Personal Writings
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I never understood why the world ached so badly for romantic love. Swooning and gushing and cooing over your partner, drowning yourselves in sickly-sweet nothings seemed like a tacky endeavour. Allowing yourself to be known and needed by another was a risk I didn’t want to see the fruits from, no matter the fulfillment it
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One day you’re 10, and you’re waking up to the wet wilderness, putting on your dirt streaked flip flops to pick wild raspberries for morning pancakes. The foam soles bend around the gravel road, and you can feel every single pebble like the princess and the pea except you’re the king, the king of this
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Before I turned 18, I might as well have not existed. My teenaged years were a stale, stagnant fog. I was a stringed puppet, a shell of the raw, confident aura teenagers possess. I was puppeteered by my parents, and with glee-I knew no better but to impress them dutifully. My days were filled with
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I always knew, somewhere deep and small within me, that the delight and joy of Christmas had faded as I got older. I tried every year to feel that same childlike joy, but it has never been the same. I have been trying to concoct magic for myself every year when the tricks have long
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I love women who are hard, who are calloused, whose fingertips are yellowed from cigarettes, who never divulges into their vulnerabilities until they give you little conversational snippets that you don’t dare pry into, who are aggresively maternal regardless of if they have children or not, who are rough and tactile and smart.
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I’m a child of the hot July sun. I couldn’t wait to peel a wet bathing suit off my taut skin after a swim. I wanted that first feeling of realizing the sun was still out at 9pm, knowing the season had just begun and anything was possible. I wanted blackened feet from being barefoot
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For a long time, I prided myself on being a productive person. I used my spare time efficiently, writing to-do lists and finishing every task on them. I managed my time well and left no room for error. Unfortunately, I’m human, and so errors would come up, and when they would, I would internally combust.
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I truly don’t believe there is such a thing as “right person, wrong time.” This is an age-old debate that brings up numerous perspectives and opinions, all of which are intriguing and valid. I have just never gelled with the idea that you can meet a person who theoretically ticks off all your boxes and
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I come from a big, artistic, eccentric family. I grew up around painters and instrumentalists, tarot card readers and poets. Creativity looked very specific to me. Creativity was reserved for those who could swipe paint onto canvases and awe their audiences. It was reserved for those who could pick up an instrument and play a
Lashanda Forsberg 