Impending Doom in Paris

This is Girl speaking. I was standing before the crowded avenue of

Louvre. It was so full of life. A group of girls had put on a dance show and the audience was cheering them on, while the artwork of those who came before us were surrounding and looking down from the above. I wanted to be a part of this network of minds coming together, to be seen and to know that as long as we are connected none of us can be forgotten, but I could not escape the all-consuming sadness following me. At this moment, I realized that I do not have a home, and the world is too big for me to choose where to establish one. I am just a reflection of others. No one knows my inside and I am starting to lose sight of it too. Only through writing do I get a hold of it again, but my written work is getting sloppy. As I look up to the perfectly sculptured flawed faces, I feel nothing but misery. The beauty and passion of humanity, the only thing keeping me going, and yet I can no longer appreciate it. It is only a reminder of what I have not accomplished and never will, because I know death is awaiting me.

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On the Brink of Insanity in Greece

This is Girl speaking. I learned I was mad the night I sat down to write about my experience with being hospitalized in a foreign country. I was seated at the balcony, listening in on the crickets singing (or whatever it is that crickets do), and replacing it with the hushing between nurses who do not speak of the dead and the dripping. Oh, the constant dripping. Some might compare it to a tap someone refused to turn off, but I, yes, I saw it as a reminder, of borrowed time, of the fine line between driving to the mountains with a clear head and laying in a ditch as the rain drops on your scalp, one by one. Drip, drip, drip. The doctors were a whole other ordeal. Where the nurses were tender, the doctors were rough, loud, made it clear that no pain will go away just by not talking about it. They brought in their big, scary devices and did not once try to act like the sting would not hurt. They noted down the answers to the stupid questions that not even they listened to. And...

The Girl on The Bottom of The Ocean

This is Girl speaking. This is a story inspired by an anglerfish who rose to the surface. It was completed February 2025, in the span of a few days, and then never looked at again. (This is actually the very first story posted on this blog, although it does not appear to be.) "In the trench, beyond the twilight zone, is a girl who longs for the above. She is huddling on a dust covered surface, the ashes of those who have been. Once, there might have existed others like her. Girls who found warmth in each other, even in the tightest of spots. She laments their presence, without ever having known them. “In the vastness of nothing,” she whispers to herself, “there is one who has been left behind, disrupting the peace of nonexistence.” She moves her face towards what she supposes is upwards. Up there, in the mass of pitch-blackness, are droplets of bioluminescence, separating the obscurity of it all. The first time she ever saw them, these luminous beings of the abyss, happened to be...

traces

This is Girl speaking. I had to get my feelings out somewhere, no matter how tired I might be of thinking, so I wrote this text. It has not been proofread and it is past midnight, so please do not come for me if it is lacking in quality. Sometimes having something to say is enough and more important than how it is said. And some things are so brutal that you cannot put them eloquently. "Lately the girl has been laying in a bed which no longer feels like her own. It hasn’t for some time now. Not since she moved out and embarked on a journey, going from slurping a sweetened milkshake colored in pastel to sipping a vodka cranberry deprived of its fruit. Embracing womanhood, still stained by girlhood, painted fingers unwashed. Little did she know that she would long to be a child again, to have a bed be hers and hers only. Tucked in, head resting on a tower of plushed friends, and choosing whether she felt like wearing a pajama, a t-shirt or nothing at all. She would be just as ...

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