same spot, fifty! And then, because of storage limits, I deleted so many of those memories without thinking twice. Just a click, and done. its gone forever. while I simply could never throw a printed photo, it would probably be the first thing i save if my house was on fire.

Once I started shooting film, I was ecstatic to develop my first roll, literally screaming with excitement, jumping around like a kid. Then came the reality check: most of the photos were off. The lighting was wrong, the framing imperfect. I was frustrated, especially since film isn’t a cheap hobby. But over time as I shot more rolls and saw the results, my mindset shifted. I stopped chasing the ‘perfect picture’ and began focusing on what each photo made me feel. Archiving my existence without the desire to be seen as perfect outcomes

In fact, I started looking forward to the photos that didn’t turn out ‘right’, the ones where someone walked into the frame, light leaked across the image, the film overlapped, or the exposure went wild. Camera shake, x-ray damage, unexpected quirks. Anything that makes you pause and look twice. The sort of images that force you to really look at them, the kind that demand attention, to pause, to slow down, to analyze. Photos you can hold in your hands, pass around to family and friends, and talk about over coffee and a sweet treat. Not just swipe and scroll.

The quirks and individuality of film made me fall in love with archiving my life in an analog way. Film feels more authentic, it captures my world as it is, not as I curate it. I’ve stopped caring about my iPhone photos; they’re mostly random food shots and screenshots of books I want to read.

Taking pictures on my phone no longer feels like a conscious act of documenting my existence

I discovered a level of creative freedom I never knew existed. The digital world had conditioned me to chase unnecessary perfection through instant previews, endless retakes, constant tweaking. Film liberated me. Everything slows down. there’s no instant feedback, no obsessive control. Accepting flaws in photography taught me to accept flaws in my own life and sometimes even love them.

take this as your sign to invest in a film camera. If you can, start simple, a second-hand point-and-shoot will do.

It’s a small step that can pull you out of the sterile perfectionism of the digital world you’re reading this on.

Collection of ‘failed’ film photos:

You can find more on my IG: floatingonarockk

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i have been spending more time thinking about the potential paintings i could be making instead of actually painting for the last year. i barely have time for my hobbies anymore, i am a mediocre photographer (i’m okay with that), i don’t read as much as i’d like to, my ‘to-be-read’ pile of books keeps growing as i make my latest order of 4 more books to pile up and collect dust. There is so much literature, so many books to read, so many authors to discover, so much i want to say.

no matter how busy i am always make sure i have time to write, essentially because if i don’t, i’d lose my mind. i usually do this in the morning, 7 am.

my 9-5 takes away most of my energy to create. i am lucky that this tiredness is mainly mental and not physical as well, but i yearn for the art i haven’t been able to make, i grieve for the non existent photos i didn’t have a clear mind to shoot better.

It feels like I’m living in a constant state of mourning for the creative life I imagined, but do not have.

i grew up thinking once i get a stable corporate job then i would have made it in life, that i’d have no worry, that i’d be able to take care of me. i always suppressed my creative self, and now in my mid-twenties i can no longer pretend that i don’t exist to create.

Navigating office politics, managing expectations, and staying “professional” can be exhausting. Constant context-switching, meetings, and deadlines leave little mental bandwidth for creative thinking. I feel guilt of wanting to create when society glorifies hustle and “grind culture.” in my case not just society but family and cultural ties as well. I am tired of pretending. pretending that i agree with the myth that creativity is a luxury rather than a necessity for well-being.

I need to write to be alive

I need to read to be alive

I need to paint to be alive

I need to CREATE!

I know i am not the first or last person to feel this way, so if you are in the same page, i would recommend you find micro moments for creativity. Finding small pockets of time for creative expression (journaling during lunch, sketching on commutes etc) has been helping my sanity, and my power in reclaiming this creative energy that i have been feeling is going to waste.

I have also built a “creative sanctuary” outside work hours, through a morning routine that allows me to still be creative.

If survival has become the loudest voice in your life, maybe it’s time to listen for the whisper of creativity again. Start by carving out 10 minutes today for something that lights you up, because creativity isn’t a luxury, it’s oxygen, it’s what makes us human. I love the quote below by John Keating in Dead Poets Society about art (specifically poetry). i truly feel in my core, that i was born to create, most of us are. (if not all)

What would your life look like if your energy wasn’t spent just surviving, but creating?

one day i’ll be able to live simply, to focus on photography, on reading, on writing, on creating beauty on a daily basis, without the corporate exhaustion following me everywhere. But for now, my time off work, and my mornings will have to do.

Because ‘the time will pass anyways’ .

