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this is a journal. not a newsletter. not a brand. not an attempt at anything neat.
i’m rowan (they/them). 42. queer. librarian by day, vinyl night DJ when the moon’s just right.
here you'll find: long entries, soft grief, stray observations, half-formed theories about songs that break your heart in the right way, and maybe what i made for dinner. sometimes silence, too. that's allowed.
i write like it’s 2004 because it still matters to me.
no hashtags, no algorithms. just typingnoise.
stay as long as you like.
not what was written, but what was there
Jul. 27th, 2025 11:27 pmthere’s a particular way queer people look at stories. not just the ones written for us (rare, strange, often softened by compromise), but the ones that weren't — the ones that forgot us, misnamed us, or pretended we weren’t watching.
we still watched.
sometimes it’s in the gaps: a friendship that runs too deep, a rivalry that brims with tension. the girl who won't speak of why she left, the boy who won’t let anyone in. we know those silences. we fill them in with our own.
other times it’s not subtext at all — it’s just no one else saw it. or maybe they did, and they chose not to say.
we find each other like that. in the margins, in the misreadings. in scenes where something cracks and light spills through. where someone touches someone else’s wrist and the moment lasts too long. where longing outpaces language.
queer reading isn’t about “what the author intended.” it’s about what we needed. what we saw because we were looking for it. sometimes it's survival. sometimes it's reclamation. sometimes it's just delight — the kind that tastes like recognition.
i’ve been thinking lately about how queerness reshapes time in fiction — how chosen families resist linearity, how queer characters so often orbit love at strange angles. how the ending we’re given isn’t always the one we accept.
we rewrite them, quietly. sometimes in fic. sometimes just in the way we remember them.
sometimes i go back to a story i loved as a teenager and realise what i was actually looking for. how the ache between two characters mirrored something i hadn’t named yet. how it wasn't a crush on the lead actor, but something softer, more sideways. how the villain made more sense than he should have. how the girl who ran away was the one i followed, always.
queer reading is a kind of ghost-seeing. it’s knowing there’s something else underneath the surface — something that speaks in our language, even if it wasn’t supposed to.
tell me — what’s a scene you’ve never been able to unsee?
quiet rituals of connection
Jul. 26th, 2025 05:22 pmsome things never have names.
some things never need them.
there's a kind of love that doesn't look like declarations or grand arrivals, but like clocking someone's sigh and wordlessly passing them the right mug. like sending a song with no message attached. like walking side by side in silence, knowing exactly where to stop for the good chips.
what rituals do you share with the people who get you, quietly?
the quiet cup made at 3am because both of you woke from different dreams.
the playlist you always put on when driving the long way round.
the old inside joke you still resurrect like a prayer.
the split dessert order.
the soft glance when someone else doesn’t quite understand.
the swapping of book piles without asking.
the ritual of not needing to say: “i love you,” because it’s there in the shared cardigan, the returned lighter, the text that says just, you okay?
sometimes i think the deepest bonds are built not on intensity but on pattern. the repeated, the known, the small.
and not all rituals are nostalgic. some are stitched in real time — newer threads being added without fanfare:
i send her a photo of the sky when it looks like the sea.
he leaves voice notes where the silence between words says more than the words.
they always say “get home safe,” and it sounds like “don’t disappear.”
maybe the loudest proof we’re understood is in the quietest things.
if you’re reading this and thinking of your own shared rituals —
send the text.
share the song.
put the kettle on.
quiet doesn’t mean unspoken.
some things never need them.
there's a kind of love that doesn't look like declarations or grand arrivals, but like clocking someone's sigh and wordlessly passing them the right mug. like sending a song with no message attached. like walking side by side in silence, knowing exactly where to stop for the good chips.
what rituals do you share with the people who get you, quietly?
the quiet cup made at 3am because both of you woke from different dreams.
the playlist you always put on when driving the long way round.
the old inside joke you still resurrect like a prayer.
the split dessert order.
the soft glance when someone else doesn’t quite understand.
the swapping of book piles without asking.
the ritual of not needing to say: “i love you,” because it’s there in the shared cardigan, the returned lighter, the text that says just, you okay?
sometimes i think the deepest bonds are built not on intensity but on pattern. the repeated, the known, the small.
and not all rituals are nostalgic. some are stitched in real time — newer threads being added without fanfare:
i send her a photo of the sky when it looks like the sea.
he leaves voice notes where the silence between words says more than the words.
they always say “get home safe,” and it sounds like “don’t disappear.”
maybe the loudest proof we’re understood is in the quietest things.
if you’re reading this and thinking of your own shared rituals —
send the text.
share the song.
put the kettle on.
quiet doesn’t mean unspoken.
there’s a strange, tender kind of belonging that doesn’t always come wrapped in permanence. sometimes home isn’t a place with walls or a roof — it’s a person, or a few people, with whom you let your guard down, where your edges soften, and you catch your breath.
i think of those fleeting moments, the small pockets of time where you’re not just tolerated but fully seen. the friend whose couch became your refuge on a stormy night; the stranger who became a companion on a trip you never expected to take; the lover whose hands made the world feel less sharp, even if only for a handful of days.
