In Love with (the Idea of) You

I’m in love with the idea of you.

For the longest time, I’ve been spreading myself thin trying to understand it – how you can only love the mental outline of the person you used to know like the back of your hand. Whose habits you have memorized, whose peeves you’ve mastered and skillfully dodged like mines in a field, whose features you’ve committed to memory like the map to your favorite city. From that disobedient twirl of hair, to the crook of a smile the constellation of freckles, the exact number of tequila shots it’ll take before her cheeks start to flush fervently.

I used to love so many things about you. Especially the ones that others didn’t know about. Over time, I found that your vulnerabilities were just as beautiful as your strengths.

I loved our conversations – the ones we’d have over breakfast, in quiet parks, in that 30-second stoplight.

I loved your jokes, even those that weren’t particularly funny but you deliver the punchline with so much conviction that it deserved the consolation. I loved your habits, your ragged penmanship, that knowing smile that reaches your eyes when I’m just a few seconds shy of forgiving you. I loved how you slurred your speech when you’re too sleepy to talk, vomiting gibberish in low murmurs. I love how in a sea of monotonous routines, you were playfully unpredictable. You couldn’t bore me even if you tried. 

I loved how you eagerly shared with me the things you loved – and I remember the warmth I felt when I would see you sigh with happiness. With Contentment. But were you? Because I was.

And so I loved you until it was easy to talk about you in the past tense. Until logic tamed emotions. Until the heart firmly understood the difference from what it wants to what it cannot have.

Now, I only love the idea of you. I love the poetry that your memories evoke. The words that gather at the bottom of my feet, slowly pooling up to my ankles like vines – begging to be written. But it ends there.

Now, you are just a muse in my art, to be displayed for all seasons in my gallery of secret regrets. I will revive you in a million ways. I will sculpt you in how I see fit. You are a mere idea. To be re-written over and over.  One story with a thousand permutations. With no definitiveness. No spine nor structure. I will rewrite you over and over because I’m in love with the idea of you. Formless, boundless, infinite you.




“It’s Just a Phase”

“It’s just a phase.”

Have you ever thrown this casual accusation at yourself?

Maybe you tried being a vegetarian. Suddenly, like Phoebe from Friends, you decided that eating something that once had a face is synonymous to a crime (btw, if you’re on Instagram and you love eating healthy, follow @millenialkitchen – I’m not vegan, but I adore the recipes they feature). Or perhaps you went organic and often posted your latest #detox concoction on Instagram in that unapologetic cliché mason jar. Or maybe you were a frustrated baker and tried to make brownies which would mysteriously come out the oven looking like molten lava cake every time.

Maybe for a time, you used to like watching French Noir films and loved to frequent vintage stores. You even dubbed yourself as an old soul and convinced yourself that you were definitely born in the wrong era.

Maybe you fancied yourself as a collector once. Coins. twigs, dried fall leaves in all of nature’s gradients, the crusted remnants of the sea that have been washed ashore – shells and cones that make you wonder about the beauty that lies in the deep blue: a virgin to human discovery, tucked in secret trenches.

Maybe you used to listen to punk rock music that reminded you of that first boy who gave you the butterflies and made you write poetry in the margins of your notebook. You were on the verge of Gothic and painted your nails black, but it was less of a fashion statement and more of a curdling rebellion.

Is there a dusty guitar, a drum set or some funky bongos in your basement? Probably reminiscent of that time you wanted to become a musician. You probably even had a notebook of unfinished and unsung songs fueled by unrequited love.

Perhaps you once smoked like a chimney, and even promised to go cold turkey for every last cigarette you had – but already on the other side of it was the next withdrawal like it was right on queue. Or you would get so wasted until you could barely remember the idiotic things you did – like swim in a public fountain or drunk call that girl you used to like five years ago. Or maybe you raved until you were in a wonderland in your mind, until the heavy bass became your heartbeat and you’d have glow sticks for breakfast.

Let’s talk about those ripped jeans, high waist bottoms, and those crop tops. Just how many of those do you really need in your closet? And don’t you already have that SAME knit top in that SAME color? (is it obvious that this is me addressing myself? no? well, shoot. I just threw me under the bus then!)

Whether you’ll proudly wear these old habits like badges, or hide them viciously like a pimple on your first date – it was still something that more or less defined who you were at some point.


How about you? What were your phases? Do you look back at them with ease, or do you cringe?

To Ricochet Between Remembering and Forgetting

When I remember you, I remember you in bits and pieces; like unfinished sentences.

Like a poorly crafted movie that knows no fluidity of transition, there was nothing elegantly seamless about it. In fact, you could see the clear edges, the abrupt punctuation. It is not like a gradient where the cobalt sea melts with the teal of the sky, but rather, a series of ricocheting between remembering and forgetting, remembering and forgetting.

Laughter. Drive-thru’s past midnight. I don’t remember enjoying a fudge sundae that much, and I don’t even fancy ice cream.

An argument – to agree to disagree on 80’s music and peanut butter.

Late night mundane talks. “I had a really crappy day.” “Tell me about it.”

Apologies. “I can’t go to bed mad at you.”

Long drives. That priceless look on you when you go passed the speed limit. 

Moments of pride. “Fine.”

