“How’s your stress level lately?” my acupuncturist asked me, to which I responded with a slight laugh, “You mean during these stressful times?” It was a laugh that lacked happiness but acknowledged the tragic comedy of it all: a fraught quotidian question that is misaligned with sordid feelings about the state of the world and […]
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The yellow walls are gone. I sold my house. I remember the first roll of yellow paint on the gray walls when I moved in six years ago. It was my first mark on the house—on my house—and it was terrifying and bold. When I finished painting, I looked at the colored walls and grinned
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I went to cry in peace in a bathroom stall but someone next to me was blaring a true crime podcast. I couldn’t hear myself over the loud and detailed recounting of a knife twisted in some unsuspecting person’s chest. This bathroom didn’t need more grief. I left to find a quieter spot for my feelings and ran into the Air Margaritaville. The plastic palm trees framed an overpriced and underwhelming carefree fantasy at the beverage bar, and I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. I turned to the nearest empty gate, tempering my leaky eyes with some deep breathing.
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I marvel at the daylight lingering at this late hour. The sunset scatters into the gray June clouds, reminding me that summer is here, even if the breezy rain tries to deceive me, and even if I’m unprepared for another turn of the seasons. Time progression feels amnesiac lately, lost somewhere in a slurry of
I moved here seven years ago. A few weeks back, I was in Downtown Seattle to attend a conference. My commute—now infrequent due to pandemic-induced remote work—was a lengthy and brisk bus ride in the morning darkness, but it felt energizing to be back in the city. I got off the bus and began my