shinimomorou

[shinimomorou]

[shinimomorou]

[shinimomorou]

The Private Beaches Of Jamaica

 Long ago, when times were equal, Jamaica’s beaches were once a place of freedom. Families could gather and enjoy the ocean, venturing about the shorelines and swimming to their hearts' content without having to pull a note from their pockets. The ocean's embrace never came with a cost. How times have changed. And unfortunately, it will remain this way as long as the tourism industry is considered more important than our own people. 

     Tourism, the fuel driving our country’s economic engine, is both a blessing and curse. It attracts many to our renowned white sandy beaches but somehow also transforms these public treasures an all-inclusive playground for just our visitors. What was once open for all has now has entrances filled with barbed-wire fences labelled “Private Beach” and security guards who watch your every move. The beaches that you’ve known and loved for years, and are certain will be free forever? Be prepared to pay a fee- that’s if you're even given access. Don’t believe me? One day, maybe not now, you’ll go there to relax, and there's a huge steel chain wrapped around a newly built gate and a long hand outstretched to take your money in exchange for a wristband. Ridiculous.

     The commercialization of Jamaica’s coastline is nothing new, but it’s becoming so difficult to ignore. Beaches were more of an equal opportunity for all, including our locals. Venders, fishermen, cooks and craftsmen would draw crowds of locals and tourists alike. Now, it is nothing more than a selfish business that thrives on the practice of exclusion. And the effects ripple far beyond inconvenience, threatening these people who also benefit from tourism to support their livelihood. 

   But the saddest loss of all has to be cultural. The beach that once felt like a birthright is now slipping away from under us. Beaches aren’t just a tourist hotspot; they’re our identity. It’s the place where most of us were tossed in at a young age to learn to swim by our fathers. Where we go to celebrate and unwind with family and friends. Where we go to buy some fish from the local fisherman you’ve known for years. Therefore, to deny us access is to deny a core piece of who we are.  And we’re left wondering why our culture and our people always end up being at the bottom of the priority list, but instead are sacrificed to sustain these industries that often forget us. And yet, it seems we’ve grown used to this theft. We shrug as resorts creep further onto the coastline, as though the loss is meant to be.

  But it doesn’t have to be this way. I’ve been to a few beaches, such as Winifred Beach, which are free to both locals and tourists but are still visibly thriving. This shows that the ability to ensure that more of these beaches remain free to the public is possible with enough effort and resistance against corporate greed that’s become a parasite to our beaches. Jamaica’s beaches belong to all our people, not just the few who can afford them. We need to come together and advocate for a change before more of our beaches begin to slip behind gates and fences, lost to us forever.

[shinimomorou]

From Jonkanoo To Jingle Bells 

https://www.sharonfoxart.com/shop/ -Link to the artist's other paintings

   Jonkanoo, a word that used to mean something. Now, it's just an experience that we can only live through our parents’ hazy childhood memories. Always resembling a strange folk tale that’s told just for the sake of retelling it. Pitchy Patchy and the rest of the characters running and dancing wildly all over the streets on Christmas. Creating a blur of bright strips of colours as they create mischief. Children giggling and screaming when the performers got too close. And the hypnotic beat of the drum pulsating within you, tempting you to dance along.

I didn’t know if I could believe my mother’s story until I started studying History in primary school. Then we had to reenact the Jonkanoo with our barely accurate costumes, not for the significance of culture, but just so that our skit would get a decent grade. Then it was goodbye to our ripped-up cloths and makeshift masks, immediately dumping them in the garbage without a second thought. Much like the tradition itself. Trashed and forgotten. But why has Jonkanoo become a thing of the past? Why have we made it a thing of the past? Surely, there can’t be any justification good enough for its abandonment. We traded Jonkanoo to Jingle Bells in a heartbeat, and all for a fat chubby man that “sees us when we’re sleeping and knows when we’re awake”. And sure, I enjoy Christmas just as much as the next person. But why must it come at the cost of our culture? Therefore, the question I wish to explore is, how did Christmas come to dominate what was once a loved tradition, silencing Jonkanoo forever?

    Jonkanoo traces its origins to the 18th century, born out of the residence of the enslaved Africans in Jamaica. It became a celebration of identity, which they were given permission to celebrate only on Christmas. Performers donned vibrant costumes, representning iconic characters such as Pitchy-Patchy, Horsehead and Devil, all while energetic music poured from goatskin drums and cowbell. It wasn't just a festival, but it also became a spectacle of unity,  cultural expression and defiance. A living testament of our traditions and the creativity of our ancestors. But as Jamaica modernized, so did our tastes for traditions. So while Christmas grew into a monster, being fed by its parent consumerism, Junkanoo barely managed to maintain its relevance, eventually having to be satisfied with only being spotted in the images of our History textbooks.

