to want or not to want

'tis the question

May 25, 2024

this week’s Thought (singular)

what is it about meeting people you haven’t met in years and wondering if your growth is mirrored in theirs?

a very warm welcome to all new readers. i love new readers so much that whenever i get an email about a new reader, i manifest that they go to bed all tuckered out. thank you for joining us. may you fall asleep with a pleasant and satisfied ache in your bones and a smile on your face.

a very warm welcome to old readers as well. may good sense continue to prevail.

my ambition has slowly started to take on a new form. the life i want for myself is no longer large. instead, it is precious and soft, and pointedly mine. it is like the glow of a firefly, like a pretty scene inside a bolted-down snow-globe. it is both sufficient and all that i want.

some time in the far future, i see myself in a cozy and plush armchair. there is an open book on a wooden coffee table next to me. i am doing something with my hands that makes time slow down–knitting or painting. there is a cup of tea next to the book, and there is a cat lazing somewhere around me. my toes sink into a carpet. the open window next to me admits a cool breeze. birds twitter on the ledge, leaves twirl down from a tree. this is what i want.

more and more, i am starting to sense a shift in my desire for the future. i see it in others my age as well. birthdays becoming more about the people and connection and less about the parties. friends beginning to journal and meditate, trying to form habits that prioritise wellness and slowness.

this feels like the wrong thing to want. this feels like the opposite of what i am supposed to want. i should want hustle, i should want the grind. i should want a large life governed by the world outside and i should want to forego the struggle of not accepting struggling to survive. but i don’t.

i wonder if i’m too young to want this. should i not want to run? is it alright for me to want quiet? there’s always another thing to do. not just on a short-term basis, but also in the larger scheme of things. and with how in touch we all are, it seems like such a production to be with myself. i’ve mentioned that everything feels so fast these days, but everything is so loud as well.

this is more observation than complaint. is it normal to want slowness at 23 years old? awaiting your reply.

if you liked this post, please hit the like button! it’ll help more readers discover thodi and join this lovely community. thank you!

A Picture!

*a tumblr post that was more succinct about how i view life than any number of newsletters ever could be*

have something to add? leave a comment!

English Recitation Competition

The Bluebird, Alexander Posey
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published
```
A winged bit of Indian sky
Strayed hither from its home on high.
```

Right Here, Dane Anthony

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Stop moving. Stand in
one place – this place.
Breathe slowly; in, then out. Repeat.

Repeat again. Let your
shoulders sink and relax. Unclench
your jaw; slowly close your eyes.

Listen for your heartbeat; really
listen. Feel it pulse in
your fingertips.

Lessen expectations. Under-do all your
efforts. Requisition the time
for your soul

to catch up. Lean
into the wind; feel it
like a tree and test the ground.

Learn to trust the resilience.
It would be treason to move
quickly ~ left or right ~

from this place. It is alright to be exactly
what you are, who you are, where you are.
Right here, right now.

How Poems are Made/A Discredited View, Alice Walker

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Letting go
In order to hold one
I gradually understand
How poems are made.

There is a place the fear must go.
There is a place the choice must go.
There is a place the loss must go.
The leftover love.
The love that spills out
Of the too full cup
And runs and hides
Its too full self
In shame.

I gradually comprehend
How poems are made.
To the upbeat flight of memories.
The flagged beats of the running
Heart.

I understand how poems are made.
They are the tears
That season the smile.
The stiff-neck laughter
That crowds the throat.
The leftover love.
I know how poems are made.

There is a place the loss must go.
There is a place the gain must go.
The leftover love.

know somebody who might enjoy this post? let them know!

The Good Side of the Internet

… has been permanently shifted to The Good Side of the Internet. subscribe for many many links at the end of each month, and tell your friends about it :D