malusokay

[malusokay]

Cult Dairy

On obsession, ritual, and the quiet holiness of sour milk. A five-part gospel of kefir devotion from a girl who should probably eat something else for once. (from my Substack hehe)

1. Origins: How I Became Fermented

My holy grail was always yoghurt. I’ve always been drawn to bland dairy—mild, muted, undemanding. Soft food for sharp minds. I was never much of an eater, but I liked things that felt gentle and efficient. Something simple. Something cold. Something you could eat in silence. Anything that could pass as both breakfast and barely anything.

Kefir started as a curiosity. It looked like an elevated version of my obsession—sleek bottle, minimalist label, the word “protein” in quiet, confident sans-serif. That was enough. I took it home like it might reveal something to me.

The first sip hit like a dare. Sour, cold, inexplicably fizzy. I wasn’t sure if I liked it. But I drank the whole thing. And I kept buying it.

It was easy, just enough fat to feel human, just enough calories to keep thinking. The perfect solution for someone who stays up until morning writing essays about Homeric structure. Even better than yoghurt: no spoon, no dishes, no interruptions. Just a bottle you could hold like a thought.

By the end of the week, it wasn’t a habit. It was a preference. A comfort. A constant. Something slightly strange and slightly alive that fit neatly into my life without making demands. A quiet indulgence that didn’t feel indulgent at all.

2. Liturgical Dairy

I don’t make it. But I do shake it, gently, like it might explode or bless me, depending on the mood. I keep it cold, unopened, until the moment feels right. Sometimes that moment is 3 a.m., barefoot in the kitchen, blinking at my own reflection in the microwave door while my head spins off like a chorus of Bacchae—delirious and half-starved, half-divine. It separates. I fix it. I like the fizz, the foam, the hush of resistance it offers when you twist the cap, like it’s alive, but polite about it.

The taste? Sour, chalky, slightly sparkling. With a whisper of something expired, but on purpose. Like licking a battery in a church. Holy, but vaguely wrong. It coats the mouth like an idea you can’t get rid of. It lingers. It insists.

There’s something Homeric about it. The ritual, the repetition, the quiet brutality of it. My bones hum when I drink it. I feel fortified. Like a ruin being held up by ivy. I think kefir might be the only thing I’d offer the gods without hesitation.

3. Saint Kefir

IfI believe in kefir the way people believe in saints. Blindly. Ritualistically. With myth in place of memory. I feel clear-headed: kefir. Suppose I hit a flow state mid-essay: kefir. If I’m glowing for no reason or feel quietly invincible by 11 a.m.—kefir. If I’m tired but beautifully functional, slightly translucent but alert—it’s because I remembered to shake the bottle before drinking it.

I like the idea that something so odd, so sour, so clinically alive could be good for me. That it’s doing things I can’t see—balancing me on a microbial level. It makes sense to me in the way poetry does. I don’t need proof. I just need the ritual.

I’ve decided this drink is keeping me together. I don’t care if it’s placebo. I don’t care if it’s unremarkable. I just like knowing there’s something in my fridge that always works. No chopping, no heating, no decisions. Just a bottle. Just a tang. Just a low-humming kind of care.

Because if I’m going to be kept alive by anything, it might as well be something strange and sour and full of invisible organisms that like me.

4. The Possession

It doesn’t matter what I eat, what I do, what city I’m in, what time I wake up, what else is in my fridge. The craving still comes. Quietly. Faithfully. Like something ancient moving under the floorboards. Like an old promise I accidentally made—a private pact sealed in hunger and swallowed in silence, something that now returns each day with the steadiness of a superstition I no longer question.

Sometimes I try to want other things. Smoothies. Soup. Eggs. Warm meals made with care. Bowls that look like comfort. But they leave me unsatisfied, full, but restless. Like I’ve missed something. Like I’m feeding the wrong hunger. I chew. I swallow. I wait. And still, the idea rises—clear, cold, insistent: kefir.

Not like a preference. Like a return. Like a bell being rung inside my ribcage.

