postcard from Villa Minozzo
for the slow conversations, the familiar faces, the quiet kindness that turns a small town into something you miss before you even arrive.
Latest
seven
the loudest noise is the one inside your head. i hope you survive all the things you have had to carry alone.
but at what cost?
what doesn't kill you makes you: * lose your innocence * stop trusting anyone * wonder what makes you so unlovable * live in a constant state of survival * question everything you thought you knew * replay all the ways it could have been different * ask yourself if it is worth going on
postcards from Mondim de Basto
soon, i may have to start calling Portugal something closer to home.
small chapters
1. Fishy and her sister came visiting from Saigon, carrying with them a little piece of justice. her sister's rapist been thrown into jail, and somehow, with my help, the world corrected itself by one small inch. it felt like watching the universe return one stolen thing. not
six
note to self: healing can be so hard when your inner child wants love, your teenage self wants revenge, and your adult self only wants peace.
money, money, and money
the version of me in my twenties believed that life had three missions: knowledge, lifestyle, and love. only after growing older did i realize that was not enough. because out in the world, the three words people worship most are money, money, and money. and it is strangely hard to
after the parade
i tried to become a good person. i tried to shrink myself into something your love could keep safe. but here, they turned my pain into a carnival. they paraded me through the streets like a monster they could not kill. and i kept bandaging the same places they had
five
apologies to the ones i left unread, my inbox blown up while i vanished into thin air; i like the idea of being someone's peace- but unfortunately, i am a menace.
the archaeology of us
my beloved, these days, while the brutality of each battle with life got imprinted on your eyes and lips, i desperately tried to grab all the most beautiful memories of my life with all my strength, before everything is washed away in the whirlwind of time. those were also the
a bad pain perdu and a decade
i last seen Laurent at a French bistro in Saigon. i ordered a cocktail, he wanted to try the pain perdu. the forty-five minutes conversation was much about things and people that run in parallels: big corporations, his mother, Parisienne at their finest, someone else's man has became
four
on the days when i am trying to crawl out of alcohol withdrawal symptoms, like right now, i often think of a few lines by Charles Bukowski. "some men never die and some men never live but we're all alive tonight."
the notebook
quick notes at the bar
one reason. that's all they need to cut me down, and they'll do it without blinking. me? i've got twenty thousand, twenty thousand, reasons to burn it all to the ground, and yet here i am, quietly sitting in that corner of the bar,
the notebook
the consequence
the city doesn't love me. maybe it never did. people whisper my name like a curse they're trying not to invoke, or a storm they once survived and fear might come back stronger. they're terrified because i remind them of what they tried to
the notebook
after the last door closes
solitude becomes a habit. then a home. then a coffin. love will rot in my hands if i touch it too long. some days i feel like i'm unraveling into something monstrous. like if i keep staring, something inside me will snap and never return. i want to
the notebook
a room with no witness
in my heart, there is only one wish left: to recover the small parts of who i was. this version of me is no longer bright and untouched. i am scarred, out of place, odd, and still starving myself through days i cannot name. but i still show up. i
the notebook
in the seventeenth year
ba, seventeen years is a lifetime when you are the one left behind. it is enough time for a child to grow into an adult, for memories to fade at the edges, for people to tell me that life goes on. and it does. life goes on. that is the
the pieces
three
sisters, i have accepted the person i was is equally dead. i had the funeral for my old self.
the notebook
borrowed skies
when all the expensive lipsticks in the world can no longer keep you calm, when all the luxury, the bright events, the perfect outfits, the exchange rates with too many zeros, and the direct flights to promised lands still cannot quiet the ache in your chest. and somewhere between those
the pieces
two
imagine hurting me the way you did, and still, even now, i pray to God and bow to Buddha for you, asking that you be safe, find peace, and have the strength to live the life you want.
the pieces
one
i want to earn my own money because i never want money to be the reason i hold on to someone, and i never want money to be the reason i walk away. if you ask me to choose between love and bread, i'd say: give me all
the notebook
a gentle life after the storm
it's been almost half a year since i wrote anything. the last thing i published was about losing myself in love. i was writing from inside the wreckage. then i disappeared and let the storms do what storms do best: wreck, pass, and leave their strange little ruins