prodigalwriter

[prodigalwriter]

a reminder

[prodigalwriter]

i didn’t do much today …

[prodigalwriter]

An Existential Reflection

Birthdays—what once felt like the most exciting days of my life—have now become strange, almost surreal milestones. I can remember as a kid, counting down the days, imagining cakes, candles, and presents, surrounded by laughter and joy. Back then, birthdays were magical. They were a celebration of existence, a moment where the world felt like it revolved around me. Now? Now they feel like an annual reminder that time is slipping through my fingers faster than I can comprehend.

As I’ve grown older, the magic has been replaced by a strange concoction of dread and self-reflection. Each passing year feels less like a celebration and more like an interrogation. What have I accomplished? Am I where I thought I’d be? Have I even done enough to justify the cake? These questions creep in, uninvited, casting shadows over what should be a day of joy. Birthdays now seem less about being celebrated and more about surviving another lap around the sun.

Of course, I’m fully aware of the irony here. These thoughts—this existential angst—are a luxury. The mere fact that I can sit here, moping about my own existence, is a privilege. Somewhere out there, someone is just trying to survive another day. Someone doesn’t get the luxury of pondering their purpose because they’re too busy fighting for their next meal or their safety. And yet, knowing this doesn’t make it easier to shake the weight of these thoughts. If anything, it adds a layer of guilt to the entire experience. How dare I feel this way when others would give anything to have what I do?

It’s a contradiction I’ve yet to reconcile. On one hand, birthdays have become a quiet reckoning—a moment where I hold myself accountable for all the ways I’ve fallen short. On the other hand, I know deep down that this self-imposed melancholy serves no real purpose. No one else is sitting there, tallying up my wins and losses. No one else is scrutinizing my life as harshly as I do on these days. The pressure is entirely internal, born from my own expectations and the societal narratives that tell us we need to have everything figured out by a certain age.

But here’s the thing I’m slowly starting to realize: this melancholic spiral is part of being human. Birthdays, for better or worse, force us to pause. They’re a checkpoint—a chance to take stock of where we are and where we’re headed. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Sure, the self-reflection can be brutal, but it’s also an opportunity to recalibrate, to remind myself that it’s okay to not have all the answers.

The truth is, we’re all just figuring it out as we go. Every single one of us is carrying some level of uncertainty, some fear of failure, some question we can’t quite answer. Birthdays don’t create these feelings—they just bring them to the surface. And maybe that’s their purpose. Maybe they’re not about the cake or the presents or the candles. Maybe they’re about acknowledging that we’re still here, still trying, still moving forward despite the struggles and doubts.

So, while I may not have the same childlike excitement for birthdays anymore, I’m learning to appreciate them in a different way. They’re not just about celebrating another year of life—they’re about recognizing the journey, the progress, and yes, even the setbacks. Because at the end of the day, surviving and growing in this messy, unpredictable world is worth acknowledging. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

[prodigalwriter]

Hm? What is it? You’re eager. Well, we haven’t done this in a while.

[prodigalwriter]

Even if we can’t get married, I will always be by your side. So please don’t worry. Thank you.

[prodigalwriter]

Are you asleep? Hmm?

[prodigalwriter]

love is stored in the pen & paper: poems

being boring, wendy cope

intifada incantation: poem #8 for b. b. L., june jordan

thursday, james longenback

history student falls in love with astrophysics student, keaton st. james

the demon, mikhail lermontov

four friends catch up over pasta, amy kay

sonnet 18: shall i compare thee to a summer's day, william shakespeare

litany in which certain things are crossed out, richard siken

the eyes of the poor, charles baudelaire

stop me if you've heard this one before, kaveh akbar

conversation with a rock, wisława szymborska

the joy of writing, wisława szymborska

can in an empty apartment, wisława szymborska

blind fish, yusuf komunyakaa

the crane, javier peñalosa m.