home, in these moments, is less about geography and more about spirit. it’s the quiet understanding shared over a cup of tea, the laughter that feels like a secret language, the comfortable silences that don’t demand explanation.
i carry these homes inside me — folded gently like worn letters in a box — knowing they shaped me even if they didn’t last. some homes you make are brief, like a song you play once but never forget. others linger longer, imprinting on your skin and memory.
and sometimes, the most profound home is the one you find inside yourself after all the others have slipped away. but the echoes of those who made space for you, who let you be, whisper still, reminding you that belonging is possible, even if temporary.
who have you made home with, even for a little while?
i think of those fleeting moments, the small pockets of time where you’re not just tolerated but fully seen. the friend whose couch became your refuge on a stormy night; the stranger who became a companion on a trip you never expected to take; the lover whose hands made the world feel less sharp, even if only for a handful of days.
home, in these moments, is less about geography and more about spirit. it’s the quiet understanding shared over a cup of tea, the laughter that feels like a secret language, the comfortable silences that don’t demand explanation.
i carry these homes inside me — folded gently like worn letters in a box — knowing they shaped me even if they didn’t last. some homes you make are brief, like a song you play once but never forget. others linger longer, imprinting on your skin and memory.
and sometimes, the most profound home is the one you find inside yourself after all the others have slipped away. but the echoes of those who made space for you, who let you be, whisper still, reminding you that belonging is possible, even if temporary.
who have you made home with, even for a little while?
★★★¾☆ — but that’s not really the point
this book was like falling asleep on the sofa in someone else’s home. threadbare cushions. a pot of something warm on the stove. stories that drift in and out of the room, not urgent, but gently important.
it doesn’t try to dazzle you. it cares at you. it holds your hand and says: what if found family was enough? what if the universe didn’t need to be saved to be meaningful? what if the question wasn’t where are we going, but how do we hold each other along the way?
the plot is thin, yes. the pacing wobbles. and some of the conflicts resolve a little too kindly, like the author’s thumb on the scale. but i didn’t mind. not really. sometimes kindness feels radical enough.
this isn’t a book of high-stakes space opera. it’s a book about people (or not-people, or both). about species with unfamiliar skin but painfully familiar longings. about language, identity, ritual, trust.
i didn’t fall in love with the whole crew, but i liked being around them. like housemates i wouldn’t necessarily travel the galaxy with again, but who i’d text if i saw their favorite snack in the corner shop.
this book was like falling asleep on the sofa in someone else’s home. threadbare cushions. a pot of something warm on the stove. stories that drift in and out of the room, not urgent, but gently important.
it doesn’t try to dazzle you. it cares at you. it holds your hand and says: what if found family was enough? what if the universe didn’t need to be saved to be meaningful? what if the question wasn’t where are we going, but how do we hold each other along the way?
the plot is thin, yes. the pacing wobbles. and some of the conflicts resolve a little too kindly, like the author’s thumb on the scale. but i didn’t mind. not really. sometimes kindness feels radical enough.
this isn’t a book of high-stakes space opera. it’s a book about people (or not-people, or both). about species with unfamiliar skin but painfully familiar longings. about language, identity, ritual, trust.
i didn’t fall in love with the whole crew, but i liked being around them. like housemates i wouldn’t necessarily travel the galaxy with again, but who i’d text if i saw their favorite snack in the corner shop.
themes & threads: the echo and the thread
Jul. 22nd, 2025 07:59 pmi keep circling the same images, the same questions. not out of stagnation, but instinct — like a bird returning to where the ground was soft enough to dig. it’s not always memory, though it often is. sometimes it’s an image, a phrase, a sound. a sensation like velvet worn thin.
i think about the people who leave and the ones who stay too long. about the tension between silence and honesty. about the weight of a room that knows too much.
about hands that almost touch.
about the line between kindness and performance.
about what it costs to be perceived clearly, and what it means to be misremembered gently.
i notice how often i write about doors, letters, unplayed voicemails. i think that’s one of my threads — longing stored in transit.
another is the ache of caretaking, especially when it’s unspoken.
i write a lot about girls who disappear and are never searched for properly. about boys who get quieter as they grow. about ghosts who aren’t angry, just tired.
the things that come back again and again —
grief that pretends to be nostalgia.
love that apologises before it’s even asked.
the soft brutality of trying to remain open.
these are the motifs i don’t set out to write, but they surface anyway. like seams in the fabric. like breath fogging up the glass.
maybe you’ve got your own. maybe you’ve got a thread you keep tugging without realising, until the whole thing unravels and you’re left holding the truth of it in your lap. maybe that’s not a problem. maybe that’s the work.
because maybe it’s not about writing something new. maybe it’s about returning with more clarity, more softness, more willingness to look. maybe we just keep circling the well, a little deeper each time. and we learn to love what’s at the bottom. even if we never bring it all the way up.
i think about the people who leave and the ones who stay too long. about the tension between silence and honesty. about the weight of a room that knows too much.
about hands that almost touch.
about the line between kindness and performance.