 For many Jamaicans, Jonkanoo's decline is indicative of how much of our culture is slipping away from us. “At this rate, we'll have nothing to offer the future”, says Lexi Smith, a college student. “Our traditions are meant to be shared and practiced”. Others, however, see the shift as a sort of evolution that has happened for the better. “Jonkanoo isn't very Christian anyways”, says Miss Tate. “Christmas brings families together and carries a much better message than Jonkanoo. I'm quite fine if it doesn't come back”. 

     Ultimately, I don't think we have to choose between Jonkanoo and Christmas, but rather, there should be efforts to revive Jonkanoo and find a way for both to coexist. I mean, just imagine a Christmas where we integrated the vibrant energy of Jonkanoo with the warmth and generosity of Christmas. And the sad part is,  making this a reality isn't dependent on the difficulty to plan such an event, but rather, how much we care to execute it. Thus, as Christmas continues to dominate, as Jamaicans, we must decide whether we should let another tradition slip out of our grasp and create further cracks in our culture. Jonkanoo may have been silenced, but its spirit still lingers somewhere where we left it, along with the costumes and the masks that all call out to its people. The question is: How long will it take us to answer the call?

[shinimomorou]

A Cat Lady's Reflection

A soul is understood as the very essence of our being and a separate entity from the body that it inhabits.  I picture it as a second heart that pulses life into the body; without it, we'd be nothing more than a hollow vessel. Eternal and uniquely crafted for each human being, kind of like a dish with specific proportions and seasonings. Some people's dishes are bold and drowning in spices, whilst others might have their plates overflowing with stacks of desserts and candy. I'd like to imagine that the worst of us have dishes that are completely inedible. Thankfully, instead of my weird interpretation, the soul is more traditionally depicted as a delicate but radiant orb of light shining from within us. I can’t say I’ve ever seen one for myself, but my mother has always said the closest glimpse you'll ever get is by peering into the eyes. However, does this concept of a soul extend beyond humans? Could animals, specifically cats, possess souls as well?

      Although I am an animal person, I've had a particularly special relationship with cats growing up. From a young age, I grew accustomed to caring for cats, whether they were strays or one of our own. Eventually, when I was in high school, I became the go-to person for raising the kittens who were picked up from who knows where, some only a few days old with the umbilical cords still intact.  I would stay up late responding to the cries of kittens who reminded me with their sharp, obnoxious cries that they needed to be fed or assisted to use the bathroom. Once they settled down, the silence would be broken in the next few hours with their insistent demand for the cycle to be repeated. 

Claiming that it was exhausting would be an understatement, but watching them grow into adults made it all worthwhile. You'd begin to see unique traits and personalities develop in each cat.  Each kitten had their own essence,  or flavour if you relate to my strange analogy of souls. Similarly to humans, I also realized that they displayed moments of happiness, resentment, and even grief. When I'd peer into their eyes, I felt like, for a moment, I was glimpsing into something deeper. A soul, perhaps? Maybe the question of whether animals possess souls is less about proving their essence and instead focuses on our connection to them. If a soul is the spark that gives our life meaning and individuality, then maybe the joy and comfort that animals offer are proof of something profound. Maybe it's this connection that gives this difficult question its true significance. 

[shinimomorou]

Young, Wild, Frightened And Figuring It Out .⋆⁺₊✧

   “Your 20s will be the best moments of your life”. That’s what they say, right? That magical phase in your life where you're supposedly at your prime. Young, wild and free. You've earned the title of adult, but you're still young enough to make reckless decisions without worrying about the consequences because you’re “still learning”. Most importantly, according to the older adults, you're free. 

      Sometimes, I wonder how much truth that statement holds.  So far, my 20s have been the most confusing moments of my life. And while we’re still on the topic of freedom, I can't say I've ever felt it. Just that familiar feeling of invisible shackles grazing against my wrists, reminding me that I've got something to complete. And someone's expectations to fulfill. If this is truly freedom, then it came with a side of chaos and a tall glass of existential dread to wash it all down. 

