All this time, I thought my role models were people.
Turns out, the real guru was my cat.
Hear me out.
She naps through earthquakes, demands fish like it’s a divine right,
and stares at walls like they’re broadcasting catnip operas.
Her secret?
Zero [expletive]s.
She doesn’t “stay positive.”
She is positive—that the world exists to adore her.
And if it doesn’t?
Knock a vase off the counter. Chaos is a ladder…
The Balloon Bridge of Broken Promises
“Promises are just hot air! But my bridge—our bridge—is meant to pop. That way, we never forget they’re fragile!”
The Poet of Breath
X.
I am the cartographer of my own breath—
each exhale a latitude, each gasp a longitude
crossing where love of self
meets the uncharted country.
The journey is the compass.
The compass is the journey.
And the sky?
The sky has always been
the color of permission…
A Flicker in the Frost
“But Rollin’s smile, when she turned to him, was a flicker. A dying star.
“It’s perfect,” she lied, her voice softer than the snow.
Maurice beamed, mistaking her quiet for awe. He didn’t see the way her fingers trembled as she lifted the wineglass, or how her gaze lingered on the empty chair by the tree—the one where her mother had once sat, humming carols off-key. Three Christmases had passed since the funeral, but grief, Rollin had learned, did not expire with the season. It hibernated. It waited…”
The Night-Stolen Hours
My muse, it seems, is a creature of the shadows, a nocturnal beast that stirs when the rest of the world slumbers. It’s in the quiet hours, when the city sighs in its sleep and the only sounds are the distant hum of a lone boda-boda and the rhythmic chirping of our cricket companions, that the dam within me seems to break.
Perhaps it’s the absence of the world’s insistent clamor that allows the inner voices to finally be heard. The endless emails, the demanding phone calls, the tyranny of the to-do list – all fade into the background, allowing the whispers of imagination to rise to the surface. It’s as if the silence itself becomes a fertile ground for creation…
Emoji-logy: A Sunday Rant 🤪
Moral of the Story (But Make It Pixelated):
Life’s a group chat. Sometimes you’re the 😂, sometimes the 😭, sometimes the 🍳🔥. But when the Wi-Fi cuts out? The real magic’s in the mess—the buttered pancakes, the glitter confetti, the humans who laugh at your 🍆 jokes. So text back, heart the selfies, but don’t forget to close the app… and taste the (real) pancakes…📴🍽️
That Hello
She: We should’ve stayed strangers.
He: We should’ve stayed that hello.
She: But then…
He: But then…
DMT 