I reach for the bottle without thinking. I know the weight of it in my hand better than I know the faces of people I used to love. I don’t drink it for pleasure. I drink it because I belong to it. I am its girl. I have been claimed—not in a romantic way, not in a way that softens or saves, but in the way a cathedral claims its echo or a storm claims the sea.

It’s not casual. I don’t offer it to guests. I don’t share it. I’d rather lie. I’d rather say I’m out than give up the last bottle. There are boundaries. There is belief. I don’t care if no one else gets it. I’m not drinking it for them. I never was.

This isn’t a habit. It’s a haunting.

This isn’t breakfast. It’s ritual.

And I love it.

And I’m not letting go.

5. The Philosophy

Kefir isn’t about health. It’s about obsession. A quiet one. The kind that settles under your skin without asking permission. That grows roots. That becomes part of how you move through the day, not like a habit, but like a secret. Like something sacred, you don’t need to explain.

I didn’t choose it to get better. I chose it because it felt right. Cold. Sour. Strange. Alive. I loved that it was alive. That it could go bad in a beautiful way. That it didn’t need sugar or sparkle or branding to be good. It just was. It existed. And that was enough.

It’s for the girl who doesn’t want to be improved. Who wants to be preserved. Who doesn’t care about being well in the way other people mean it—but craves something constant, something bodily, something that makes her feel held in a language beyond words. It’s not that kefir healed me. It’s that it stayed. That it asked nothing but presence. That it tasted like something I could believe in.

Because if I’m going to unravel, let it be slow. Let it be careful. Let it be curated by cultures I can’t see. Let it be done with reverence. Let my undoing fizz softly in a bottle no one else touches.

And if I’m going to rot—

let it be like this:

deliberate, delicate, and just sour enough to be remembered.

[malusokay]

what kind of music do you listen to? do you have a playlist you could share? i’m curious!

my spotify is honestly all over the place but it somehow always circles back to lana hahah. lately i’ve been listening to a lot of clairo, beabadoobee, laufey, arctic monkeys, sombr, billie, and of course, the queen herself.

my spotify’s public if you ever feel like checking it out, I’m a bit of a playlist obsessive, so there should be something for everyone.

this one’s my most listened to right now, it’s what I always play at home. it’s called toffee’s room (toffee was my childhood nickname lol) <3

[malusokay]

Malu, how do I hang out with myself? I'm young, and I'm usually a homebody for the whole year. I can't drive yet or walk to anywhere since my house is just out of town. I don't know what changed this summer but I really want to spend more time Out, out of the house or just outside but all my friends are on vacation right now😭 I'm struggling to find less anxiety-inducing ways to go out and have fun by myself. Did you ever struggle with this/do you have any advice? I wanna start my social life before I feel like I've wasted my teens

hi love <3 I completely get how hard it can be to overcome the anxiety of going out and doing things on your own. I still struggle with it sometimes too! honestly, I feel like this would be way easier to explain in a video, so if you guys are still into the idea of me starting a YouTube where I can go more in-depth on your questions, let me know. I’d be happy to finally commit to that hahah.

but to answer your question, right now I’m staying in my boyfriend’s city, where I don’t know anyone except him, and he’s been away travelling for work. so I’ve had to spend quite a few days on my own. here’s what helped me not just sit at home:

go out for breakfast. if you feel awkward sitting alone in silence, bring your MacBook or a book. cafés are full of people doing their own thing, and no one will question you. plus, you get work done and feel productive, which always helps.

walk to a farmers’ market. it’s one of my favourite solo activities, even when I’m home. it feels gentle, seasonal, and kind of romantic.

visit some stores you’ve been wanting to check out. I rarely buy anything because I’m picky, but browsing is a very non-intimidating way to be “out” without pressure.

bring snacks and find a cosy park bench. listen to music, read, people-watch, or just sit. even buying a little snack on the way there can feel like a ritual. it’s small, but grounding.

