Skip to main content

Little and a Lot.

I'm quite stressed. Don't ask me what about. There's no one to ask, but regardless, don't. My head is so full of heat and frustration, like a tiny string threatening to snap, only to humiliate my character in the worst way possible.

I didn't do that. Three days ago, I bought ice cream, put it in the freezer, and forgot all about it. I love forgetting sometimes. Birthdays, not so much. But ice cream, I will forever.

I love forgetting that we get ice cream on Fridays in the mess. I let myself forget to reserve that surprise and the joy. It alleviates me of any stress.

Just that thin layer of chocolate cracking at the smallest pressure of my teeth, digging into the vanilla ice cream and tasting it. My brain is still overheating, but my mouth is cool. I can stay semi-levelheaded. Not that I need ice cream to stay sane, but it sure helps.

I'm still pissed off, but something about the small things, the simple things, the sweet things, changes my mood in an instant. I have about eight minutes to publish this, and I quite honestly don't have much to say. I got another opportunity to work on a poster with my friend, and we were working on it and still are.

It's quite complex juggling each other's interests, fonts for one, then conceptual ideas too. But for the most part, it's been nice. It's nice to see the different perspectives we have. The inches off the border, and how they are fine with a certain amount while I am not. It seems so little, but it's a lot.

Most of the designing is intuitive; it's just about what feels right, kind of like how grammar is to me. I am rambling away for the sake of consistency, which brings us to the topic of quantity and quality, which perhaps I will talk about in the next blog. Goodbye.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fading Glory.

It's getting worse each time. A stabbing pain pierces the right side of my body. Is it real or fake? I can't tell, but it feels real enough. The pain is undeniable. It's like the cry of an athlete dislocating their knee, or the off-pitch note of a singer losing their voice. Years of honing a craft, developing a skill, and with one accident, one minor moment, it all slips away. It's harrowing to face the prospect of dying on the field you played to stay alive for. The sheer exertion and endurance of these athletes—it's a testament to their dedication. The sweat on their faces is more than just a sheen. Wipe it away, and it reappears. Bruised and darkened knees, common slides on any type of ground—their bodies are used to being used. They throw themselves into their sport until it consumes them entirely. It's both their beauty and their burden. Do the expectations and reports weigh on their shoulders? Aren't we supposed to lift them up on our shoulders? My mat...
Post a Comment
Read more

Loss.

It's done. In a weird way, I feel nothing. I never feel it when I—when we—win. I feel immense joy and pride, but inside, I feel dead. It's not something I can attribute to anything around me, but rather a hollow void that gnaws at me from within.  It’s more like the crippling pain of loss is the only thing that truly makes me feel, a sharp contrast to success that leaves me questioning everything.  Winning brings a dull ache, a disbelief so deep that it borders on denial, as if the reality of the moment hasn’t quite sunk in yet. It’s as though victory is plastered over by emptiness, a numbness that lingers long after the cheers have died down.  And in that quiet, when the adrenaline fades, I'm left wondering why success feels so lifeless, so devoid of the depth and intensity that failure forces upon me. It’s as if, without the sharp edge of loss, I’m left drifting, unable to truly grasp the meaning of what I’ve achieved.
Post a Comment
Read more

Permission to Dream.

I had a dream. I ran out of the airport, got into a taxi, then out again, and ran. I ran so fast, yet my left lung didn’t pinch. I ran home. The company house I had called home for so long. I told them it was technically my tharavad. They laughed, and I understood why. But I knew every inch of that place. The way my feet could map the cool tile floors, the small gaps between them, the familiar weight of the air inside, the walls that had seen me through everything. I opened the door, and everything was just as we had left it. It was a dream. It’s been a while since I dreamed. And yet, this one felt jarring—not in a way that unsettled me, but in the way that it confirmed something. I knew I was heading home. I knew the airport, I knew my destination. But as I stepped inside, I felt as though it was telling something. Telling me.  That I could call it home. That I had permission to call it home.
Post a Comment
Read more