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Clockwise from left: Ashley Helvey's apartment featured on design*sponge, cinnamon bun pancakes, and heaps of bed linen.

so many questions left unanswered

Why do I always feel so empty
the rustle of metal, pots pans knifes and the feeling like I should be doing something more but i'm not, and it seems like I won't ever be good enough for myself

but I'm already knee deep in this shit

so tired so tired so tired so tired so tired of oscillating moods and thoughts and feelings

Staying up to talk to a boy... why do I even bother? I'm so sick of this. Do you think of me?

We are having such a terrible conversation.

Dear _,

I am channeling towards you huge pools of hatred, a threatening dark aura waiting to engulf you and ruin you. This is the unbridled disgust which I have for myself somehow transferred onto your meaningless persona. You smell of stale sweat and putrid hair, shampoo residue in the bathroom and it makes me sick. I am going to be so fucking brilliant that you will feel shit about yourself. You will realise that in the end what you have is nothing. Don't even bother trying. It is just sad that I know I will never find fulfillment from within.

Some days I feel like I will never find peace. I could dispense with this melodrama. I don't know if I am waiting for someone or something to affirm that there is really something wrong. I feel like I have lost my sense of self. This time it is my future and I don't know what to do, where I will go, am I good enough. I feel like I am becoming a burden to the people I care most about. It is a fight between this need for sympathy/empathy and my desire to be on my own. But I am now too tired to even think. Like a cloud had descended. Like a wave of inertia.

frank o'hara

"I’ve got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I’ll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don’t want me to go where you go, so I go where you don’t want me to. It’s only afternoon, there’s a lot ahead.

places to go in san francisco

la boulange
tartine bakery

i was happy in the haze of a drunken hour but heaven knows i'm miserable now

Why is it so smoky outside? The sun this morning was an orange orb and the smell recalled cold december mornings in india, hurrying across the school lawn with uncovered knees cold and hoodies up to our ears. I miss travelling around. Tomorrow i have to find another place to disappear, but before that i have to figure out how to sleep. This morning I woke with one eye significantly puffier than the other

I have started to do yoga again. Just completed my first morning routine in a long while and my legs are literally trembling! What a great workout

eggers

"She closed her eyes. Opened them, closed them. She could end this world or allow it. This was a moment when a believer, a thoughtful believer, would think of God's work, and how good it was.
The waves were perfect to the right and perfect to the left."

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My uncle passed away last week and father has left for hong kong, I wish i could hide myself inside his suitcase.

What I have been up to the past weekend

1. creating my own version of winter inside my bedroom, doing distribution and hypothesis testing practices
2. listening to kitsune noir mixtapes on speakers stolen from my brother
3. eating my weight in almonds and raisins while doing the above
4. watched up in the air and the beat that my heart skipped

I went to swim today! My hair smells of chlorine, how long have I not smelled chlorine? I am looking forward to no longer looking pale and ill with rings around my eyes after tomorrow

The pages on my Dickison text have been stained with coffee, spilled from the tumblr inside my bag.
I never realised the significance of her work until a few weeks ago. Maybe if I tried hard enough I can start passing my literature essays

928
The Heart has narrow Banks
It measures like the Sea
In mighty - unremiting Bass
And Blue Monotony

Till Hurricane bisect
And as itself discerns
Its insufficient Area
The Heart convulsive learns

That Calm is but a Wall
Of unattempted Gauze
An instant's Push demolishes
A Questioning - dissolves.

i need to remember to listen to these

dinosaur feathers
wild nothing
male bonding

"I used to think I couldn’t write without a scotch and a cigarette and one of the scariest things about quitting one then the other was the idea that I wouldn’t be able to write. Well, I quit and I write. That’s more about addiction than about writing. Then I thought I couldn’t write without my dog nearby, but my dog passed away and I still write. One day this summer I wrote in a room full of people in bathing suits cooking bacon. Not for long, though. How to get out of bed and get my coffee without waking up too much before I start writing is a big deal for me. I don’t like to eat until I’m incredibly hungry when I’m writing. I don’t write with music, but I don’t mind ambient sound. I like to be near a window with not a lot going on outside. My current study has a window that is completely filled with hedge and sometimes birds poke around in it. Perfect.

I don’t write every day. I wait until I can’t bear it and then I write, or I write because I can’t wait to write, or I write because there are nuts I want to crack. I was a kid who made ice cream last. I don’t believe in letting writing time be agony. I don’t believe in letting insomnia get me, either. I get up or I take a pill, no thrashing around. The bed needs to be a beautiful place, and the desk does, too. If writing is some kind of agony, I should get over myself and do something nice for the neighborhood. I do ritualize everything, though. I need to because of whatever kind of brain I have. So whatever my writing situation is, I ritualize it, I’m just learning that I can make a ritual out of anything, and it’s not the ritual so much as the ritualizing: making some kind of rhythm in a way that makes something some kind of sacred.."

lucy corin, from royal quiet deluxe.

a happy place

t.h. murphy

this is the sea i miss

cha.

miss v

Rare moments like these I can breathe a sigh of relief. Sitting outside Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, fingers still slightly cold from the chill inside the cafe.

I spent the afternoon with a schoolmate I have not met in years. (It seems like I have been doing a fair bit of catching up with old friends.) We sat mostly in silence doing our work, occasionally discussing about school and the people we used to know. I do miss her - she is one of those people that I could let my self go easily, although now the years have passed and its never quite the same. She still looks the same way as she did 6 years ago (and i must have looked the same to her as well. She asked, "do you trim your own bangs? You've been maintaining it for years"), but studying in private school has left her with a slight american drawl.

I grew sick of the sugar-laden, too-dense drinks from these cafés. Today I had a warm cup of vanilla ceylon tea for a change and it was light, pleasantly aromatic and kept me sufficiently warm. I bought some golden raisins from the grocer that looked extremely juicy, so that was what became of my snack of the day.

A few days ago I attempted to do run in the blazing three o'clock sun. It left me with a pounding headache exacerbated by my gum infection. I was reduced to a irritable heap curled up in bed in pain after that, with so much self-loathing festering within me (it still is), which I have concealed under layers of acerbity directed unfortunately to the people I care most about.

It has been close to a month since i last had any intensive exercise, and everyday I look in the mirror with fear. The way things have developed proved to be strangely unsettling - the run I was supposed to do last sunday never happened because of the rain. Another 10km in december has been forgone due to travel plans. And the one this weekend looks unlikely given my current physical condition. Does this spell the end of my running routine? I can't remember when it turned from a joyful experience to one which resounded with fear and self-hatred and guilt