about what it costs to be perceived clearly, and what it means to be misremembered gently.
i notice how often i write about doors, letters, unplayed voicemails. i think that’s one of my threads — longing stored in transit.
another is the ache of caretaking, especially when it’s unspoken.
i write a lot about girls who disappear and are never searched for properly. about boys who get quieter as they grow. about ghosts who aren’t angry, just tired.
the things that come back again and again —
grief that pretends to be nostalgia.
love that apologises before it’s even asked.
the soft brutality of trying to remain open.
these are the motifs i don’t set out to write, but they surface anyway. like seams in the fabric. like breath fogging up the glass.
maybe you’ve got your own. maybe you’ve got a thread you keep tugging without realising, until the whole thing unravels and you’re left holding the truth of it in your lap. maybe that’s not a problem. maybe that’s the work.
because maybe it’s not about writing something new. maybe it’s about returning with more clarity, more softness, more willingness to look. maybe we just keep circling the well, a little deeper each time. and we learn to love what’s at the bottom. even if we never bring it all the way up.
not a person. not really.
i’ve tried before and it never sticks — faces and stories knot into the spine. there are songs i can’t play anymore because they still smell like someone’s cigarettes and aftershave and the lies they told. but i wouldn’t erase them, not even the worst of it. some things hurt in ways that sharpen you.
but if i could forget something completely, like shaking water from my sleeves, like it was never mine to carry —
i’d leave behind the feeling that i had to earn love by being useful.
you know the one.
the low thrum in your chest that says: be good. be helpful. be quiet. make the tea, learn their moods, edit their sentences, always understand.
and if you get it right, they’ll stay.
and if they leave, it’s because you failed.
i’d leave behind that lesson.
the one they never meant to teach, or maybe they did.
either way, it settled deep.
and i’ve been trying to unlearn it ever since, gently, the way you’d untangle fishing line from seaweed — patient, wet work.
if i could forget it completely, i think i’d be softer.
less afraid of needing things.
i’d speak quicker. i’d ask for the window seat. i’d tell someone not to touch me when i didn’t want to be touched, and i’d believe that was enough of a reason.
i don’t want to forget the versions of me that survived it.
but i’d leave behind the voice that told them that survival meant staying small.
and you?
what would you lay down, if forgetting it meant being free?
i’ve tried before and it never sticks — faces and stories knot into the spine. there are songs i can’t play anymore because they still smell like someone’s cigarettes and aftershave and the lies they told. but i wouldn’t erase them, not even the worst of it. some things hurt in ways that sharpen you.
but if i could forget something completely, like shaking water from my sleeves, like it was never mine to carry —
i’d leave behind the feeling that i had to earn love by being useful.
you know the one.
the low thrum in your chest that says: be good. be helpful. be quiet. make the tea, learn their moods, edit their sentences, always understand.
and if you get it right, they’ll stay.
and if they leave, it’s because you failed.
i’d leave behind that lesson.
the one they never meant to teach, or maybe they did.
either way, it settled deep.
and i’ve been trying to unlearn it ever since, gently, the way you’d untangle fishing line from seaweed — patient, wet work.
if i could forget it completely, i think i’d be softer.
less afraid of needing things.
i’d speak quicker. i’d ask for the window seat. i’d tell someone not to touch me when i didn’t want to be touched, and i’d believe that was enough of a reason.
i don’t want to forget the versions of me that survived it.
but i’d leave behind the voice that told them that survival meant staying small.
and you?
what would you lay down, if forgetting it meant being free?
In the Woods by Tana French (★★★¾☆)
Jul. 19th, 2025 10:07 pmI don’t know if I loved it or if it just got to me.
This book is like walking through fog and convincing yourself you see shapes in it - some of them are real, some are memory, some are fear. In the Woods isn’t just a murder mystery; it’s a meditation on trauma, buried memory, and the disintegration of self when you try too hard to keep the past at arm’s length.
Tana French’s writing is gorgeous. Not just stylish - precise. Her sentences feel lived-in, like the interior monologue of someone who’s halfway between romanticism and ruin. Detective Rob Ryan’s narration walks that knife’s edge constantly. He’s charming, broken, unreliable, clever, and you know from the very first page that you probably shouldn’t trust him. You do anyway.
The central case, of a murdered girl in a wood eerily close to where two other children (and Rob himself) vanished decades earlier, is as much about atmosphere as it is about answers. The procedural stuff is competent, but what really lands are the emotional shifts: grief, obsession, friendship’s slow souring into something colder.
The biggest risk French takes is not solving everything. The core trauma at the heart of the novel—what really happened to young Rob and his friends—remains unresolved. It’s bold. Frustrating. Unforgettable. I admire the audacity, even if part of me screamed. Maybe that’s the point: some losses don’t close, some mysteries don’t unravel.
Why 3.75 stars? Because it’s too long. The emotional weight is exquisite, but the pacing lags. The final act stumbles a little under its own melancholy. And I know it’s meant to feel unresolved, but there were points where the emotional ambiguity slid toward narrative drag.
But still. I keep thinking about it. The woods, the gaps in memory, the way love and guilt blur in the dark.