 look up your area on Pinterest or TikTok (I know, I know, but it actually helps). I searched “Zagreb” on Pinterest, found some pretty photo spots, and then spent the morning walking around trying to find them. it made the whole day feel like a little quest.

botanical gardens are a dream. quiet, beautiful, and great for solo wandering. I spent a long time walking through one yesterday and it was such a lovely, soft morning.

if you’re in a more social mood, try going out on a weekend evening. sit somewhere where people your age hang out. if you’re feeling bold, it’s not weird to strike up a conversation—especially if the vibe feels right. it’s a small but powerful way to open your social world.

and lastly, if you live in a more rural area (I went to boarding school in a village, so I get it), try to find a little spot to claim as your own. a bench, a corner, a view, somewhere quiet you can always return to when you just need to leave the house and breathe.

[malusokay]

introvert summer

insta -> ♡

[malusokay]

hello angel ! how did you expand your vocabulary with such complex and beautiful words ?? im subscribed to your substack (i love all of your posts, they always make me think) and you always use the most fantastic words. like, they flow in with the other words so perfectly.

i often catch myself using the same generic words, so i want to learn more. do you have any tips on that ? thank you <3

thank you angel, that means so much to me <3 I’ve always read a lot, especially growing up. even during my boarding school years, books were the one thing I never got tired of. I started studying Latin when I was really young, and now I study classics formally, so language has always been at the centre of everything I do—how it’s structured, how it evolves, how meaning shifts depending on tone, syntax, or context.

Latin, especially, changes how you see language. it slows you down. it makes you notice construction, cadence, the exact weight of a word. you stop skimming and start reading with precision. and once you’ve translated enough Latin or worked through older texts, modern language starts to feel easier by comparison. your vocabulary grows because it has to. difficult literature leaves you no choice but to reach further.

so if you want to expand your vocabulary, read things that challenge you. annotate, re-read, look up what you don’t know. don’t worry about sounding too formal or too poetic. the best writing happens when you stop trying to sound like everyone else and start leaning into what feels exact.

if you guys want suggestions, tips, reading lists, or anything else related to this, let me know—I’d love to expand on it. <3

[malusokay]

hello! do you mind ppl adding on to your posts? sometimes you cover topics i'm very interested in and would like to add a thing or two but i don't wanna b rude or anything. figured i'd ask. anyways, i love your blog <3

the comments are always open for people to share their thoughts: extra tips, personal takes, ideas, questions, anything you feel like adding. I genuinely love when posts turn into conversations. that’s the whole point. I want this space to feel interactive and alive, like something we’re building together. thoughtful replies, shared experiences, and even just little observations—those are what make blogging feel worthwhile to me.

but just to be clear, copying someone’s post, even if you add a few personal touches or tag them after the fact, still falls into a grey area I don’t support. it might be technically credited, but it’s not respectful. Because at the end of the day, slapping on a username doesn’t change the fact that someone else did the work, and you’re using it to build your own platform. and let’s be honest, it’s usually not original either. every girlblogger I know finds it disheartening. not because we’re precious, but because we put thought into what we share.

so yes, adding on to my posts is greatly appreciated—as long as it happens on my page, haha. just do it the right way. through comments, asks, and proper interaction. not by quietly rewording someone else’s post and calling it your own. we always notice. <3

[malusokay]

hot girl summer

insta -> malusokay

[malusokay]

How to Have a Love Life (from someone who actually has one)

Step 1. Set Your Standards

Because if you don’t, the universe will send you men who text “wanna hang?” at 11:52 p.m.

Know what you want, even if it’s irrational. Tall, plays piano, Catholic guilt, looks good in black. Whatever. You’re allowed.

No chemistry? No deal. A good résumé means nothing if you feel nothing. You're trying to find love, you should feel something. A spark, a shiver, or a silly smile when he texts.

He should be a bit obsessed. Not restraining order obsessed, but “sent you a poem at midnight” obsessed.

“Busy” is a myth. If he wants to, he will. If he doesn’t, he won’t. There’s no mystery.