The first couple of weeks off the information overload drug, I can feel the ‘viral sounds’ slowly leave my brain. I can hear myself again! I can hear my thoughts clearly. slowly reclaiming my autonomy as an individual human being and not part of the internet network. 3 weeks off, I feel clarity in the air. 4 weeks. suddenly I don’t understand the language my colleagues at work speak, or my friend’s references to online jokes.

‘Have you heard about…’

‘No’

i’m not going to lie, I feel powerful as my lips form this simple 2 letters word. ‘No’. A sense of superiority almost. As if I was a monk that has reached the highest form of clarity, nirvana. While everyone around me is behaving like zombies consumed by capitalism. i am too comfortable saying ‘No’, to plans I don’t want to do, to people I am not comfortable with. I missed out. and I am okay with that.

Then the pull of social media calls again, i tell myself i am now in control, but i know i am lying.

This morning I scrolled on social media for an hour in bed (i know.. but i am only human!). I don’t remember anything that i saw, i can’t recall my thoughts during one whole hour of my life, could i have missed out on this and reclaimed that time? Yes. why are we so terrified of not being connected to the world (at all times)? why do we feel we need to understand every single joke or niche reference? it is not natural to know this much, to be in the midst of this data influx.

is being offline the new luxury that only rich people can afford?

If you run a small business, chances are you can’t afford to be offline. If you’re trying to build a career on social media because it offers a better work-life balance than the traditional 9-to-5, or if you’re an artist hoping to share your craft, the pressure to stay connected is real. Sometimes it feels like if you’re not online, you can’t “make it” (whatever that even means). In today’s world, if it isn’t posted, does it even exist?

But here’s the thing: you don’t have to abandon social media completely to experience the joy of missing out. You just need to recognize when enough is enough (and that’s something I’m still figuring out myself.)

I crave being chronically offline. I want to be blissfully unaware of viral videos, to feel lost when people drop online references, and to shrug when I don’t understand the latest meme. Because honestly who cares? Life happens beyond the screen, and I want to be present for that. i also think the coolest and chicest people I have ever met, are not even online, they fully live in the real world.

Yes, I’ll dip in and out of social media on my own terms. I’ll set boundaries that protect my peace like keeping notifications permanently silenced, deleting apps for several days each week, and curating what I consume so it aligns with my interests instead of drowning in an endless, uncontrolled stream of content.

Social media should serve me, not the other way around. I want to engage with purpose, not out of habit. I want my time online to feel intentional, not compulsive. Because when I choose what enters my mind, I choose the quality of my life. Which nowadays feels like a luxury not everyone has access to.

Forget chasing designer clothes, the newest heels, or the latest luxury bags. The ultimate status symbol today is the freedom of not needing to be online. True luxury is owning your time, owning your thoughts, and protecting your peace of mind.

In a world that constantly demands your attention, disconnecting is the rarest privilege. It’s the ability to step away from the noise and reclaim the quiet. No algorithm, no trend, no viral moment can compete with the richness of being fully present.

I deleted TikTok again (for a couple of days), I can hear myself again. But i know i’ll be back and my thoughts will be clouded again.

I often experience this feeling when reading translated works. Recently, I’ve been drawn to books by authors who don’t write in English, and it’s a powerful reminder that the essence of being transcends borders, cultures, and languages. Annie Ernaux’s writing feels as though someone reached into the deepest parts of my heart and mind and laid them bare on the page. She writes about memory and identity with such precision that it feels like she’s mapping my own inner landscape—capturing the quiet, unspoken truths of ordinary life and turning them into something long lasting.

Clarice Lispector’s writing feels like a trance—an immersion into the present moment so complete it borders on meditation. When I read Água Viva, something shifted in me. i had never truly considered what an ‘instant’ meant until her words slowed me down and made me notice the texture of time itself. She writes as if each second is alive, vibrating with meaning, and that awareness has transformed the way I journal. Now instead of rushing to capture events or ideas, I linger on sensations, on fragments of thought, on the fleeting pulse of now. Lispector taught me that the present isn’t just a point between past and future—it’s a vast, infinite space, and writing can be a way to inhabit it fully.

“Last night — it’s hard to explain to you — last night I dreamed that I was dreaming. Could it be like that after death? the dream of a dream of a dream of a dream.”
― Clarice Lispector, Água Viva

I’m endlessly grateful for translators; without them, these voices would remain out of reach. Literature reminds us that the differences between us are far fewer than we imagine—

Masahisa Fukase’s collection of photography ‘Ravens’ Every image carries a weight that words struggle to hold, a kind of silence that speaks louder than language.

there’s something haunting yet tender in the way he frames absence, solitude, and longing.

