love
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Reflections on awareness, connection, and the strange tenderness of being alive. Quite honestly, I would feel better writing as if I were talking to a very small group of people who actually want to change their lives, or people who are more aware of themselves than others. This almost feels like a diary to myself.
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The slippers are still by the bed. The walker is still at the foot of it, waiting for a hand that won’t touch it again. Everything is exactly as she left it the night before. A few weeks ago, my grandmother, my last living grandparent, passed away in her sleep, peacefully. It was both expected
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I’ve always felt like I listened to people way too much, but I never fully realized how much until I finally stopped. Not everyone—just most people. Why? Because most people don’t have what I want, so why would I continue taking advice from them? Sounds harsh, I know. But think about it. Over the years,
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As I near my 35th birthday, I’m reminded that being in your 30s is vastly different from previous generations. Looking back at old pictures of our parents we notice they look much older and more mature than people in their 30s today. With the advancement of technology and medicine we’re living longer, healthier, and more
Sumit's Inkwell 