My mother’s menthol cigarette smoke tinges my memories tobacco-sticky. I remember watching her smoke at campsites deep in New York forest, thinking how glamorous it seemed, the tinge of blue evening entering into the white smoke as it swirled like silk in the air. My brother and I spent our time on these camping trips pretending rotting stumps were battlegrounds for our action figures. One of my best friends couldn’t stand menthols, didn’t understand my nostalgia for them. Wh

My backyard was home to a ginormous fig tree. The kind that’s there before you were born. Every year it blossomed and my family indulged in the sweet flesh of ripening figs. When I had just started high school, and I chose between friends and clubs as if they were something you could limit, I came home and was given a new chore; cleaning up the fallen figs. There was something interestingly upsetting about washing them away — Knowing the saccharine fruit would never meet its

It’s christmas time and sadness, my old and sweet friend came to visit me once again. The end of the year and it’s quickly approaching and I want to know what I did this year. But, besides trying, I don't know what else to say. I just been writing and writing like nothing in the world matters but the words on a paper. To make a movie, to write an article, to write a book. The need for something that comes out of me to exist, to live outside my head. The proof that I haven’t

To begin with, I explain that Realism as the Foundation of Modern Politics in International Relations (Machiavelli, Thomas Hobbes, Morgenthau) emphasises the following assumptions: Politics is governed by objective laws rooted in human nature itself; Politics is a concept of Interest expressed in the form of power; and The concept of interest does not mean expressed in the form of power that is fixed and once and for all. Realists argue that with regard to war and confli

1. Bottle-Green When you were young you had a bottle-green velvet dress. Like all things, you loved it to shreds. You remember your clothes, you remember—the oversized leather jacket you wore all summer, the red boots you wore year-round to school and everywhere else. It’s hard, trying to remember the rest. Cloudy skies. Last night you were kept up late trying to remember details about your childhood sweetheart. The one who died last year: September, motorcycle accident. Yo

Frost prints the windowpanes in little cats-feet. A crawl towards October hills, yet rooted in place. Dewdrops drooping flowers; the last cusp of honeysuckle twisted into weaving stalks. A hollow reminder of the dreary-cold— come and gone before noon showers. He stamped regret by the stairwell. Black ink sealing where locks couldn't reach. Ever-stilled, wrapped crescent stitch, statued upon Silicon Valley. An image captured across racing trains— come and gone amongst the crow

I’ve been overthinking (big surprise there) about human relationships, about my human relationships. About how I interact with others, how I don’t. How much I am. How little I am. How hard it’s to be around a person who tries but can never phantom to say the word “sorry”. How difficult it’s to love me. How you must slay a dragon and destroy a whole city to get to know me. How little of my real person I show. How little of me I know. How you must fight your way into my word an

1. Forest College life. Surrounded on all sides by trees, leafy greens. In the mornings it’s a comfort, in the nights the long aching branches become something other. Unwieldy forest creatures, skittish travelling through the brush. The leaves have begun to turn in earnest now, from greens to warm tones. The leaves, too, have begun to fall, leaving their homes on the branches and dancing to the ground. They leave the branches childfree and careless, crashing together with gre

An article. Have you ever felt like you’re not fulfilling yourself enough? Do you realise that eating healthy and nutritious food gives...