It’s a reminder that photography, at its best, doesn’t just show—it evokes unsettling truths. (the picture below is my wallpaper on my phone!)

I didn’t want to photograph the most beautiful cats... but rather capture their charm... while reflecting me in their pupils.” – Masahisa Fukase

The collective consciousness. Poured into the art of creation.

In moments of despair or deep loneliness, there’s a quiet comfort in realizing that someone, somewhere, has felt this way too—and that long after we’re gone, others will feel it again. The question ‘Why me?’ begins to dissolve when you understand that your experience isn’t singular. It’s part of a shared human story.

I’ve found this perspective most clearly when I archive my own life. Through photography—especially film—and journaling, I can trace the evolution of my thoughts, notice patterns in how I respond to the world, and see myself more honestly. I’ll write more about this soon, because I believe archiving is the closest we come to knowing ourselves. It’s how we connect our private feelings to the wider creative conversation and, ultimately, find comfort.

It makes me wonder: is anything truly original? How does consciousness work? How can someone born a century ago articulate what I feel right now with a precision I might never achieve? That mystery is what makes art timeless.

Take this as a sign to record your thoughts, create from them, turn your feelings into something tangible—writing, photography, painting, music.

Your work might be the thing that makes someone else feel seen, understood, and less alone.

I love deep-diving into authors’ lives, obsessing over what shaped their work. What heartbreaks, what cultural shifts, what personal revolutions? Today’s Substack is a journey into Izumi Suzuki’s psyche—a woman who was radically ahead of her time, yet largely overlooked.

Born in post-war Japan in 1949—the same year as Haruki Murakami—Suzuki didn’t receive nearly the same recognition. While Murakami’s surrealism found global acclaim, Suzuki’s sci-fi remained underground, partly because the genre was male-dominated in Japan. Only recently has her work begun to resurface and get the attention it deserves.

Suzuki moved to Tokyo in her twenties, working as a barista while immersing herself in the city’s avant-garde art scene. She starred in “pink films” (Japanese softcore cinema), modeled for Araki—who famously titled a collection Izumi, This Bad Girl—and lived a life that blurred the lines between rebellion and vulnerability.

She married Kaoru Abe, a free jazz saxophonist known for his chaotic genius. Their relationship was intense and reportedly abusive, depicted in the 1995 film Endless Waltz. Suzuki is portrayed as seductive, creative, and emotionally volatile.

After Abe’s death from a drug overdose, Suzuki turned to writing full-time in the 1970s. Her sci-fi stories were raw, feminist, and dystopian—often exploring themes of alienation, gender dynamics, and emotional numbness. In Terminal Boredom, you can feel her frustration with societal constraints and the existential emptiness of modern life.

Take the story Women & Women, for example. It imagines a post-apocalyptic world ruled by women after the collapse of patriarchy. But Suzuki doesn’t romanticize this reversal. Instead, she shows how power—regardless of who holds it—can still lead to oppression. “I spent the rest of that day learning the unexpected, dreadful truth about human life. Learning it with my body,” writes the protagonist after her first encounter with a man. It’s a chilling reflection on how trauma and control transcend gender.

Suzuki often used the shi shōsetsu (I-novel) style—a semi-autobiographical form popular in Japan. Her stories feel personal, even when set in alien worlds. In Night Picnic, a human family stranded on an alien planet tries to mimic “normal” behavior. It’s a critique of conformity and the futility of clinging to outdated norms. What even is normal, anyway?

My favorite story in the collection is Terminal Boredom. It follows a group of unemployed Tokyo teens, emotionally numb and desensitized by excessive screen time. Sound familiar? Suzuki was eerily prophetic. I often wonder what she’d make of TikTok and the dopamine loops we live in now.

She writes boredom not as a fleeting emotion, but as a chronic condition—a terminal one. Her characters drift through hyper-regulated worlds, emotionally stagnant, craving meaning but finding none. It’s a feeling I think many of us can relate to.

At just 36, Izumi Suzuki took her own life. She left behind a body of work that’s only now being rediscovered. Reading her, I kept asking myself: How did I not know about her sooner?!!

Her stories are more than sci-fi—they’re emotional autopsies of a society in decay.

They’re warnings, reflections, and sometimes, quiet screams.

I recently stumbled upon a hidden gem: The Internet Archive. A whole realm of the internet where I can lose myself for hours. Borrowing random books for free, at any time? In a world where almost nothing is truly free anymore, you can imagine how thrilled I was to discover it.