        My 20s feel like less of a rom-com and more like the midseason of a really bad soap opera. The kind of episode where the main character visits the therapist,  a middle-aged man smoking away on a pipe. And in between his intellectual puffs and smugness, he leans forward and asks, “Who are you?” And the main character, completely shaken by this question, makes a dash for the rain in search of this answer that they won't find till another fifteen episodes. Because that’s just how soap operas are. Reality, however, has started to feel like one, too.  And I know I’m not the only one stuck in this awkward limbo. A lot of young people forget just how young they are and how much time they have to figure out who they are. It's the only thing they think about. If they can't figure out what to do with their lives now, then it's over. 

          I find myself trapped in this mentality at times. It feels like a ticking time bomb looming over my head, telling me I need to figure it all out before the numbers run out. I look at my peers who are publishing books, creating art, getting married, having kids, making money, securing big jobs, or just thriving. And every time, I feel an overwhelming feeling washing over me. Not jealousy, but something worse. A combination of other emotions that have begun to feel so familiar now. Uncertainty, doubt, shame, hopelessness. And above all fear. Fear of choosing the wrong path. Fear of not knowing what the right path is. Fear that no matter what I do, I’m falling behind in a race I didn't even sign up for. Am I just another extra runner keeping a lane warm for the real contenders? And what will I see at the finish line?

         I’ve spent nights looking at the white ceiling in my room, worrying about my future. Hoping that maybe texts will magically form on that blank canvas above me and reveal who I’m meant to be. But it doesn’t. Instead, I wake up the next day, put one foot in front of the other and do the best that I can. Sometimes, that’s all you’re able to do. I think that while my 20s may not be the best years,  when I’m older, I’ll be able to look back at those years, not in admiration but in respect.

These messy, weird, work-in-progress are confusing and lonely at times. But it’s also filled with moments that humble you and fill you with growth and life lessons that your parents couldn’t prepare you for. These years aren’t about living your best life. They're about learning about yourself and how you’re destined to navigate life’s obstacles. So, no, I don’t feel free. At least, not yet. But if this happens to be the messy part of my story, then that’s okay. Every great story needs a little bit of bad because the best parts always reveal themselves after the struggle’s over.

[shinimomorou]

. Winifred's Gentle Therapy

. ‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

 

Coming from Negril, where having the means to easily access a beach by simply crossing the road made living in Kingston feel incredibly inconvenient. Suffocating even. Back at home, if I wished to relax from the week’s load of stress that dragged at me, I could simply slip away to the beach and unpack it all there. Then I would return home, practically floating with a sense of lightness on the journey back, while the waves behind me would carry my aches away to wherever they saw fit. Maybe the same place where all the tourists’ missing jewelry ends up. Anyways, I was stuck in my college dorm, dreading the day as I usually do, when I saw a flyer for a beach trip to Portland’s Winifred Beach.

You can imagine how excited I was. Finally! A real body of water that I  actually can swim in! And you might be wondering- Isn’t there a pool nearby? That counts as a body of water, doesn’t it? Technically yes.  But between the crowded adult swim clubs, the kiddie lessons and the lifeguard training drills, the pool felt less like a pool and just straight up congested. Like a glorified puddle that everyone was scrambling desperately to make use of. And let’s not even talk about the chlorine that does my hair no favors.

The morning of the trip, I overslept. However, my panic gradually quelled as I realized I wasn’t the only one. More than a handful of students had woken up late, so thankfully, the buses were willing to wait, and soon enough, we were on our way. The ride, as expected, was nothing but bumpy. The road was decorated with potholes that scattered themselves chaotically throughout the barely durable asphalt, rocking the bus occasionally and jolting us in our seats. Nonetheless, the ride was still relaxing as I could take in the beautiful scenery as we drifted from parish to parish. I was one of the lucky window seaters, so I didn’t have to strain my neck like the others to see the outside as we sped by.

And as we drove deeper into Portland, the air began to feel so familiar. The sight of palm trees and lush greenery pressing against one another felt like a breath of fresh air after months of concrete, traffic lights and tall, shiny buildings that reflected the hot sun right onto your forehead. My anticipation meter was building up with every passing mile that I’d glanced at the Maps app on my phone and realized we were getting closer. By the time we finally arrived, I was practically intoxicated with the excitement that had been bubbling inside of me.

Stepping onto the sand felt like I was stepping back into someone I had left back at home. The sun was high, casting tiny lights on the ripples that sparkled like gems against the green-blue gradient of the water. I felt like I was being beckoned, and I didn’t hesitate to answer the ocean’s call. I quickly but carefully placed my things away, and within minutes, I was already floating on my back in the water with my face towards the sky in contentment. It was everything I imagined it would be. Warm, comforting and a little rough. Just enough to carry me about as I floated past my friends, all of which tried to mimic me but failed.

