# 56 || Petrichor (n.) the smell of the earth after rain.

Hypocrisy has forever been one of my biggest fears. The idea that I could potentially pass judgement onto another soul for a sin that I too am guilty of committing — that terrifies me. Which is why, unless my emotions get the better of me, I contemplate just about everything, I turn every thought and notion inside out until there is no way it couldn’t possibly not make no sense (triple negative???!!!). But within those twisted thoughts, there hides the devil in the details. And now something that was completely coherent at the beginning, through over-rumination, is now complete lunacy. There is my second worst nightmare — misinterpretation and feeling wholly misunderstood. I think psychological solitude is one of the most terrible sensations I have ever experienced. When I was a very little girl, I realised I had the tendency (albeit infrequent) to become moronically obsessed with certain possessions, places and / or persons. This habit would only ever delicately reveal its madness, and being a child, people would often think it darling that I would beg to see the same film at the cinema several times, bringing a different doll with me every time. Her name would often convert to whoever my favourite heroine was at the time. Between make-believe friends and infinite stories about a petite fille with long hair, ten brothers and sisters, three cats, two dogs, a bird and a rose garden, I never had a lot of time for reality and the untimely blow that is real life and the inconvenient truths that accompany growing up and figuring out the world that we live in.


I’ve now come to realise that it’s not so darling to convolute one’s dreams to the point of self-destruction. Growing up only refined my imagination to a somewhat gluttonous manner of fantasising which fed my faith that everything really would be okay in the end. Which is why I’m left so desolately confused at why lately my heart feels so heavy I can hardly retrieve the bravery I need to remember why it is we wake up every morning with the courage to love and learn and locate the light that is supposed to make everything worthwhile. Maybe this is just another one of my existential crises but I just can’t find the light. The strangest thing is that I remember where I left it but when I went back to find it, it was no longer there. When the void seems infinite and insatiable, I don’t know what else to do, or where-else to turn. There is no band-aid, there is no kiss-it-better. Because when all the tender emotions melt away, all that’s left is an indescribable hollow ache of not feeling so distressed anymore but in its place is some kind of sinister sea filled with something dark and forbidding. Every morning, I wish the monster would swallow me whole.