train to agra, vandana khanna

landscape with a blur of conquerors, richard siken

warming her pearls, carol ann duffy 

what resembles the grave but isn't, anne boyer

what the living do, marie howe

gretel, from a sudden clearing, marie howe

death with dignity, kaylee young-eun jeong

keeping quiet, robert bly

i go back to may 1937, sharon olds

the encounter, louise gluck

outhouse, rachel mckibbens

the end of poetry, ada limón

i felt a funeral, in my brain, emily dickinson

how to watch your brother die, michael lassell

boston, aaron smith

laura palmer graduates, amy woolard

upon learning that some korean war refugees used partially detonated napalm canisters as fuel, franny choi

monet refuses the operation, lisel mueller

flare, mary oliver

tomorrow is a place, sanna wani

shoulder, naomi shihab nye

snowdrops, louise glück

hammond b3 organ cistern, gabrielle calvocoressi

the night dances, sylvia plath

makeout sonnet, douglas f. brown

you mean you don't weep at the nail salon, elizabeth acevedo

when i'm asked by lisel mueller

every single day (after raymond carver's hummingbird), john straley

for julia, in the deep water, john morris

the same city, terrance hayes

in blackwater woods, mary oliver

the bridge, c. dale young

mittelbergheim, czesław miłosz

gift, czesław miłosz

late ripeness, czesław miłosz

[prodigalwriter]

Architect William Smalley's north London home and office. The World of Interiors, December 2014. Photo - Simon Upton

[prodigalwriter]

[prodigalwriter]

MINGYU for L'Occitane

[prodigalwriter]

[prodigalwriter]

old cas gif i made months ago

[prodigalwriter]

Astigmatism

Interestingly, just as I decided to leave the pool after contemplating an evening dip, it began to rain. Now, I’m sitting calmly in my room, listening to the sputtering on the roof as the rain steadily increases. It’s odd—there was no forecast of cloudy weather, and the sun was bright for most of the day, even into the afternoon. But I guess weather, like life, can change out of the blue, inescapable and unpredictable.

While I was in the pool, lazily doing a few strokes here and there as the darkness crept in and the pool lights flickered to life, I found myself in awe—and a bit dismayed—at just how bad my astigmatism has become. For those who don’t know what it’s like, having astigmatism means that every light, especially at night, transforms into something surreal. Lights glare, their rays spilling out from the center in exaggerated bursts, like a child’s drawing of the sun.

In my case, it’s even worse now. I see lights forming perfect, sharp rays radiating outward, surrounded by two distinct halos, each with its own waves of beams. It’s mesmerizing in its way, but also a stark reminder that my eyesight has grown worse with time.

Sometimes, in my darkest moments, I wonder: what if I woke up one day unable to see? How would I cope with the totality of darkness, having known light for so long? It’s a terrifying thought, one that grips me with a paranoia so intense it feels like a delusion. And the strange part? I’m not even drunk.

[prodigalwriter]

The Holiday

While I had tea:

As I sit here on the balcony of my room, nestled somewhere in the south of Thailand, I can feel the end of this uneventful holiday creeping closer. I've been reflecting on what has passed, wondering what the actions of these days have brought me, aside from my usual paranoia that, despite everything, things will turn out fine in the end.

My laundry has yet to arrive. I sent it off early this morning, but I was informed—unfortunately—that it wouldn’t be ready until the evening. So now, I wait. A drone zipped by a moment ago, catching my attention. I paused to stare at it, wondering if its owner was nearby. And just as quickly, it was gone again.

I'm writing this simply to pass the time. Here I am, alone on the third floor, with the accommodations kindly fulfilling my request for a quiet room. Let me make some tea—oh, I just did. I suppose I’m not entirely alone, though; I think I still have neighbors.

It’s Christmas Day, by the way. The pool downstairs looks inviting—I might take a dip later tonight. My tea bag slipped into my cup just now, but it doesn’t matter much. Another time, I’d like to stay here longer, rent a motorbike, and properly explore the area. I didn’t even bother to book an island-hopping trip, as most tourists do.

This afternoon's sunset might outshine the one I saw when I first arrived. But to care about which is better seems pointless—all sunsets are beautiful in their own way. It’s just a matter of the clouds that frame them and the stillness of the sea reflecting their glow.

Half of the cup:

To add to my yapping, I realized I had been left with nothing but my boxers and a hobo shirt to wear, an amusing predicament as I searched for a late lunch. I shrugged it off—after all, I’m a tourist here. Nobody would give it a second thought. The real challenge, however, was finding food.

