maybe we are supposed to meet the wrong people

maybe we’re not meant to be

maybe we are satelites

maybe we are the lucky ones

maybe we’re friends maybe we’re more

maybe we are all cabinets of wonders

maybe we are meant to meet the wrong people

maybe we’re each others soulmates



When did we allow how we see our bodies to be dictated by a set of moronic ideals that stray from our natural and healthy present state? And why do we continue to force stupid standards down our own throats, making little children believe no one will love them if they don’t look the the supermodels on the cover of Vogue, because they don’t know even the supermodels have been airbrushed and photoshopped. Why are women shunned for selling sex and yet there is no one condemning the men who create the demand and employ them for their services? Even worse, why is there more awareness around prostitutes than the sickeningly ever-flourishing industry of sex-trafficking. Homosexuality is illegal in Pakistan and can be punished by death, yet there is no law protecting men and transexuals from being raped by “straight’ men. Men have no legal protection against rape. And sadly, even in the countries where this is recognized as a clear violation of human rights, men will often be shamed into not coming forward to the police.But all of this isn’t important, didn’t you hear? Kylie Jenner and Tyga got a new puppy.


Parisian drugs.

Last summer, I brought a friend to Paris with me for a séjour comprised of five days, planning to see all the sights we could possibly cram into that short week. (Despite my going back there every five months or so after moving from France to Britain when I was five, I never took the tine to appreciate the hotspots of the city.) If I’m honest, I’ve always preferred the UK to Paris (something about the ethics and culture) but it was completely different when I brought someone else along for the ride, the famous city being placed under the microscope. It became even clearer that Paris isn’t the picture-perfect fairyland you’ve been lead to believe. Turns out the Eiffel Tower is just a heap of metal and the rats that skitter under the métro tracks aren’t as friendly as the ones Disney sketched out. The aroma of beautiful, artisan coffee is soon replaced by the stench of ashy cigarettes, and trust me, the graffiti hurriedly sprawled on any kind of free space quickly becomes a lot less ‘artistic’ and a lot more distasteful. 
On one particularly hot afternoon, after an unpleasantly sticky métro ride, we spilled out onto the streets of paris and only wandered about 200 metres before I saw a sight that has been burned into my brain since. A homeless man was hobbling past us, his sign in one hand and his other weathered hand desperately clutching a syringe. Now the homeless population of France is disgustingly high and shockingly visible in everday life, so (unfortunately) this wasn’t the aspect of this disturbing sight that shook me so much. I was astounded that he was carrying on something so unsustainable, regardless of whatever position you are in, especially in his situation. Acknowledging that this massive issue could possibly have been the cause of this (financial and emotional) mess to begin with, this was one of the first time I fully began to understand the devastating effects of drug use.


‘colourblind’ is a sad joke.

Please don’t be colourblind. Be fascinated by the rich tones of my skin. Watch in awe as the sun give my face a glorious sheen. Shiver with pleasure as you contemplate the limitless bounds of race. And in turn, I will marvel at the perfect pallor of your skin. I will wonder endlessly about the flawless canvas which is your colour. And like a child, I will sit wide-eyed, giggling with ecstasy as I come across more and different physical appearances. All different, but all beautiful. So please, don’t be colourblind; rather, embrace the varying features of our amazing species.



We all want to be

lighter than we are –

Freer than we are                                                

So we slaughter the Angels

And stick their wings to our back 

In the simple hope

That we too,                                                           

Will be able to fly


What you don’t know.

I don’t have nicknames yet people still try to make it a thing. I have books on my shelf begging to be read yet I still find myself buying more. I doodle often and somehow they all end up looking like I tried to copy a five year old’s finger painting. And failed. When I can’t sleep at night, I go over the following day’s schedule again and again, trying to smooth out wrinkles in my plans. I try to save greeting cards and and letters but I always end up losing them. Actually, I lose a lot of things. When I go into a place with people I know, the grandiosity of my entrance will depend on my energy levels. I don’t look at myself in the mirror that often, but I feel like it is too much. Not because it is a vain or self-absorbed thing to do, but because I feel so much more confident when I’m not constantly reminded of the flaws in my physical appearance. A guilty pleasure I enjoy way too much to give up is internet (not that I have a lot of it, my mobile data is close to non-existent and I have no wifi at home). I read the newspaper almost everyday, skipping most of it but getting really absorbed in articles about things like feminism, LGBTQ+ rights, racism and current politics. The sports section is something that is never even browsed through. I’d like to be less stubborn but that will probably never change. Let’s just pretend it’s a good quality for now.The scariest insect I’ve encountered is a crane fly. Why do you need that many legs? I’m mostly likely to engage confrontation. If I’m upset about something I won’t let it sit, I’d much rather talk about it than pretend it doesn’t bother me. I’m s creature of habit. The last time I pushed my physical limits was so long ago I can’t remember. I have a lot of acquaintances and few very close friends. I think about death a lot, not in a morbid way – more philosophically. It amazes me that turtles have yet to run for presidency yet Donald Trump is a serious candidate. I would prefer someone be straight up with me then to temper their words. I respect propel who are outspoken with their beliefs, as long as they don’t force it upon others. My perfect study arrangement is alone in my room. I sleep on my side. My favourite city is San Juan in Puerto Rico, however, I think many flaws would come to light if I lived there 24/7. Much like anywhere else. Ignorance is not bliss. I don’t think anything is unforgivable but I find it difficult to forgive. It’s even harder to forgive myself for past personal failures. I’m sure I have any convictions I’d be willing to die for. I think it’s extremely important to be honest with yourself. I am a messy person, both literally and figuratively. 


Paper Towns, A Film Review

Paper Towns was designed for children that need to be protected from simple realities, human unfriendliness and over dramatic trigger warnings.

Paper Towns was designed for people who could only accept the notion of suicide if it was presented as something that would never happen to them, a thing that only occurs to middle-aged men going through their mid-life crisis; if you’re pretty, young and popular there’s no way you could fall victim to something as ugly and unglamorous as depression.

People argu that this film was produced to dismantle the notion of “manic pixie dream girl.” I feel like all this has done is reinforce this unrealistic idyllic representation of what young teenage girls “should be”. Margo Roth Spiegelman starts off as a cool, popular beauty who parties with jocks (referred to by Quentin as a “miracle”) into an even more elusive, fantasy-like, euphoric being, with her disappearances creating an even larger air of mystery that leaves us easily imagining Quentin, pining for her long after her sudden exit.

The film is overloaded with extremely cliched character quirks, what with Margo’s fissiparous like for conventional captilization making it a classic example of trying too hard to be unique, which in itself is making you “unique, just like everyone else”. With the addition of Radar’s never-ending collection of black Santas and and Ben’s addiction to calling grown women “honeybunnies”. It’s a neatly packaged film on solid, middle class middle ground, with the rough edges rubbed out. Quentin conveniently has a black best friend to present the “total diversity” and nothing controversial is ever said with the small fight between Quentin and his friends being resolved within moments. 

This film never succeeds in becoming a ‘real’ teenage love story because it acted out by a bunch of squeaky clean teenagers turning the whole thing borderline mundane.

p.s. I liked the book.