This book is like walking through fog and convincing yourself you see shapes in it - some of them are real, some are memory, some are fear. In the Woods isn’t just a murder mystery; it’s a meditation on trauma, buried memory, and the disintegration of self when you try too hard to keep the past at arm’s length.
Tana French’s writing is gorgeous. Not just stylish - precise. Her sentences feel lived-in, like the interior monologue of someone who’s halfway between romanticism and ruin. Detective Rob Ryan’s narration walks that knife’s edge constantly. He’s charming, broken, unreliable, clever, and you know from the very first page that you probably shouldn’t trust him. You do anyway.
The central case, of a murdered girl in a wood eerily close to where two other children (and Rob himself) vanished decades earlier, is as much about atmosphere as it is about answers. The procedural stuff is competent, but what really lands are the emotional shifts: grief, obsession, friendship’s slow souring into something colder.
The biggest risk French takes is not solving everything. The core trauma at the heart of the novel—what really happened to young Rob and his friends—remains unresolved. It’s bold. Frustrating. Unforgettable. I admire the audacity, even if part of me screamed. Maybe that’s the point: some losses don’t close, some mysteries don’t unravel.
Why 3.75 stars? Because it’s too long. The emotional weight is exquisite, but the pacing lags. The final act stumbles a little under its own melancholy. And I know it’s meant to feel unresolved, but there were points where the emotional ambiguity slid toward narrative drag.
But still. I keep thinking about it. The woods, the gaps in memory, the way love and guilt blur in the dark.
character study: kathy h.
Jul. 18th, 2025 07:46 pmi’ve always been drawn to the ones slightly out of step with their own lives — the characters who don’t fit the story they’re in. this is a series about them: fictional people who live softly, strangely, half in memory. not main character analysis, exactly. more like sitting with their ghosts awhile.
there’s something about the way kathy tells her story that feels like listening through fog. not just distance, but intention — like she’s placed her memories underwater on purpose, to soften the edges. to make the sharp parts less likely to cut.
you don’t realise it at first. how much she’s not saying. how neatly she arranges the narrative to protect both herself and the reader. but once you see it — the shape of her grief, the gentle evasions — it’s hard to unsee.
kathy is not unreliable. she’s deeply, devastatingly reliable. she remembers everything. every cassette tape, every dorm room whisper, every sideways look from ruth. she remembers so well it aches. but she’s been trained to narrate that memory with clinical calm, with a kind of institutional politeness. she’s so good at not asking why, at not breaking the rules of her own role, that you almost miss how unnatural it is.
she’s a carer. that’s how she introduces herself. she takes pride in it — in being calm, kind, efficient. but that identity is a scaffold, built over the rubble of the self she never got to become. she was raised to donate her body, piece by piece. and still, she tells the story like someone gently handling glass: tender, careful, trying not to let the cracks widen.
i think about the girls i knew in school who were too good. the ones who didn’t cry when the teacher shouted. the ones who carried tissues for other people. the ones who learned early how to soothe and smooth and make things okay, even when they weren’t. kathy feels like one of those girls. someone who took responsibility for everyone else’s emotions because no one ever made space for hers.
she never rages. never begs. she loves ruth, forgives her, loses her. she tries — so quietly — to hold onto tommy at the end, but the system wins. it always does. she doesn’t fight it. not because she doesn’t want more, but because she’s never been taught that wanting is allowed.
and when it’s over, she drives to a field where they used to dream about futures they were never going to have. and she watches a bit of plastic caught in a fence. and that’s all. that’s it.
what devastates me most isn’t what happens to her. it’s that she’s been made to believe this soft, silent ending is dignified. that being gentle in the face of annihilation is the highest form of grace.
maybe that’s why i think of her so often.
not just as a character, but as a kind of warning.
about what happens when you're taught to be kind instead of free.
file under: soft ghosts, women who wait too long, memory as mourning.
there’s something about the way kathy tells her story that feels like listening through fog. not just distance, but intention — like she’s placed her memories underwater on purpose, to soften the edges. to make the sharp parts less likely to cut.
you don’t realise it at first. how much she’s not saying. how neatly she arranges the narrative to protect both herself and the reader. but once you see it — the shape of her grief, the gentle evasions — it’s hard to unsee.
kathy is not unreliable. she’s deeply, devastatingly reliable. she remembers everything. every cassette tape, every dorm room whisper, every sideways look from ruth. she remembers so well it aches. but she’s been trained to narrate that memory with clinical calm, with a kind of institutional politeness. she’s so good at not asking why, at not breaking the rules of her own role, that you almost miss how unnatural it is.
she’s a carer. that’s how she introduces herself. she takes pride in it — in being calm, kind, efficient. but that identity is a scaffold, built over the rubble of the self she never got to become. she was raised to donate her body, piece by piece. and still, she tells the story like someone gently handling glass: tender, careful, trying not to let the cracks widen.
i think about the girls i knew in school who were too good. the ones who didn’t cry when the teacher shouted. the ones who carried tissues for other people. the ones who learned early how to soothe and smooth and make things okay, even when they weren’t. kathy feels like one of those girls. someone who took responsibility for everyone else’s emotions because no one ever made space for hers.
