Cosy

As much as I’d like to think ‘cozy’ or ‘cosy’ (because not all of us adhere to American spelling) resembles plush cushions, a hot cup of tea, and snuggling to a new episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, recently it hasn’t been like that.

Cosy is wearing a long-sleeved jumper and having a cheap IKEA cushion in my arms while I type away on my laptop in the cold, unforgiving office air-cond.

Cosy is being able to smell the artificial lemon scent courtesy of the cleaning lady that comes every Friday.

Cosy is plugging in my earphones and listening to droning, melancholic post-rock during lunch time.

As 2018 draws nearer, I can feel the exhaustion of 2017 setting in. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed by everything that has happened and it seems like work is the only thing suppressing those thoughts. Perhaps I’ll be able to face my discomfort during the weekend.

I’ll probably sit and contemplate what 2018 will bring me – or what I will bring to the new year, since one of the biggest takeaways I’ve learned is that you can never expect things to just happen to you.

More so, I will think about past relationships, friendship shifts, uncanny encounters, piety and where I stand in the spectrum, and so many more I can hardly stop myself from squirming in agony.

But for now, I’ll settle with being cosy at work.

PS post-rock playlist here. It’s not all post-rock, nor is it all droning and melancholic. But it’s good shit. đŸ™‚

via Daily Prompt: Cozy

 

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Can You Repeat The Question?

Passive.

The “yes but…”s and “maybe”s, the sputter of weak, half-assed agreement that rolls off your tongue, obscuring your genuine thoughts.

The sorries that stumble out from muscle memory, by sheer exasperation, too weak to leave.

Petty words by a petty thing.

But why?

Perhaps it is from fast-paced conversations, your replies washed away by the natters and laughter from quick-witted one-liners you wish you’d have thought up.

Or perhaps it’s merely from the lack of interest – Whatever you say.

Or. Perhaps you don’t know yet. Perhaps the extra five minutes you spend trying to construct the perfect joint makes your mind wander – idly twining words past spoken to people. Fragments of conversations stick, bits and pieces of keywords failing to form coherent sentences.

 

“Yes, no…. maybe. I don’t know.”

 

Sniff

There was a potion in Harry Potter called Amortentia. A love potion, whose scent responds differently according to what attracts an individual the most.

I’ve always wondered what it would smell like to me.

Perhaps it would be petrichor in the morning, mixed with a steady breeze wafting scented greens in the air. Nostalgia. I am reminded of my childhood.

Or the smell of a bookstore; a heady, sweet, woody scent that hits your nose immediately upon entering. It always motivates me to write or draw for some reason, like a trigger to crank my creativity shaft.

Or maybe the strong scent of my favourite perfume; the sharp sting of basil mixed together with fresh patchouli and sweet ylang-ylang, it reminds me of my mother, how her admirable strength and nurturing soul has shaped me into becoming who I am today.

I would give a thousand galleons to be able to understand why certain smells evoke certain emotions. The correlation is fascinating and one should savour them, when they come.

Sigh. I love me some good smells.