A pause. The hint of a smile that grew from the corner of your mouth.  “I love you”, you exhaled.

I remember seconds of you, seconds of me, seconds of us. Fragments that I have never been able to play as a whole. 

You weren’t a blur, but rather, a recurring clarity. 

10 Happy Things (vol.1)

Happiness Vol. 1

Happiness is:

1. Watching The Fabulous Life of Amelie Poulain

2. Visiting the GK Enchanted Farm – three cheers for social enterprise and countryside development! (more about this in another post!)

3. Tasting Reese’s Peanut Butter cups for the first time (What rock have I been living under? I asked myself that too, don’t worry)

4.  Not having to wake up to the shrill pitch of my alarm clock on a Saturday morning

5. The feeling of satisfaction I get when I help someone figure out the word that’s on the tip of their tongue (what can I say, I’m a word nerd).

6. Having roadtrips with friends (blaringly loud music calls for spontaneous karaoke moments)

7. Finally materializing plans for Boston and Canada this coming October (I’m beyond excited for this) 

8. Cooking Mozarella burgers and Bacon Mushroom with Pepper Jack Cheese burgers! (sharing the recipe on the blog soon)

9. Drawing freakishly close to graduation (3 weeks tops and I’m officially unemployed! scary.)

10. Enrolling for a short course in School of Fashion and the Arts (SoFA) on starting up a business in the fashion industry (I’m so happy about this I might just cry)

Hooray for endorphins running frantically through my veins! What does “happiness” mean for you today?

*This “10 Happy Things” post is inspired by Camie Juan’s “The Happy List” series. It’s remarkable how doing this picked up my mood instantly. Ergo, I recommend you try it for yourself and make it a habit too!

Rude Awakenings

4:21 am

I dramatically threw my sheets aside. “Sh*t!” My eyes sprung open like a ventriloquist dummy.

It was a mild nightmare so to speak, and I have had far worse ones in my entire lifetime. Nonetheless, it woke me up as if someone had doused me with a bucket of ice. Surely, if I had dreams like this all the time, I would never have any trouble getting out of bed.

In the dream, I had a sweeping realization that I forgot to attend this Math class the entire term. Which only meant one thing: FDA (failure due to absences). I could not afford to incur such a disgrace since I am already set to graduate this coming October.

As if to mock me all the more, my brain found it funny to remain in a temporary state of amnesia. It wasn’t until about 10 torturous seconds later that I realized that the subject was not a part of my curriculum. In those 10 seconds, I had already done the following: calculated how many weeks it has been since May and if I had indeed incurred 5 absences already; wondered if I can use my “unlimited cuts” privilege as an excuse; sifted my photographic memory for my EAF; and weighed how much of my pride I was willing to give up if push comes to shove, I had to grovel to my vice dean.

I nearly cried with relief. Or mostly because of all that unnecessary mental stress I had to put myself through at 4 am on a Saturday morning.


Vogue Dreams

Found a new place to hover on for when I’m in the mood for outfit inspirations. Have I ever mentioned that I have this bizarre plan of making it to Vogue’s editorial board? No? Well, there you go.

I came across this site earlier because of aimless clicking, and I practically devoured the editorials too quickly. And because I’m feeling generous, I shall share with you two that I fell hard for.

Katharina Damm by Jonas Bie for Eurowoman February 2014  (via BIA)

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Alright, you got me. Well in case you can’t tell, I’m  seriously coveting the leather jacket on both looks for this editorial. The biker stereotype is somewhat tamed by the acid wash jeans and the nautical feel of the stripes, but it’s nice to know that the reference is there. I swear, it’s my next closet staple to be ticked off on my list soon.

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Dan King featuring Camille Rowe for ELLE FRANCE  (via BIA)



This Duel Au Soleil (duel in the sun) editorial features a boho chic look which is absolutely perfect for my future sand dune adventures in Dubai (it’s part of my destinations to hit before I turn 30 – a list which I incidentally thought of just now). I’m really digging the gold embellishments of the first look; gold vs white perfectly compliments sun-kissed skin don’t you think? Meanwhile, the morrocan vibe of the Ralph Lauren poncho on the second look is warmer to the eyes, and looks pretty darn comfy too. Hmm Morocco. Consider that added to my list too.

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So what have we established by the end of this post? I think leather jackets are divine, I like making spontaneous lists and I have this masterplan of making it big in the fashion publication scene one day.

Favorite Things

The Starbucks Caramel Macchiato + French Butter Croissant Tandem. By now, it must be blaringly obvious that I am not composed of 70% water as the default human fact goes, given my dangerous addiction to coffee. Can someone please ease my paranoia and tell me that three cups (maximum) a day isn’t exactly tempting an early grave on my part?

Up Dharma Down’s Capacities Album. I love how they never strayed too far from their original sound (unlike Paramore – which is now unfortunately too punk-rocky for my taste – their “All We Know Is Falling” album is unmatched). If anything, UDD can be likened to wine – gets damn better with age. Night Drops makes me want to take a

Renee Cummings (aka @naivemoon). Fragments of beautiful poetry compressed into 150 characters. I’ve always thought that people who can evoke a hurricane of emotions from one-liners are amazing. That is what I call a literary genius.

Sure beats raindrops on roses and whiskers on kitties.