For the longest time, my online writing came to a halt. I've been missing having my own space to share my thoughts. While there had been several past attempts at reviving it, Life™ always managed to get in the way. I started a new job, moved to a new city 800km across the country, and finished my M.A. And who could ever forget the Pandemic of 2020? Quite the earth-shaker, that one!

It was not an easy feat, but all I can say is, 2023 will always be a memorable year for me.

There were many more milestones to mention here, but I'm saving that for future blog entries. Stay tuned!

In between the vast spaces have planets and moons explode into life only to disintegrate into nothingness. Only memories, remnants.. possibly even mere musings such as this, serve as proof of their existence.

If we were to peer through the fabric of time, how would we see the universe? Will it be a jumbled mess of events happening simultaneously? Or a tessellation of intricate colors and transformations?

If I were to weave my existence on Earth onto the tapestry of space, which stars and galaxies would I intersect? Will I be able to string words and syllables into the pathways of each star?

My life has always been a cycle of endless churning, only to be interrupted by faceplanting on my bed once burn-out pulls the rug off my feet.

A shiny new project catches my eye. I'm extremely motivated. And no, it's not just a flavor-of-the-week thing. I'd build up a solid routine that would last for months, heck, even a year.

I'm always on the hunt for a mentally stimulating activity to feel fulfilled. Racing against the clock, cramming as many tasks that can fit even 30-second breaks, on a wild goose chase to check off as many items on my list. An escape room sort of life, except I only have myself in my team.

But once in a while, a huge life event comes crashing down, wiping out all the efforts I've made, and I'm back to square one. It's like one of those adrenalin-pumped gaming sessions where you're on the 20th wave of enemies, your controller's just survived a flurry of taps, and then – your console freezes up and you realize your last save was over 3 hours ago. Those moments that pull you back into the real world are suddenly, naggingly, quiet.

All the hobbies I've taken up have seen their lifetimes rapidly shorten. They'd wither out on a trimestrial basis. And when they do, they'd have a difficult time surviving the brunt of deadlines and unplanned life events.

Maybe learning to let go is key.

I'm still learning how to truly relax, since all my life, my idea of relaxing has always been a certain form of brainstorming. Catching up with friends, shopping, and watching movies all have that *time hog* ring to it. Yet are valid ways for me to switch off my dopamine-addled brain for a few hours.

So I tried to look for ways to solve this challenge of "just rolling with the punches".

This weekend, I made a list of things I can do to practice mindfulness:

• Wake up early and do self-care things before the workday starts, such as fixing up a proper breakfast and doing morning stretches.
• Unload my thoughts through daily journaling, as a form of "cache refresh". Declutter my thoughts, instead of polluting my headspace.
• Create more and consume less. Not bog down my mental airways with content that does not directly contribute to my current projects.
• Take a few minutes each day to shut off the external world. No passive activity, such as listening to music in the background, no reading. Just peace and quiet..

Here I sit in a spacious, high-ceiling living room in the heart of Paris, in the home of what used to be the governor of Île-de-France. Paintings housed in ornate, baroque frames adorn the cream-colored paneled walls. A floral carpet is sprawled over the wooden floor. The lady of the house must be fond of lamps, as I can count about 6 in this room alone. There is a worn-out green sofa that can seat 3 people, in what seems to be an art-deco style. It looks faded, with a few seams torn, but one could easily see the grandeur it had back in the day. How many corduroy pants and silk skirts has it seated? How many political debates have transpired and how many cigars have been smoked in this room?

Through the huge window, the night lamps of the 6th arrondissement dot the bluish-pink dusk skies. I put on my coat as I venture out to have dinner.

I'm wondering about the age of this building, of the kind of life its inhabitants led when it was first built. The foyer is modern and has been recently renovated, but the air that hangs in the apartment smells of 20-year stillness. The walls have signs of wear, and years of dust have coated the various furniture, dried bouquets, and chandeliers. The bookshelf in the guestroom reaches up to the ceiling. A set of books about history, art, and foreign culture. A fireplace sits humbly in the middle of the room, hardly noticeable from all the mess. The room is littered with curiosities: coins, busts, figurines, small swords, glass cups, and ashtrays. From what travels and occasions did these trinkets come?

The lady in the house is 91 years old, frail, and delicate, her memory barely hanging on. Old age has slowly stolen her away from enjoying her abode. It might have served as a haven for her for many years, and now she has the privilege of being able to reside in the comforts of her home during her twilight years.

I woke up at 7 am the next morning to have breakfast with her. I had cereal while she had pudding. She was of hard hearing, but thankfully, she still understood what I said. Beneath her wispy hair and tired eyelids, her bright blue eyes remained alert and youthful. It felt sad leaving her alone despite the brief time we spent together and the small chance of her ever remembering me. I no longer remember the address of the place nor the name of the household, but I'm glad to have kept an account to cherish this moment with her.

This has been the scenario since yesterday morning. It has been 2 days since I got back home from my jam-packed trip in Lisbon, yet I feel like I'm still stuck in the seat of my plane, mindlessly watching the clouds through the window. I've been staring at my terminal, watching my compiler spit out lines of code nonstop for 5 minutes. That suspense of a thick chunk of a monolithic glacier falling off and crashing into the ocean has been hounding me all afternoon.

There is something about the monotonously gray skies, sleepy winds, and endless rains that wash the life off of people. Does it have something to do with the cold sucking out the warmth from their brains? Oh, the dread of leaving the confines of a well-heated room when the morning is early and the rains are pouring. One-off, it's a slight inconvenience. But experiencing this over a longer period of time seems to cause long-term effects on one's moods, and a general grumpiness seems to spread over the populace.

As a girl from the tropics, I am only equipped to combat the heat with remedies such as iced teas, electric fans, and thrice-a-day showers. But I'm slowly building my artillery with layered clothing, hot soups, and warm baths.

I believe they're wonderful, artistic pieces of machinery, having been portrayed in films, literature, and paintings as objects holding a lot of mystery. The mechanisms that lie underneath the face of the clock: the tiny gears and rods and springs that turn and click, how a unit of time is marked by the cuckoo jumping out of a wooden door, the tolling of a bell, the turning of the hourglass, or the winding of the gears. There seems to be this fascinating tiny universe that exists within.