For hours, I let myself exist there- swimming, laughing, and even catching tiny fish and crabs that my friends and I found hiding close to the shore, which we later released. Eventually, the sun began to sink, painting the sky with its departure of fiery oranges and soft pinks that melted into the clouds. It was time for our departure too. Though it pained me to leave, I realized just how much I needed this. How long it’s been since I felt this empty of worry and negativity. It was so freeing. Eventually, we packed up and boarded the bus, our bodies riddled with sand, sunburn and exhaustion, but our spirits light.

And as I began to nod off to sleep with the rest of the slumbering bus, I leaned my head against the cold window in silent gratitude as the coastline began to fade away. I caught a last glimpse of the tides pushing their waves onto the shore and pulling all our burdens closer and closer to the horizon till it was out of sight. Though I knew I’d wake up back in the city in my tiny dorm, the ocean had done its work. I finally closed my eyes and rested while the bus carried us all back to Kingston.

[shinimomorou]

. In Defense Of Arachnids

. ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

 

I believe spiders are the most misunderstood of all insects. I’ve never understood why they are so widely feared when in my opinion, there are far more terrifying creatures that are more deserving of such a level of fear. Compared to other insects, spiders- those tiny black dots latched onto the corner of your ceiling that you have to squint to notice, seem rather harmless. In fact, all it takes is a slight nudge with your hand at their fragile frame, and you’ve killed it. Poor spiders. But maybe I can say this because I am incredibly biased. 

Spiders have always been my favorite insects for as long as I can remember. There’s something strangely beautiful about them. The way they move with such elegance,  stretching four slender legs after the others. I often pause to watch the daddy-longlegs spider that passes by my desk, mesmerized by its graceful motions. And the webs that they weave are intricate, delicate yet sturdy designs that never fail to amaze me.

I’d recommend anyone to take some time out of their day to watch a spider build a web. As someone who loves to draw, I’ve always envied how quick they are at their craft, with every pattern being woven to perfection every single time. And might I just add how useful they are. People are so scared of them that they fail to notice how lovely it is to keep a arachnid quietly stationed somewhere in the corner of your room. More than once, there were days when, in a state of boredom, I’d glance at the ceiling to find that an eight-legged friend of mine had trapped a fat mosquito or even a wasp that decided to squeeze its way into my room. My mother once told me the reason why she no longer has termite issues is because a spider caught them all in its web, which it built right in front of their nesting place. Very useful indeed.

I’ve even had the privilege of witnessing the process firsthand. The desperate insect wriggles against the silk in an attempt to escape, while the spider swiftly emerges and begins to weave its prey in a silky thread around the insect until it finally falls still. And if you think about it, wrapping your prey in a silky blanket before you eat it has to be the most respectful way I’ve heard an insect has treated its victims. So, maybe think twice before you get your broom to sweep away the spider from your room. Perhaps if more people took the time to really observe spiders rather than immediately recoil in fear, they’d see them for what they truly are. Graceful, efficient and oddly mesmerizing creatures. I, for one, am glad to share my space with them.

[shinimomorou]

It's Missing A Cup Of Love ˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

  Food really is love. But the thought had never etched itself so tightly in my mind until I left my home in Negril to become a college student in Kingston. It’s my third year now, and I’ve tried everything there is to eat within and beyond the campus gates: Indian, Italian, Chinese, Thai, Nigerian, Lebanese, Mexican, Japanese, Jamaican. You name a dish, and there’s a good chance I’ve probably eaten it before. And sure, the food is good. It always is. But lately, it’s become clearer to me that I wasn’t just eating with the intention of filling my stomach. I was searching for something deeper. The flavor of home that I missed so much.

I wanted to be back in Negril where fish is reeled in straight from the beach, wrapped in foil and tossed over a small fire to be steamed and served with crackers.  Where food wasn’t a matter of cost, but a matter of which family member has it to share with you. And sharing is never an issue because they know that their contribution is always returned with an oversized plate my parents send me to deliver, watching nervously from the steps as I  barely manage to balance the big plate in my small hands. Where Sunday meals were cooked outside by my mother, who fanned at the coal stove while she called for someone to pass her the pimentos she kept in a jar in the cabinet. And she’d pull me close to her because she wanted me to see exactly how she made the food, but I was always too distracted by those pimentos that bobbed around like little buoys in a great ocean of hot, bubbling gravy.

