12/18/2024: There’s something about miso soup that tickles the soul, like a memory I can’t quite place. The steam rises slow, carrying the scent of salt and earth. It’s simple. Just broth, tofu, a scattering of scallions, but it warms in a way nothing else does. It doesn’t fill you up. It doesn’t try to. It lingers, subtle and quiet, like a whispered confession. A little salty, a little bitter, like life itself. You sip it, and for a moment, the world feels smaller, softer, almost manageable. Almost.
12/14/2024: Sleeping aids are an uncomfortable paralytic, a velvet chokehold masquerading as relief. They creep through your veins like a thief in the night, stealing autonomy and replacing it with a syrupy stillness. Muscles slacken, limbs grow heavy, and the world around you dims to a whisper. But the mind, the mind stays lit like a faulty neon sign, flickering between dreams and half-formed fears. They promise rest, but what they deliver is surrender, a heavy-lidded limbo where time dissolves and waking feels like clawing your way out of wet cement.