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Existentialism

Falling in Love (A Highly Unscientific, Poorly Controlled Human Experience)

Falling in love is often described as something magical. This is already suspicious, I would say. Because if anything else in life came with that many disclaimers, loss of appetite, loss of sleep, sudden irrational optimism, voluntary vulnerability, we would label it a side effect and immediately consult a doctor. And yet, people keep signing up for it. Willingly and repeatedly. Sometimes even enthusiastically.

At the beginning, falling in love feels like a personality upgrade you did not authorize. Suddenly, music sounds better, coffee tastes deeper, clouds are fluffier, ordinary days develop a 50s movie filter. Even your own thoughts become slightly dramatic, as if narrated by someone who definitely charges extra for emotional depth. Read more

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Existentialism

Upside Down Love At The Depot

It all started in a museum depot, of all places. Not the glamorous exhibition halls with polished marble floors and reverent tourists, but in that giant mirrored bowl that looks like someone dropped a salad mixing dish in the middle of the city and decided to fill it with art. Unlike most museums, where treasures are carefully hidden behind Do Not Touch signs and velvet ropes, the Depot is gloriously transparent. Everything is stored in glass rooms: broken statues, forgotten paintings, pieces that didn’t make it to the spotlight but are still too precious to throw away. Read more

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Existentialism

Trauma Has a Type and Mine Wears a Leather Jacket

There’s something intoxicating about a man in a leather jacket. Maybe it’s the scent of rebellion. Or the illusion of danger without actual jail time. Maybe it’s the cinematic promise that this will not end well and your inner chaos, polite as ever, whispers, “I’ll take two.”

I used to think I had a type. Tall. Dark. Charismatic. Emotionally unavailable in five languages. The kind of man who shows up late, kisses like a promise and leaves like a ghost.
Call it charisma, Call it unresolved childhood issues wrapped in a leather jacket. I called it love.
Again and again. And again.

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Existentialism

Grief Isn’t a Deadline. It’s a Journey With Love

After you lose someone, truly lose someone, people start to say the most astonishing things. “You have to move on,” they tell you, as if grief were a treadmill and I’ve simply refused to hit the start button. As if love has an expiration date. As if the person you lost becomes invalid the moment they stop breathing.

I know they mean well, bless their unprocessed hearts. I know they think they’re helping. But let me say it clearly, with all the fire in my still-beating heart: telling someone to “move on” is not helpful. It’s not kind. It’s not wise. It’s just… noise. Tone-deaf, impatient, awkward noise.

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Existentialism

My Sun, My Moon, and All The Stars

I used to imagine that soulmates came wrapped in fireworks, dramatic, obvious, like a scene from a movie. That they’d arrive with a soundtrack, a spotlight and a certainty that would make every question in my heart go quiet. But I’ve learned that soulmates are often quieter than that. They don’t always announce themselves.

I met mine when I wasn’t looking. Isn’t that how all good stories usually begin? I wasn’t wearing armor that day. I was just myself, a woman who’d been through a lot and rebuilt too often. He didn’t come with fireworks, not exactly. But he felt familiar. Like déjà vu in human form.

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Existentialism

Where Do We Go When We Die?

I was never thinking too much about death, just slightly knowing that I am afraid of it. Sure, I’d heard the theories: heaven, reincarnation, energy never dying, but it all felt far away.  Before, death was just a word. Distant. Philosophical. Something that happened to other people, in other lifetimes.

The love of my life died, and with him,  a part of me. Nothing made sense anymore. The world kept spinning, absurdly normal, while I stood still, blinking in disbelief. People asked me if I was okay. I nodded. But inside, everything had shattered.

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