I was never going to find even a shred of that same love here in Kingston. As the years went by, the junk food became more soulless, box-food portions shrank, and I could no longer afford the decent takeout.  And don’t get me wrong, I can provide for myself. I consider myself quite the double threat who can cook and bake quite well. My mother says I was also blessed with the very same ‘sweet hands’ that she said were passed down to her from my great-grandmother Violet. But, whenever I cook in my dorm’s cramped, grimy kitchen,  I can never recreate the warmth of home. Even if I try the recipe exactly how my mother would make it, something is always incomplete.

Well, of course it would be. There’s  no gospel music or  Sanchez playlist blaring in the background. I can’t go waltzing barefoot throughout the kitchen, opening up drawers and recycled glass jars for seasonings while humming along to the music. There’s no sister to scrunch her nose disapprovingly over the stove and point at which piece of the chicken I should and shouldn’t give her until our bickering is loud enough to drown out the simmering pot. No mother to glide into the kitchen, her strong but comforting scent of eucalyptus oil trailing behind her, reminding me to make sure I add more salt. And no father nodding off to football on the TV,  barely managing to tell me to share a plate for him before drifting off completely, and like always I’d save the leftovers for him the next morning.

Here, it’s just me and an incredibly dirty kitchen at 3 a.m. With cockroaches, who are the only ones awake and interested in my food, but for the wrong reasons. And an old creaky staircase that carries me to a single room, that I was so proud to finally have, until I began to feel its emptiness. It is here that I’ll sit in silence, with only the posters and decorations and led lights and fake plants I plastered around my walls to keep me company and watch me eat. Except I can never tell them how it tastes or what I will do to the chicken next time to make it taste better. Because they’ll never ask. They simply exist, as quiet as the room itself.

Every few months, though, my father collects me in his car, where he and I endure a grueling five-hour journey across the island. But the nausea and pins and needles in my legs all melt away when I find myself at the familiar coastline of Negril. Because I know that it is here that I’ll find food that tastes like love again.

[shinimomorou]

Beneath Your Halo .·✩

-My attempt at writing a lyrical essay  

Oh Angel, won't you lock eyes with me? My chest flutters to my throat when you float near me. Your light shatters the dark inside me. So why then, does my heart clench itself when you land too close? Why do tears threaten to spill when your shadow soars right over me? I can’t help but avert my gaze, for fear that your radiance will burn right through my flesh. I think I love you. I ache to mirror, even a shred of your divinity and grace. And your voice. That honeyed tongue, that rains sweet melodies from the clouds, seeping into the hearts of all who listen. Won’t you lend me your halo, just for a moment? Your presence is like a hymn. So healing. But yet- it sickens me. Poisons me. But no,  I don’t loathe you. I can’t. Because I need you. Please don’t fly away. You are perfection. A  mirror which reflects all my faults unto me. Yet you’re the one carrying all my dreams, so neatly tucked under your wings. You’re glorious, untouchable even. And I… am undeserving of you. Oh, Angel. Why won’t you love me?

[shinimomorou]

A Hundred Dollar Lesson

-Negril All Age School It happened when I was in primary school. I think I’d probably be in grade two or three at the time.  During the lunch break, I found a hundred-dollar note on the ground. Laying hidden between two of the cold steel chairs in the empty classroom. I only recognized it because my eyes caught the portion of Donald Sangster’s face which peeked out, like a cry for help under his serious expression. I dare not defy one of the country’s Prime ministers, so without a second thought, I snatched Mr. Sangster and stuffed him in my uniform pocket. At the time I didn’t consider the fact that the money could belong to someone else and what I was doing would be considered stealing. Rather,  I thought that maybe God had purposefully dropped the money out of someone’s pockets just for me so I could get another sandwich. Surely he knew how much I loved eating the sandwiches that Miss Salomi sold. That was kind of how I thought God worked miracles at the time. Without a second thought to properly address my consciousness about the matter, I sped over to Miss Salomi’s stall and purchased another sandwich. This was now my second one for the day and every bite was twice as delicious as the first.  When I returned to the class full and satisfied, I found one of my friends crying right at the seat where I had taken up the money. It was Logan and he asked me between his tears and mucus-filled sniffs if I had seen his money. A hundred-dollar bill he’d dropped earlier that day when he went out to play for lunch. I obviously said no. He continued to look helpless and suddenly I began to feel a twinge of guilt begin to prick at my round belly.  But I didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t make sense anyway because I had already traded it for the sandwich that was now lying in my belly. I realized the best way to help and more importantly, ease my guilt,  was to make up for my wrongdoings. So I offered to help him look for the money. We spent the next hour scouring the entire schoolyard, the bathrooms and even parting the bushes and plants away to find what I knew wouldn't be there. Searching and asking other students as genuinely as I could if they had seen Logan’s hundred dollars. Nothing.         In the end, we didn’t find the money, but I could sense that Logan was beginning to feel less upset about the matter and eventually he gave up on his search. He even thanked me, calling me one of his best friends. His kind words stung and the sandwich in my stomach was beginning to make my belly uneasy. For the first time, I understood that performing good deeds isn't the cure-all to these feelings of guilt. I had tried to undo my mistake by helping Logan, but the truth was the mistake was never undone because I had swallowed the evidence.       That day taught me two things: one, that guilt is heavier than a hundred-dollar bill, and two, that honesty has a way of catching up with you, no matter how small the lie. Even now, whenever I think about Logan’s face or bite into a sandwich, I’m reminded of the cost of that fleeting pleasure. It’s a lesson I carry with me, as crisp and clear as the hundred-dollar note I found on the floor that day.

