My mum once told me that I am an old person trapped in a 30-year-old body, because I seek pleasure in the little things. Even if it came out wrong, she meant it as a compliment, and that’s exactly how I took it.
It’s true. I love the little things: the smell of books, touching moss on a bush walk, a warm cup of coffee in the morning.
I am a simple being, as my ex used to say, meaning: it doesn’t take much to make me happy.
I am very grateful for that. I find joy in the everyday life. I love adventures and doing crazy shit, but I could spend days on end in my own company, making every little moment special.
Time unravels without any warning. The older I get, the more I realise every day is worth treasuring.
So I do.
On a regular basis, I romanticise the shit out of everything.
Sometimes it’s unconscious: I automatically light candles and burn incense while sitting on my favourite armchair to read.
I add sesame seeds to everything to make my meals aesthetically pleasing, even if I don’t always take a picture of them.
Other times, I am more intentional about it: I take videos of me spreading cream cheese on a bagel, add a golden light filter, and enhance the ASMR of…
