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14 hours ago

I know a lot of people want to change the world. Leave a legacy. Be remembered. And that’s beautiful in its own way.

But me? I just want a small corner to myself. A place to exist softly. Quietly. Beautifully. And that’s why I romanticize everything.

Like the clouds — glowing at the edges like they’ve swallowed the sun. The light spilling through tree branches, painting patterns on the road. A lone tree branch stretching into the sky — like it’s reaching out to something long gone. The way the river sparkles, still one moment and wild the next. The colours of the evening sky — reds and purples melting into each other like a painting that resets every day. Puppies rolling in mud. The way people speak gently to loved ones, or laugh with their whole bodies, or decorate themselves in color just because.

These aren’t just passing moments. They’re little acts of poetry. And I collect them like treasure.

I used to feel a little silly for romanticizing all of it. Like I was doing too much. Feeling too much. But now I think… maybe “too much” is okay. Maybe “cringe” is just another word for caring. And I’ve decided I won’t shrink from that anymore.

As Mei says in Turning Red, “Do not kill the part of you that is cringe; kill the part that cringes.”

I want to feel — deeply, wildly, even stupidly at times. My brain craves color and texture and stories, and if the world won’t hand me magic, I’ll make it myself.

I don’t need a big life. I need a meaningful one. I’ll keep noticing the red in the sky, the symmetry of trees, the cat that judges me from the wall. I’ll keep seeing the ordinary like it’s cinematic, like it matters. Because to me, it does.