Step 2. Prepare Yourself

Not in a “fix yourself” way. In a “become so hot and self-possessed he can’t think straight” way.

Update your social media. Post hot pics, read pretentious books, quote Sappho. Let them suffer.

Romanticise your routines. The skincare, the gym, the getting ready playlist, it’s part of the charm.

Don’t try to be chill. Be passionate, a little dramatic, slightly impossible to forget. (we hate nonchalant here.)

Have a life. Not to impress him. To survive him. Join a class, go dancing, make art. Text your friends more than you text him. You need something to come home to if it falls apart.

Step 3. How to Actually Meet Guys

Yes, unfortunately, you do have to leave the house (or at least open your DMs).

Be online strategically. The story with the books, the wine glass, the dangerous neckline? Essential.

Go places alone. Cafés, galleries, vintage bookstores. Hot people live in those.

Talk first. Say something weird. Say something dry. Say anything at all. Most guys are just relieved. He won't think you're weird, and if he does, that's useful data. You don't want someone who's scared of a girl with opinions and a personality.

Mutual friends? Ask. Being set up is underrated. Just make sure it’s not someone who still says “epic.”

Step 4. Surviving the Talking Stage

Also known as: limbo, hell, emotional roulette.

Keep texting fun. You’re not here to conduct an interview.

Match his energy, then go slightly colder. Mystery keeps the plot alive.

Don’t over-invest. He’s cute, not a life plan. Don't build an entire narrative off a playlist and three emojis.

Pull back if needed. You’re not being “too much.” You’re being someone who doesn’t beg.

Step 5. Dating 101

Congratulations. You’ve made it to the main event. Don’t panic now.

Look stunning, obviously. Even if you’re just getting coffee. Especially then.

Ask good questions. The goal is connection and psychological evaluation.

Stay unpredictable. Be kind, funny, engaging, but also allow for some silent moments. It shouldn't feel awkward.

Know when to walk away. If it’s not fun, not flirty, and not fulfilling, you can go.

Step 6. Debrief & Detox

Even CIA operatives get to talk to someone after a mission.

Tell your friends everything. Especially the ridiculous parts. Especially the unhinged texts. Your group chat is sacred.

Let them reality-check you. They love you. They see the red flags when you’re busy romanticising the beige.

Don’t skip the closure. Even if the ending was awkward or slow-fade. Name it, process it, laugh about it. Then leave it.

Step 7. If It Works Out

Not every story ends in disaster. Sometimes it actually gets good.

Stay a little delusional. You still get to romanticise it all. That’s half the fun.

Keep your identity. Don’t fold into each other like laundry. Stay weird. Keep your rituals. Be your own person with someone.

Let yourself be happy. Not suspicious. Not waiting for it to crash. Just happy. Let it feel real. You don't have to apologise for being loved. You don't have to brace for impact. allow yourself to enjoy.

Still debrief with your friends. Even in love. Especially in love. They were there before, and they’ll be there after—if it ever comes to that.

And if none of this works? Post a blurry photo in your favourite outfit, listen to Norman Fucking Rockwell, and disappear for 48 hours.

lots of love (literally) to all of you and if anyone has a question or request feel free to submit it here -> <3

also, my insta hehehe

[malusokay]

hi malu!! do you know how to get rid of blackheads? like on the nose?

hii <3 I know how frustrating blackheads can be, especially on the nose, so let me show you what I’ve actually been using lately. 

at first I just bought the Neutrogena cleanser for travel, but it ended up making my skin so much better I kept it in my routine (before this I literally just used Dove bar soap lol). and the glycolic acid toner from The Ordinary is a classic—I’ll probably never replace it.

I usually follow with a light moisturiser (I like Lancôme for that, very soft and not too heavy). I really think less is more with skincare. it’s way better to start simple and slowly build your routine with a few good basics than to overwhelm your skin from the start. <3

[malusokay]

Hi angel, love your blog <3 how are you? It's been a while.. <3

Could you give the girlies some advice on "how to have a love life" lol

Hii I’ve missed you guys so much!! I’ve been alright—had a cold for a month (yes, a whole month), been travelling non-stop and moved, so it’s been a time. But I’ve finally been home for a week now, recovering from whatever health nightmare that was, and I finally feel like myself again, and ready to blog. <3

And YES of course I’ll write a post now on how to get a love life immediately. Priorities.