This morning, I woke up with one mission: to research.

Six books borrowed before 9 a.m., oatmilk latte in hand, and I’m deep-diving into topics I never thought I’d explore. I’m discovering authors I’ve never heard of, learning new things, and following my curiosity wherever it leads. Today’s rabbit hole? Danish silver jewellery.

Suddenly, two hours have passed. I haven’t felt the itch to check my phone, the gnawing urge to scroll TikTok. No doomscrolling. Just pure, uninterrupted focus.

Could the secret to breaking the scroll addiction be... creating an Internet Archive account? Maybe.

It’s definitely working for me. Research has become part of my morning ritual. There’s something magical about not knowing what you’ll find. Interested in herbalism? There are books for that. Curious about trees? You’ll find those too.

I’ve even caught myself browsing the Archive while I’m supposed to be working my “big girl job.” Oops.

There’s a growing trend around creating your own monthly or yearly curriculum—learning for the sake of learning. No grades, no pressure. Just curiosity. While I usually avoid jumping on trends, this one feels different. It aligns perfectly with the spirit of the Internet Archive.

An endless, free source of knowledge. What a treasure.

It’s now part of my morning routine, like brushing my teeth. It makes my pre-work hours feel rich and full—like I’m more than just my job.

If you ever find yourself missing the joy of learning, please check out the site. You won’t regret it.

Thank you for being here :)

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It was almost a ritual, something that made us stronger as a family. We would pass each other pictures, snacks would be on the table, tea, coffee. You could hear the laughter filled the house, the warmth of a cozy evening surrounded by our memories stored in old albums with a funny smell.

My extended family would sometimes join, and it would become a whole family gathering just looking at albums and tapes. My mum was vlogging and archiving our life, her existence, and I will always be eternally grateful for that.

We have completely lost the art of archiving our life. By archiving I mean keeping a log, and is important that this is done physically. There is a magical feeling of passing pictures to each other and reflecting on memories, that a forwarded message with an attached image can not replicate.

I sometimes even delete pictures to have more storage. I don’t feel attached to them.

Memories have no value on my phone. They are fleeting moments.

Don’t get me started on the storage. Unless you pay for more… how can one’s life fit in 80MB?? I sometimes catch myself taking 50 pictures of the same object. THEY ARE ALL THE SAME! Moving to archiving my life more consciously meant moving to a camera. I now take pictures a lot more intentionally.

There is something so human about holding your memories. So real. So tangible. There is an unnamed reassurance that it was all real, I could never get rid of a physical photo. A picture taking space on my phone? I never hesitate.

Archiving does not only involve photography, I have been journaling everyday for the past 6 years. I can tell you what I have been doing on a random Wednesday in 2020. These are my life’s treasures.

Remember that your life does not need to be out of the ordinary to be worth archiving. In fact, I believe that it is you mundane life that you should be physically logging. It is our everyday life what makes up our existence, not one single trip to a tropical island.

So take this as your sign. Start journaling. Print your memories. Grab a second-hand camera and shoot with intention—not repetition. One thoughtful photo will always mean more than fifty forgotten ones.

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I don’t remember when it began, or if it was always there. But I know I’m not alone in this. I try, truly, to be present. To savour the now. And yet, something deep within keeps whispering: search. Search for hidden artefacts, for unspoken thoughts, for ideas not yet formed.

What am I searching for, you ask? I wish I knew. Maybe this is my raison d’être—my reason for being.

Don’t mistake this for a craving for novelty or a chase for fleeting dopamine. It’s more than that. It’s intrinsic. I can recall moments when I thought the search had ended—only to feel it stir again days later.

And I wonder: without the search, would I feel such awe for the world? Would I be so attuned to people, to nature, to the quiet beauty of culture and craft?

I don’t know what I’m yearning for. But the search keeps me alive. It keeps me moving.

What do I mean when I talk about searching?

I search for connection—with places that stir something in me. I settle, but I wander. I travel the world, drawn to where humans and animals coexist in quiet harmony.

I search for art that steals my breath—art that lingers, that leaves a mark long after I’ve walked away.

I search for ideas that challenge me. I want to learn, to be surprised, to be proven wrong.

I search for connection with people—something deeper than culture or language. A resonance.

I search for artefacts scattered across the world. I hunt for hidden gems, for stories tucked into vintage finds and thrifted treasures.

Welcome to The Search.

Here, I’ll share reflections from this inner pull that keeps me moving, that helps me curate my entire life, that drives me to discover the world, our history and people. I hope something here speaks to you.

Maybe the search is the most honest thing I’ve ever done.

What are you searching for?