Interestingly, everything around here is halal, and seafood is surprisingly inexpensive. It makes sense, given how close we are to the sea, with seaports and fishing docks likely scattered nearby. Most other things are priced at what feels like half their usual cost—except for the items clearly tailored for Western tourists.

I eventually dined at a modest Indian-Eastern restaurant just a short walk from my accommodations. The food was good, and the price fair. As I savored the meal, I realized that, despite everything, I was in a position of comfort—a feeling I couldn’t always claim in the past.

Sure, my lingering encumbrances and unresolved issues still hover like ghosts in the background, but here I am. Somehow, I’ve managed to put them aside long enough to irresponsibly book a holiday trip, fly halfway across the world, and spend money on something purely indulgent. For now, that’s enough.

Last sip:

The prices, I realized, were a tad more expensive than they should be—perhaps a small tourist tax on everything. But that thought, like so many others, wandered off in the maze of my muddled mind, as miserable as its author. Even words seem to betray me these days.

As I sat there, another thought struck me: maybe this is the time to follow through on something I’ve been mulling over for a while. Perhaps I’ll finish this trip, return, and file my resignation. It’s been a year now with the company—a year filled with memories, friendships, and a genuine sense of belonging. I’ve truly loved being part of it. Yet, the idea of walking away and finally pursuing my initial plans of self-supporting feels more and more like the right choice.

2024 has been a year to remember. It came with an abundance of struggles and challenges—far outweighing the fleeting moments of joy. Still, for all its trials, it has also been generous in its lessons. For that, I can’t help but feel thankful, even if it’s a gratitude laced with weariness.

My neighbors seem to have returned from their day’s tour; the faint murmur of voices confirms I’m not entirely alone. As I take another sip from my cup and nibble on the leftover falafel from lunch, my thoughts return to the wait for my laundry. It can’t arrive soon enough—I just want to shower and feel clean again.

And then there’s Bangkok, where I’ll head next. I can only hope the weather there stays below 20 degrees—a wish as improbable as it is wistful. With the New Year drawing near, so too looms the end of December, this trip, and perhaps, a chapter of my life.

What a bummer, though, that my flight tomorrow is so late in the evening. I can already foresee the exhaustion waiting for me when I arrive.

...

When it turns a bit darker, I’ll head to the pool. Or perhaps I’ll wait for my bloody laundry to arrive first. It’s already 6 p.m., and they did say it should be ready by now. Maybe I should give the front desk a call—let me get a hold of that.

...

Guess what? My laundry won’t arrive until 8 p.m. Lovely. I complain, but it’s not worth making a fuss over. Still, it’s another reminder of how plans often drift away from the schedules we’re promised.

Something I’ve noticed about myself lately: I’ve slowly grown detached and quiet—not just over the past few weeks, but ever since I moved abroad. Maybe this was inevitable. Back then, I was always too available, making everyone else’s life and schedules my priority, constantly compromising my own. Now, it feels like I’ve swung to the other extreme.

You see how I jump from one topic to another? That’s how scattered my thoughts are, like a mad tangle of strings pulling in every direction.

My accommodations sit across from another building of the same purpose, but their balconies face west, catching the sunsets, while mine looks toward the limestone wall that lines the town’s border. It’s probably there to shield the area from gusts and storms when they come—a natural fortification.

Back to me. I think this solitude suits me—or perhaps I’ve convinced myself it does. In truth, I’ve orchestrated this self-exile, a form of isolation that feels almost deliberate. I’ve become a functionally depressive recluse, overly independent yet vulnerable, a sheep trying to wear the guise of a wolf. That famous phrase about a wolf in sheep’s clothing comes to mind, except here, the dynamic feels inverted.

Maybe there’s a reason for this—or some purpose this self-exile will serve in the grander scheme of my growth. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’ve almost entirely withdrawn from communication, limiting myself to those I deem reachable. Even then, I often find myself feeling alone, surrounded by what now feels like a carefully crafted façade I call relationships.

[prodigalwriter]

hold on tight

[prodigalwriter]

fanart of the fic ‘redux’ by @valleydean

[prodigalwriter]

Can we get more trans dean drawings? I’d love to see him in the bunker with cas (obviously)

omg it would be my joy and privilege