Oreos&OxyeyeDaisies

I own one chair, two forks, and half a cup, But at least my home’s Instagram-ready, so that’s a win—right? (Shut up.) That $700 rug, woven by a monk, It’s so minimalist, but my wallet’s sunk. No more junk, no mess, no chaos in sight, Just the stress of making sure the angles are right. I threw out my clutter, felt so bold, But now I’m broke from buying bowls of gold. My wardrobe's reduced to shades of gray, And somehow it cost more than my yearly pay. Minimalism—the art of owning less, but somehow paying more for the privilege. It’s like the Marie Kondo method met a luxury boutique and had a baby that only wears neutral tones and whispers, “Does this spark financial distress?” Minimalism promises simplicity, clarity, and an oh-so-clean aesthetic, but somehow delivers a paradox wrapped in sleek Scandinavian furniture and artisanal pottery. Because, you see, minimalism isn’t just about decluttering your life. No, it’s about decluttering it in the fanciest way possible—preferably wi...

 KEEP ATLEAST SOME CHAPTERS OF YOUR LIFE UNPUBLISHED In a world where every breath is documented, every sneeze is hash-tagged, and every fleeting thought is broadcast to the masses, the art of being private is akin to mastering an ancient and mysterious craft. It’s like having the last slice of pizza in a room full of hungry souls—intensely satisfying and slightly mischievous.  Imagine your life as a best-selling novel. Now, not every chapter needs to be splashed across the cover. The real intrigue lies in the pages that remain unpublished, the stories only you know. Think of it as holding a winning poker hand while everyone else is showing their cards —sometimes, it’s the unknown that makes you the real player in the game. Why let every passerby be privy to your plot twists and turns? If everyone knows how your story goes, they might start writing their own versions of your narrative. And let’s face it, no one wants to star in a poorly written fan fiction of their own life....

I have always loved Elizabeth, Slyvia, Walt Whitman, [even my mum loved his writing] #1  ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING - IF THOU MUST LOVE ME: Poetic Review  In a sonnet's tender fold, Browning weaves her golden thread,   Where love’s essence, pure and bold, in whispered lines is said.   She asks not for the fleeting glance or charm that fades away,   But for a love that stands the chance to shine beyond the day. Like stars that blaze in night’s embrace, not for the dawn to see,   Her words demand a sacred space where love is truly free.   Not anchored to a smile's grace or pity’s gentle tear,   But in love's timeless, endless trace, she finds what’s most sincere. Her pen, a brush of softest hue, paints love with lasting light,   Each verse a beacon, guiding through the deepest of the night.   She crafts her lines with such finesse, like threads in tapestries,   Where every word, with pure ca...

In the cold embrace of January’s chill , where frost adorns the night,   To be surrounded by just a few is like a hearth’s warm light.   A small circle, close and true, is like a cozy cabin’s glow,   Where every crackling ember tells a story only, they know. In February’s fleeting thaw, when winter’s grip begins to break,   To welcome a few new faces is like a fresh, awakening lake.   Each new friend is a budding flower, just beginning to unfold,   Adding new hues to the winter scene, like threads of silver and gold. As March breathes life into spring with a whispering breeze,   A small circle of friends is like a garden of emerging seeds.   Each one a promise, gently sprouting through the thawing earth,   Nurtured in quiet company, preparing for their bloom’s worth. In April’s dance of showers and bloom, where colours start to sing,   A few cherished friends are like rainbows that sof...

Mari, with her eyes set on the city's heart, Reads the night’s stories in a solitary art. Her world’s a reflection in the neon’s embrace, A stillness that hums in a bustling place. Across the street, where rhythms softly clash, A jazz bar’s echo and the night’s gentle splash, Takes us to places where reality bends, And time’s fleeting threads weave, then blend. Murakami’s prose, a mirror of the night, Reflects the inner world’s soft, intricate light. In the silence between the city’s roar, He explores the spaces we often ignore. From fleeting encounters to existential threads, His words capture the hours where time treads. The city, alive with a thousand soft hues, Speaks in a language of twilight and muse. Each page a moment, each scene a new dream, Where the ordinary becomes a surreal gleam. He maps the stillness in the night’s embrace, Finding beauty in every hidden space. In the twilight's hush where shadows softly meet, Where time bends and hums with a dreamlike beat, Dwel...