Drabble #6: No need to explain–

It’s simple really. If you don’t like it, get rid of it. It it makes you unhappy, let it go – it might as well be this physically real white-hot piece of metal you’re holding on to. No need to explain. You won’t owe anyone a single apology. The universe will work against you no matter what you do anyway, so might as well assert yourself where you can.

Thing is, it all just evens out in the end.

College, College Life, Drabbles, Writing

Drabble #3: And perhaps this is what growing up is about.

     It is about learning, one mistake at a time. It is about losing things and earning them back. It is thinking about all the things you can’t possibly ever do and accomplishing them one by one. It the late nights spent dreaming, eyes wide open, heart on the verge of bursting. It is about giving chase, losing track, and picking up the scent of things forgotten. It’s about being wronged and doing right. It’s about breaking things and picking up the pieces. It’s about fixing things and accepting they will never be quite the same. It’s about making things and figuring out what to do with them —


I don’t know about you guys, but I had a pretty eventful weekend. 

College Life, Writing

Two in the morning.


It is two in the morning when it hits you – an idea so peerless that your mind is jolted awake, like a shot of hot espresso to your sleep-deprived system. You stumble into one of those rare moments fueled by purpose, and you scramble out of bed in the middle of the night looking for some way to pin your thoughts down before they flutter beyond your reach.


It is three in the morning when you find yourself trying to fit the idea into words, puzzled by your inability to express in precision the whirring in your thoughts. Up close, you see dents and rough edges on what was once a brilliant idea (you forget, ideas are rarely perfect, dear writer) and you try your best to smooth out the surface until it’s worn out from your meddling.

You won’t admit it, but you were half-expecting it to write itself, this inkling of an idea that possessed you at such an ungodly hour. But in your hands, the pen feels cold, and the paper before you, a vast expanse you can’t possibly tread.


At 4am, all you have to be proud of is a mess of words, feelings, and ink on paper, the spark from earlier doused by the heaviness of your lack of sleep. You have work in the morning, but you try not to think about it as you climb back into bed, the dying warmth of what could have been dissipating as you finally pull the sheets over your head.


Drabbles, Writing

Drabble #2: There are some things we cannot let go of, whether we like it or not.

They said that, if I got rid of everything, i’d be okay. So I put them all box – every present, every note, every picture, everything tied to a memory – and burned it all up ’til only ashes were left.

But then there was your number, the only one you used the entire time we’d been together. The last eleven-digit string of numbers I wanted to see. I deleted it from my phone, only to realize that I’d memorized it right down to the very last digit, to the smallest nuance in the way it was spoken out loud.