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 the crunch before posting it on my Instagram.
Almost every time I do my skincare routine in a sink so tiny my face doesn’t fit, I pretend I’m in a marble bathroom wearing a fluffy white robe.
I guess I never moved past my teenage phase of resting my forehead against the fogged-up bus window listening to nostalgic tunes, and I’m ok with it.
Life is full of joys and pleasures and I love celebrating them. I love making them bigger than they are, nurturing whatever makes me warm inside.
The mundane doesn’t have to be boring. Day after day, there’s always something worth romanticising.
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