she never rages. never begs. she loves ruth, forgives her, loses her. she tries — so quietly — to hold onto tommy at the end, but the system wins. it always does. she doesn’t fight it. not because she doesn’t want more, but because she’s never been taught that wanting is allowed.
and when it’s over, she drives to a field where they used to dream about futures they were never going to have. and she watches a bit of plastic caught in a fence. and that’s all. that’s it.
what devastates me most isn’t what happens to her. it’s that she’s been made to believe this soft, silent ending is dignified. that being gentle in the face of annihilation is the highest form of grace.
maybe that’s why i think of her so often.
not just as a character, but as a kind of warning.
about what happens when you're taught to be kind instead of free.
file under: soft ghosts, women who wait too long, memory as mourning.
the shape of what was coming
Jul. 16th, 2025 07:40 pmsometimes i think about those stories — the ones with a prophecy, or a fate scrawled into the stars, or a letter that arrives from the future and tells you who you’ll become. who you’ll love. what you’ll lose. the shape of the end.
sometimes i wonder what kind of person i'd be if i’d known mine.
not the big, dramatic fate. not the operatic stuff. just the quiet truths that feel enormous in hindsight:
that the first kiss wouldn't be the most important one.
that some people leave without slamming the door.
that i’d never feel more alive than when playing someone else’s sad songs on vinyl, late at night, to a room of strangers who didn’t need me to smile.
that grief makes a home in you, and some days it sings along.
would i have run faster toward certain moments? would i have lingered longer in others? or would knowing have dulled the ache of becoming — made it a checklist instead of a life?
i don’t know. i think i used to wish for a map. but these days i find myself softening toward the idea of not-knowing. letting the small choices gather into a story. not because fate is beautiful — but because it isn’t. because it’s messy and human and written in crooked lines, and you only ever realise what it meant much, much later. when you're standing in a kitchen, or staring at an old photo, or playing the b-side you used to skip.
and maybe that’s the magic of it. not knowing. choosing anyway. loving anyway. hoping anyway.
we become the kind of people who could hold what’s coming.
and we do.
sometimes i wonder what kind of person i'd be if i’d known mine.
not the big, dramatic fate. not the operatic stuff. just the quiet truths that feel enormous in hindsight:
that the first kiss wouldn't be the most important one.
that some people leave without slamming the door.
that i’d never feel more alive than when playing someone else’s sad songs on vinyl, late at night, to a room of strangers who didn’t need me to smile.
that grief makes a home in you, and some days it sings along.
would i have run faster toward certain moments? would i have lingered longer in others? or would knowing have dulled the ache of becoming — made it a checklist instead of a life?
i don’t know. i think i used to wish for a map. but these days i find myself softening toward the idea of not-knowing. letting the small choices gather into a story. not because fate is beautiful — but because it isn’t. because it’s messy and human and written in crooked lines, and you only ever realise what it meant much, much later. when you're standing in a kitchen, or staring at an old photo, or playing the b-side you used to skip.
and maybe that’s the magic of it. not knowing. choosing anyway. loving anyway. hoping anyway.
we become the kind of people who could hold what’s coming.
and we do.
the emotional texture of analog media
Jul. 14th, 2025 07:37 pmthere’s something about holding a thing in your hand.
a weight, however small, that says: this happened. this mattered.
i’ve been thinking lately about tapes. not metaphorically, just… literally. the cassette i kept rewinding in ‘98 because track 7 reminded me of a boy who never liked me back. the way it clicked, hissed, rewound like it was catching its breath. the mix i made when my friend’s mum died — everything soft and wordless i could find, ferried across town in a cracked jewel case.
same with VHS. birthdays recorded over soap operas. family holidays blurred at the edges. the way your dad’s voice sounds on tape — younger, uncertain, laughing at something you’ve long since forgotten. watching it back now feels like time reaching both ways at once. like memory bending. like grief disguised as grain.
there’s a texture to these things.
not just physically — though yes, the clunk of a tape deck, the ridges of a polaroid, the scratch of needle meeting vinyl — but emotionally. a kind of analogue ache.
you can’t skip ahead.
you have to listen in order.
you have to wait.
and that waiting does something.
slows the blood. makes space. allows feeling to arrive whole instead of cut into pieces.
in contrast, digital things feel slick, instant, immaterial. they’re everywhere and nowhere. photos stored in clouds. playlists that evaporate when a server crashes. our lives increasingly made of files we’ll never touch.
and yet, the box under my bed still holds a mixtape from someone who once knew me best. a printed photo where we’re all squinting in the sun. a letter i never replied to but read at least ten times.
these aren’t just objects. they’re containers.
of time. of longing. of something more tender than nostalgia.
maybe it’s about loss.
or maybe it’s about the refusal to forget.
either way, analog keeps asking something of us:
to remember slowly.
to hold things carefully.
to let them be a little broken, a little worn, and still — worth keeping.
a weight, however small, that says: this happened. this mattered.