If you have any more requests, questions, or just feel like telling me something, send it here -> <3 I’ve really missed talking to you all.

[malusokay]

insta -> malusokay

[malusokay]

Hiii! I was just stalking your ig and I loveeeee your makeup. I need to buy a new eyeshadow palette. Could you give me some recommendations? I already own the natural eyes palette from two faced but it doesn’t feel enough yk. <33

AAHhh that's so sweet, thank you so much!!

I wish I could be more helpful here, but I actually only use one eyeshadow palette and it's a Too Faced one hahah

I radically reduced my makeup collection to just my favourites a year ago and haven't really tried anything new since </3

[malusokay]

How to Dress Without Caring (and Look Like Yourself)

I didn’t stop caring to be cool. I stopped caring because I moved so often I never had time to catch up. every city had a new code, a new uniform, and I never had the instructions. so eventually, I gave up trying to follow them and realised I didn’t need them in the first place.

If you’re trying to let go of other people’s expectations, but still want to feel like you when you get dressed, here’s what actually helps:

How to Stop Caring (In a Healthy Way)

get used to being slightly misunderstood. people might not get your outfit, but that’s fine, you’re not dressing for explanation.

stop dressing for the ‘idea’ of yourself. dress for how you feel that day, not for the version of you you think other people expect.

notice what you reach for on bad days. that’s probably your real style. or at least a hint to what comforts you.

don’t justify your choices. Someone asks why you’re dressed like that? shrug. “I felt like it.” that’s enough.

realise the outfit you regret least is usually the one you felt most like yourself in. not the one you dressed up to impress.

accept that some days you’ll look weird. that’s part of it. style evolves through mistakes.

How to Find Your Style (When You’ve Stopped Performing)

start with colour. what colours do you feel good in? build around those. for me its cool toned pinks, light blue, cream, white, black, and deep red. I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about greys.

find a silhouette you love and wear it to death. long skirt girl. giant blazer guy. little shirt and big trousers combo. repeat it. no shame.

save outfit photos, not of others, of yourself. catch the ones where you look like you.

notice the textures you love touching. soft cotton, linen, leather, fleece, silk. let that guide your wardrobe.

make uniforms. you’re not boring for repeating things. you’re iconic. my uniform will always be the black skirt, tights, loafers, and some top combo. its my safe option.

shop like you have amnesia. ignore what’s trendy. If you saw this in a thrift store and had never scrolled Pinterest, would you still want it?

let your clothes be a memory map. what you wore when you felt beautiful, or strong, or invisible in a good way. Keep those pieces close.

you don’t need to be a minimalist or a maximalist. you just need to feel okay walking out the door.

that’s all style really is: the quiet confidence that you dressed for yourself. and no one else. <3

my insta -> malusokay

[malusokay]

This might be a little weird but I want to be like you when I grow up. You're so cool and smart. I love reading and watching your content 💗

you guys have no idea how much messages like this mean to me, thank you so much :,)

[malusokay]

hey!! how did you get into blogging like you do? it’s something i really want to do, but i feel like my brain is foggy and i can’t put words to paper :( any tips would be so meaningful.

it always came very naturally to me, I just grew up oversharing on the internet

[malusokay]

How I Made Loneliness Feel Like a Lifestyle Choice

What it means to live inside pauses, and why I still think solitude is sexier when no one notices it’s deliberate. (from my Substack)

Everything smelled like rain, and I thought that was enough. It reminded me of the garden after someone had hosed it down. I didn't grow up around cities, but they always seemed to tolerate me. I think I liked being somewhere that didn't know my name, but still assumed I belonged.

