relationships are activism too
A week back, I posted something on my story. It was an examination of personal hypocrisies contained in disbalances between belief systems and actual relationships.
an interview with hannah
Hannah is a writer running from pillar to post in an attempt to make sense of culture and conversation. She is often found convincing people to watch Nanette by her namesake or reading in a dark room.
i’m not a writer, i just work as one
One of the lessons you learn very early on if you’re engaged in creative pursuits is that self-doubt will be a constant, unshakeable companion.
I’m not a good writer, but that’s okay. Someday, I will be. I try not to see mediocrity as a fixed fate I must resign myself to forever, and so it doesn’t scare me too much. It’s a survival tactic, really, this hope fueled-perseverance. “I’ll get better”, I tell myself often - sometimes at the close of a weary day where despite my best efforts not much gets done, other times when I read a compelling piece of writing and wish it were mine. With conscious effort, I’ve grown to believe this simple affirmation (and when that feels hard, my writing from three years ago serves as an effective reminder).
since i isolated
Earlier this month, as people poured back into the streets amidst the government's un-lockdowns, I contracted COVID-19 and was promptly sent into self-quarantine. Isolation at home was body aches and oximeter checks; my ability to comprehend and take a full breath lost to some cruel trick at the end of a cruel month. It was a kind of sequestering that felt like a violent metaphor for punishment, not just from the world, but from my own senses— a sequestering from stimulus, from a new lover's touch, from take out food, travel and everything outside my main door.
ode to internet love
A year after my breakup, I found myself uploading photos of me to a dating app profile. I needed six of them - sharp and flattering- and a good bio to summarise the palatability of my existence to complete strangers. This mandatory preliminary requirement made picking my best photos feel thrillingly shallow. I also needed to answer question prompts to help summarise my personality while keeping it within the acceptable bandwidth of ‘date-able’: Netflix or nightclub? How often do you hit the gym? What do you do after work?
I was 25 and disappointed- in myself, my dating record, and in men. So I wrote looking for serious disappointments only as if to preempt a known conclusion.
the things that made us
They lay conjured on the ground- blue and yellow envelopes, restaurant receipts with ink lightening into paper, and dusty polaroids. They lie patiently, like they were made for a vision, a ballad. My bedroom floor became a museum for the decade we made, and the things that made us.