i’ve been thinking lately about tapes. not metaphorically, just… literally. the cassette i kept rewinding in ‘98 because track 7 reminded me of a boy who never liked me back. the way it clicked, hissed, rewound like it was catching its breath. the mix i made when my friend’s mum died — everything soft and wordless i could find, ferried across town in a cracked jewel case.
same with VHS. birthdays recorded over soap operas. family holidays blurred at the edges. the way your dad’s voice sounds on tape — younger, uncertain, laughing at something you’ve long since forgotten. watching it back now feels like time reaching both ways at once. like memory bending. like grief disguised as grain.
there’s a texture to these things.
not just physically — though yes, the clunk of a tape deck, the ridges of a polaroid, the scratch of needle meeting vinyl — but emotionally. a kind of analogue ache.
you can’t skip ahead.
you have to listen in order.
you have to wait.
and that waiting does something.
slows the blood. makes space. allows feeling to arrive whole instead of cut into pieces.
in contrast, digital things feel slick, instant, immaterial. they’re everywhere and nowhere. photos stored in clouds. playlists that evaporate when a server crashes. our lives increasingly made of files we’ll never touch.
and yet, the box under my bed still holds a mixtape from someone who once knew me best. a printed photo where we’re all squinting in the sun. a letter i never replied to but read at least ten times.
these aren’t just objects. they’re containers.
of time. of longing. of something more tender than nostalgia.
maybe it’s about loss.
or maybe it’s about the refusal to forget.
either way, analog keeps asking something of us:
to remember slowly.
to hold things carefully.
to let them be a little broken, a little worn, and still — worth keeping.
not everything life-changing arrives with fanfare. sometimes it’s a sentence overheard on a rainy walk. a book picked up because the cover reminded you of something you couldn’t name. a stranger’s kindness that landed in the right place, at the right (or wrong) time.
i think about a thursday when i was 23, sitting in the back of a nearly-empty cafe that sold tea-stained paperbacks by the kilo. i wasn’t looking for anything, just somewhere to be. i picked up oranges are not the only fruit three times before i bought it. i didn’t know it would break something open. i didn’t know it would say the thing i couldn’t yet say about myself.
or the night someone casually called me they, like it wasn’t a question. we were leaving a venue, soaked in rain and bass. “they said they liked the opening act better.” i remember it exactly. it wasn’t dramatic, just… right. a small shift. a loosening. i didn’t correct them. i let it stay.
there was also the time i made a playlist for someone i told myself i wasn’t in love with. carefully disordered tracks, like it would hurt less that way. i never said what it was. they never asked. but they kept it. still have it, apparently. that counts for something, doesn’t it?
it’s easy to overlook these things. they don’t ask much of you. they don’t wave their arms. they’re quiet, like tides or grief. but they’re real. and once they happen, something is different. even if you don’t notice right away.
i think the older i get, the more i trust the small turns. the almosts. the things i nearly didn’t say.
i think about a thursday when i was 23, sitting in the back of a nearly-empty cafe that sold tea-stained paperbacks by the kilo. i wasn’t looking for anything, just somewhere to be. i picked up oranges are not the only fruit three times before i bought it. i didn’t know it would break something open. i didn’t know it would say the thing i couldn’t yet say about myself.
or the night someone casually called me they, like it wasn’t a question. we were leaving a venue, soaked in rain and bass. “they said they liked the opening act better.” i remember it exactly. it wasn’t dramatic, just… right. a small shift. a loosening. i didn’t correct them. i let it stay.
there was also the time i made a playlist for someone i told myself i wasn’t in love with. carefully disordered tracks, like it would hurt less that way. i never said what it was. they never asked. but they kept it. still have it, apparently. that counts for something, doesn’t it?
it’s easy to overlook these things. they don’t ask much of you. they don’t wave their arms. they’re quiet, like tides or grief. but they’re real. and once they happen, something is different. even if you don’t notice right away.
i think the older i get, the more i trust the small turns. the almosts. the things i nearly didn’t say.
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro (★★★★)
Jul. 11th, 2025 07:10 pmHaunting in the quietest way. I finished it and sat still for a long time, like the silence had weight.
This isn’t a book that shocks or twists. It leaks. A slow bleed of dread and beauty, memory and resignation. Ishiguro doesn’t dramatize the horror—he lets it settle like dust on the windowsill. You start to suspect early on, but it’s the way he tells it—the soft detachment, the gentle unraveling—that really lingers.
Kathy’s voice is deceptively simple: a plain, clinical kind of nostalgia. It feels sanitized, like she’s carefully wrapping each memory in tissue paper. But beneath that reserve is something devastating. Not just the story itself—about loss, love, and what it means to have a life that isn’t really yours—but how deeply it asks you to care about characters who rarely let themselves hope.
The world-building is minimalist. There’s no real exposition, no grand explanation of how things work. That absence works. It mirrors how the characters themselves are kept in the dark, half-aware, moving politely toward a fate they’ve always known was coming. It’s unsettling, but also tragically human.
If I’m giving it four stars instead of five, it’s only because the emotional subtlety that makes the book so powerful also keeps it at a distance. It’s masterful, but intentionally muffled. You don’t cry. You ache.