Striped sweaters, pleated skirts, tangled headphones, clothes that made me feel like I was always en route to class. Or auditioning for a French indie film. Moving through a city of lights that buzzed louder than conversations, a dull, constant hum that never really stopped, even when the streets emptied or the shops pulled down their metal shutters. I moved through it the way you walk through static: alert, but blurred around the edges. Roaming through busy stations, empty cafés, quiet library aisles, the kind of spaces that were public but impersonal, where everyone passed through but no one stayed long enough to be noticed.

I knew the schedule of trains I wasn't taking, the smell of pastries I never bought, the sound of my own shoes across polished floors. I always wondered what it would feel like to walk in and choose something without thinking, to point at a donut, maybe, and eat it right there. Like a normal person. Like someone with blood sugar, zero shame, and no existential beef with breakfast. But I'm very strict with myself. I'd linger just long enough to let the air hit, warm sugar, butter, vanilla rising from trays behind glass—and then I'd keep walking like it hadn't crossed my mind.

I wasn't running out of anything. That's what made the slowness feel indulgent, not dangerous. Being there didn't serve a purpose, and maybe that's why it felt like a secret, like I was getting away with something small and private, a softness no one had to witness.  I came from a world that didn't use public transport. That's probably why I liked it, the quiet subversion of being somewhere unchauffeured. Sitting alone felt earned. Watching the city move without me in it felt like a choice.

I liked places where no one stayed long, where nothing stuck. Where it was normal to be alone, to be quiet, to be looking down at nothing in particular, most of it passed without detail. Just motion. Noise, breath, movement. The lift of a coat sleeve. The scratch of a chair leg on tile.

I wasn't trying to stand out. But I didn't want to vanish into the wallpaper either. I wanted to be the kind of girl you looked at twice, but never remembered why. I wanted to be looked at without having to speak. The kind of presence that makes people wonder but not ask. I think I learned that posture in school, that specific neutrality. Just polished enough to blend in with the ones who mattered, just distant enough to never be mistaken for someone waiting to belong. I walked like I knew where I was going, even when I didn't. That was usually enough. It worked 90% of the time. The other 10%, I accidentally stumbled into a linguistics conference breakroom or a storage unit filled with mannequins missing their hands, with no recollection of how I had ended up there.

No one talks about how loud fluorescent lights are until you've been under them too long. And I was under them a lot. Not because I had anywhere to be, but more because they were always on in the places I ended up. They flickered sometimes, but mostly they just buzzed, high, steady, and inescapable. You don't notice it at first. But then it's all you can hear, like the sound is inside your head, not around it. It doesn't hurt, exactly. It just presses. Constant and low, a hum under everything else. After a while, I stopped noticing until I left the building and felt the sudden quiet of normal air. Even the street seemed softer in comparison.

I think I liked that. The sudden relief. The way silence felt like something you could wear.

I miss subway lights in my eyes, the way they flickered across the windows, breaking my reflection into something softer. Less defined. Easier to look at. Not quite me, but close enough to follow with my eyes as the train moved. There was something comforting in the blur, in the way the glass doubled everything, made it all a little less certain. I could sit across from myself without having to explain anything. No smile. No correction. Just the outline of a girl who looked like she read too much and might start crying if you asked about her favourite movie.

Sometimes I'd stare until my own face went unfamiliar, my mouth wrong, my eyes too far apart, and my hair a bit too dark. It never felt dramatic. Just distant. Like someone I'd borrowed things from.

Loneliness wasn't dramatic then. It didn't lurch or shout or demand anything from me. It just sat next to me like noise, like background static, easy to ignore until everything else went quiet. It lived in the pauses. In the space between songs. In the wait before the train doors closed. I wouldn't have called it sadness. I still don't think I would. It was just a feeling I couldn't shake, one that stayed close but never really touched me. Like a bruise I'd forgotten about until something pressed against it.

That's the part that's stayed with me. Probably always will.