[shinimomorou]

The Bitter Aftertaste Of Life (,,>﹏<,,)

 

The first time I tried ice cream was also the day I discovered my dislike for chocolate. It was a Friday afternoon, and my father had just returned from work. Fridays were always something to look forward to because they always came with surprises- delicious treats my father brought home for the family to share. Sometimes, it was something extravagant, like the red velvet cakes from the plaza downtown. Rich, moist layers laced with thick, decadent cream cheese. On other days, it would be simpler, like a jackfruit that my mother would split open with a knife, roasting the seeds over the coal stove before we divided the sweet, fragrant pieces amongst ourselves.          On this particular evening, I found myself outside, sprawled in my grandfather’s hammock, pretending to be fascinated by the palm trees that rustled quietly above me in soft whispers. I leapt up the moment I heard the sound of jingling keys and the long creak of the old wooden gate, followed by its abrupt slam, announcing someone's arrival. It was him! This was followed by the squeaks of his black, dusty boots, which shuffled noisily onto the verandah. I dashed towards the house, trailing closely behind my father's long legs that stretched with ease into the kitchen. My mother, who often scolded my father for ruining her freshly wiped floor, stayed silent. Or rather, her curiosity was outweighed by the part of her brain that reminded her to look down and notice the dirt tracks her eyes were always so quick to point out. She too, followed behind my father, her eyes fixed on the mystery container he clutched near his waist. My father, whose stoic nature rarely broke, had a soft curve etched on the corner of his lips. Even though I was young, I could always sense his quiet pride, secretly enjoying the attention he received through his role as the bringer of delight, even if he wouldn't admit it. Amongst the suspense, my father peeled back the lid of the container to reveal a smooth chocolate-brown surface. You could see wisps of cold steam rising from it if you squinted your eyes just right. “Chocolate ice cream”, he called it, while reaching for a spoon from the pantry.         My 5-year-old palate was accustomed to receiving sweet treats every now and then, which were carefully rationed to me by my mother to ensure I didn't “spoil my teeth”. This though, was something new, and I was bubbling over with excitement. I placed the cold metal spoon of ice cream in my mouth, swirling my tongue in curiosity to explore the flavour. I expected it to be the kind of sweet that tingles the inside of your cheeks like when you're eating a tamarind sweetie. The kind of sweet that was so nice that you let it linger on your tongue till the taste faded out on its own. But I was met with something else. At first, it was sweet, just as I had envisioned. However, the initial sweetness quickly dissolved into a harsh and bitter taste that stung my cheeks and shocked my senses. This complexity frightened my poor taste buds, who advised me to refrain from taking another bite. My parents, however, found amusement in the face I made, which I imagined was a mixture of disgust and betrayal.      That moment stayed with me, not just because I discovered something new about myself but because it taught me a lesson. It was my first encounter with the idea that sweetness can be deceiving. Life, much like that spoon of chocolate ice cream, doesn't always give you what you expect. And when it does, the sweet moments will pass by so quickly that you'll miss it if you blink. No time to truly savour it the way you'd want to. The bitterness that follows, however, lingers longer than you'd like it to, leaving a taste in your mouth so strong that no amount of scrubbing can remove it. It makes you wonder if the pursuit of just a spoonful of sweetness is even worth it in the first place.