Final thought: It’s a book that makes you ask yourself what kind of life counts as meaningful. And whether love, friendship, or even just the act of remembering someone, is enough to justify the time we’re given.
This isn’t a book that shocks or twists. It leaks. A slow bleed of dread and beauty, memory and resignation. Ishiguro doesn’t dramatize the horror—he lets it settle like dust on the windowsill. You start to suspect early on, but it’s the way he tells it—the soft detachment, the gentle unraveling—that really lingers.
Kathy’s voice is deceptively simple: a plain, clinical kind of nostalgia. It feels sanitized, like she’s carefully wrapping each memory in tissue paper. But beneath that reserve is something devastating. Not just the story itself—about loss, love, and what it means to have a life that isn’t really yours—but how deeply it asks you to care about characters who rarely let themselves hope.
The world-building is minimalist. There’s no real exposition, no grand explanation of how things work. That absence works. It mirrors how the characters themselves are kept in the dark, half-aware, moving politely toward a fate they’ve always known was coming. It’s unsettling, but also tragically human.
If I’m giving it four stars instead of five, it’s only because the emotional subtlety that makes the book so powerful also keeps it at a distance. It’s masterful, but intentionally muffled. You don’t cry. You ache.
Final thought: It’s a book that makes you ask yourself what kind of life counts as meaningful. And whether love, friendship, or even just the act of remembering someone, is enough to justify the time we’re given.
I must’ve been about nine. That loose, liminal age where your sense of self is still made of borrowed scraps — the way your mum parts her hair, the songs your older cousin plays in the car, the smell of someone else's house that you think might be better than yours. I was wearing a jumper too big for me and shoes that squeaked on the assembly hall floor. It was a Thursday, which meant recorder practice, custard, and the boy with the chipped front tooth.
He was cool in the effortless way of kids who don’t try. I, meanwhile, tried so hard I nearly tipped over with it. I remember clutching The Secret Garden, trying to look like I understood the sadness of it all. I remember drawing a crow in blue biro on my pencil case. I remember laughing — too loud — when he said something vaguely funny, because I wanted to be seen. Not liked, necessarily. Just noticed. Just enough to change the temperature of the room when I walked in.
That was the first time I remember wanting to impress someone. Not because I wanted them to love me. I didn’t even know what that meant yet. But because I wanted to be something. Interesting. Strange, but in a curated way. Worth the space I took up.
Of course, he barely looked my way. Of course, I pretended I didn’t care. But that flicker — of trying to be shinier, cleverer, a little more like someone he'd remember — has never really left me. It’s just evolved: into mixes burned at midnight, book recommendations too carefully chosen, eyeliner sharp enough to wound.
Funny how a moment that small can echo for years.
He was cool in the effortless way of kids who don’t try. I, meanwhile, tried so hard I nearly tipped over with it. I remember clutching The Secret Garden, trying to look like I understood the sadness of it all. I remember drawing a crow in blue biro on my pencil case. I remember laughing — too loud — when he said something vaguely funny, because I wanted to be seen. Not liked, necessarily. Just noticed. Just enough to change the temperature of the room when I walked in.
That was the first time I remember wanting to impress someone. Not because I wanted them to love me. I didn’t even know what that meant yet. But because I wanted to be something. Interesting. Strange, but in a curated way. Worth the space I took up.
Of course, he barely looked my way. Of course, I pretended I didn’t care. But that flicker — of trying to be shinier, cleverer, a little more like someone he'd remember — has never really left me. It’s just evolved: into mixes burned at midnight, book recommendations too carefully chosen, eyeliner sharp enough to wound.
Funny how a moment that small can echo for years.
The Secret History by Donna Tartt (★★★★¼)
Jul. 9th, 2025 07:49 pmSecond time around, and it still gets under my skin.
On re-reading The Secret History, I found myself less enchanted by the mystique and more aware of the rot beneath the marble. What once felt seductive now feels, at times, grotesque - and I mean that as a compliment. Donna Tartt’s prose remains cold and gleaming, like a blade; beautiful, but sharp enough to draw blood if you’re not careful.
This time, I lingered longer in the margins: the silences between conversations, the chill of the Vermont air, the slow unraveling of guilt that permeates every page after “the event.” Knowing the arc in advance made me notice how masterfully Tartt structures the descent - not into chaos, exactly, but into a sort of moral entropy. It’s not a whodunnit; it’s a “why did they keep going?”
I still find the characters fascinating in that doomed, unlikeable way - especially Richard, whose wide-eyed narration feels both sincere and performative. Julian remains mythic and absurd. Francis, Bunny, Henry… they are as vivid and stylized as Greek statues, and just as emotionally impenetrable.
On re-read, I noticed more: the theatricality of it all, the irony Tartt embeds, the fact that no one in this book is half as clever as they think they are (except maybe Tartt herself). The novel feels more like a tragic comedy now - a satire of academia dressed in mourning black.
So why not five stars? It drags, still, in the same places. The pacing in the final third lumbers under its own weight, and there’s a self-indulgent quality to the prose that sometimes trips itself up. But honestly, I don’t mind. If a novel is going to be overlong, let it be overlong like this: lush, brooding, obsessive.