I moved without urgency. There was rarely a reason to be anywhere, and even when there was, I didn't feel like rushing to meet it. Sometimes I rode past my stop on purpose just to see how long I could go before anyone noticed I wasn't where I said I'd be. Sometimes I just forgot to get off. Not in a distracted way, just in that quiet, slow kind of forgetting that happens when the lights blur and the announcements start to sound the same. I always stood in the same place, by the door, leaning against the divider on the side facing forward. I liked the way the movement pressed me into it, like the city was gently holding me in place, even if just by force.

The train kept going, so I did too.

There wasn't much to say about it. Long walks that led nowhere in particular, though they usually ended at water. The kind that gathers without spectacle, canals, harbours, the quiet undersides of bridges. Places where things collect. Leaves. Bottles. Thoughts. I'd stand there for a while, coffee in hand, like I was waiting for something to surface, though I never really expected it to. I always kind of hoped I'd see a seal. Something about their vibe, fat, quiet, mysterious, felt aspirational. I imagined us nodding at each other like two girls who just get it. The coffee would go cold before I finished it, not because I forgot, but just because I didn't like it that much. But it gave me something to hold. And sometimes that was enough. It made me look busy. Like I had somewhere to be, or someone waiting. People don't ask questions when you're holding coffee. It's basically an invisibility cloak for awkward people.

Now I don't even know if I ever liked it, or if I just got used to the taste the way you get used to minor inconveniences, like blisters, or boys who say they hate small talk and then spend forty-five minutes telling you about their crypto portfolio.

Afternoons slid into evenings. Evenings into nights. The kind of hours that don't announce themselves, they just collect. Soft and weightless, but heavy if you stack too many. I stopped keeping track after a while. Someone once asked if I was lost. I wasn't. But I said yes anyway. Just to try on the softness of being helped. Some days blurred at the edges, others vanished completely. I'd look up, and it would already be dark, and I'd have nothing to show for it except a half-drunk coffee and some vague memory of walking somewhere. Sometimes I bought things, like books, mugs, bracelets, or old things. Small enough to fit in a coat pocket. I never needed them, but I always found a way to use them. At one point, I was probably one paperweight away from becoming a hoarder.

I didn't feel bad, exactly. Just delayed, like I was waiting for something to begin, only the beginning kept moving further out of reach. People always talk about time as if it's passing them by. Mine never passed. It hovered. So soft and idle, just out of reach. It felt like holding your breath without realising it until the exhale came in the form of darkness outside the window, the kind that arrives before you're ready, even if you knew it was coming. That's what threaded through. The weightless ache of not moving. Of being still for so long, the air starts to fold around you.

I miss how easy it was to let days slip by without asking for more. To let them spool out behind me like a thread. Nothing dramatic, nothing wasted, just hours layered on hours. Some light enough to forget, some heavy enough to keep. But none of them urgent. I could move through them like scenery, like I was there to notice and not to shape.

And I miss the way that almost felt like enough. Not good. Not exciting. But bearable in a way that made me believe there was something elegant about it. And sometimes, when it's late and everything smells like rain, it still does. The trains, the coffee, the blur in the window, they never really stopped. I still take the long way home. Not out of forgetfulness anymore. My mind knows where to get off. But there's something about delaying arrival that still makes sense to me.

The city feels smaller now. Familiar. I've stopped needing to read the signs. I know where the doors open. I know which step on the stairs creaks. And the buzzing, I don't notice it as much. It's in the walls, it's in the air, it's in the glow of shopfronts at night. It's less intrusive now. Almost gentle. Like background radiation. It's just part of how the world hums.

I think that's the part no one ever talks about—how some patterns don't mean anything until you realise you never left them, how stillness starts to look like stability if you don't call it by its name. It's not that I want to go back. It's just that I never really moved forward. I've stayed exactly where I was. Just quieter now. More fluent in waiting.

In Latin, the imperfect tense describes an action that was ongoing but never finished. I liked that. It felt honest, like naming something without needing to change it.

my insta -> malusokay

[malusokay]

back with the videooosssss I missed you guys

insta -> malusokay