ؘ

and i’m letting the day unfold in its own peculiar syntax, unbothered by the usual cacophony of urgency. consider this my daily act of self-authorship, a quiet recalibration of the psyche, where even the most mundane rituals feel like clandestine acts of becoming :p

dressed in florals that feel plucked from another decade, and carrying a certain sartorial insouciance that refuses to be rehearsed. a little anachronistic, and entirely too fond of making the ordinary look like an archival find.

imagine renting a place and finding out the previous tenant left behind a tiny shrine to herself, framed in lace like some very niche family heirloom. no explanation, no context, just her face quietly watching over the room. couldn’t be me, honestly. (it’s literally me.)