Would I recommend it? Yes, but not to everyone. It’s not an easy read, emotionally. It’s a book about pretension, guilt, and the stories we tell to survive what we've done. It’s the literary equivalent of a glass of cold red wine, sipped slowly while classical music plays in a room that’s a little too dark.
Re-reading Verdict: Better in some ways, worse in others—but more interesting all around. The spell hasn’t broken. It’s just taken on a different hue.
The First Song I Ever Lied About Liking
Jul. 8th, 2025 10:24 pmJust take a look at me now...
It was a Sunday. I must have been thirteen — maybe twelve, with one foot still in childhood but already trying to fold myself into something cooler, sharper, less easily wounded. We were crammed into someone’s older brother’s car, the kind that smelled like knock-off Lynx and stale smoke, and Phil Collins came on the stereo — Against All Odds.
Someone groaned, exaggerated and loud.
“God, who listens to this?”
I did.
I loved that song.
But I laughed along. Said something like, “Ugh, yeah, so cheesy,” and pushed the part of me that sang along at home — curtains drawn, headphones on — deep down. I remember that specific kind of shame. Not because I didn’t like the song, but because I did, and I couldn’t admit it. Not in that car. Not with those people.
Years later, at 23 and mildly drunk on someone’s kitchen floor, that song came on again — tinny and imperfect through a Bluetooth speaker. I started humming before I even knew I was doing it. Across from me, someone smiled and said, “God, this song wrecks me.”
And just like that, I was allowed to love it again.
It’s strange, the things we carry. That moment didn’t break me. No one remembers it but me. But it was the first time I chose to be palatable over being honest. The first time music — which had always felt like safety — became a thing I could get wrong.
Now, whenever I hear Against All Odds, I don’t skip it.
I let it play.
Even if it still hurts a little.
A Quiet Day
Jul. 7th, 2025 10:20 pm Today was the kind of day that folds in on itself.
Nothing dramatic, nothing urgent. Just the slow unfolding of hours — the kettle boiling, the cat claiming his sun-warmed spot by the window, the soft thrum of a record turning with no one listening too closely. The kind of day where time doesn’t move forward so much as sideways. I answered emails in the morning and forgot them by afternoon. Read a little. Re-read the same paragraph again. Thought about writing, didn’t.
There’s a tenderness to days like these — the way the world hushes itself just enough for your thoughts to make themselves heard. Not loud, not all at once. Just gently: a memory here, a line of a song there. I think I needed it.
No revelations. Just the reminder that stillness is its own kind of company
They say you never forget your first heartbreak — mine came with a horn section and a deceptively cheerful chorus.
The Beautiful South taught me early that melancholy wears many disguises: a chipper piano line, a baritone muttering something brutal, a chorus you’ll hum in the supermarket and cry about in the car. No band was ever so polite about devastation. “Don’t Marry Her” is a hymn for bitter hope, “Prettiest Eyes” a love song that remembers time isn’t kind, and “Rotterdam” — well, that one just knows.
And then there’s Phil Collins.
Phil, patron saint of the emotionally inconvenient. His voice lives somewhere between a sigh and a plea, and I believed every word even before I understood what they meant. “Against All Odds” is a thunderstorm in slow motion. “Take Me Home” feels like walking alone in a city lit by sodium streetlamps. And “In the Air Tonight”? That’s a song you survive.
These are the artists who made it okay to feel too much, too often. Who said, yes, it’s absurd to be so wounded by ordinary life — but here’s a melody for that. Here’s a drum break that will make your chest cave in. Here’s a line you’ll repeat until it stops hurting, or until it does again.
So this is my love letter: to the unpretentious poetry of pop, to the way sadness sneaks into our softest places via FM radio, to songs that sound like walking home in the rain with your hands in your pockets. To The Beautiful South. To Phil Collins. To every moment that needed their voices.
You helped me name it. You helped me carry it. You helped me dance anyway.
july, softly
Jul. 5th, 2025 01:39 pmnot a checklist.
add your own. haunt gently.
soft hopes
not a challenge.
just a way to look at the month with both feet on the floor and a hand on the heart.
things to tend to
- the stack of library books by the bed - return, renew, or finally read
- the windowsill basil that wants more sun (don’t we all?)
- inbox zero, but emotionally: reply to that one message you keep thinking about
- a small corner of the house that could feel more like you with a little care
- the habit of drinking water before coffee
thoughts to return to
- you don’t have to earn rest
- not every silence is a problem to solve
- things take the time they take
- joy counts, even if no one sees it
- nothing blooms all year
music to play on purpose
playlist: songs to make peace with your ghost to
a mix of ache, stillness, and strange comfort:
add your own. haunt gently.
soft hopes
to write more, even if no one reads it
to feel the day instead of racing through it
to keep showing up as someone you like
to be surprised by tenderness
to remember: there is no behind, only beginning again
add your own. haunt gently.
“It doesn’t have to be productive to be worthwhile.”
or, as the breeze through the open window might say:
you’re allowed to just be here.