life is a garden ➿ and the roots are all touching
🪨 stone soup 4/14/2026
I wonder what my mother swallows. I wonder if these unrealized desires satiated me in the womb, a diet of forgiven transgressions and dormant rage. I wonder what my father swallows and I know now that no amount of my own agonized undertaking could make him better. For the first time, I allow him to fail me, wholesale and unmitigated. I let him swallow his words, choke even. These transgressions slip off me, oil and water. Like white-boy-Knicks-baller Tyler Kolek said,
“It’s barbeque chicken from there.”
It's all dominoes from there, letting men fail me colossally as I walk away. I don’t fix anything. I don’t even look back. Slam dunk right into the tender spot where it hurts, right in the absence of my presence you never thought would come. Cross over and dribble right past you, our arms don’t even brush. Three pointer, swish. Respectfully, fuck you.
If the things I swallow are what shape an abstract-idea-of-a-future-child, I better think through the things I leave unsaid.
I swallowed my words and met you more than halfway, toes millimeters from the finish line. All you had to do was breathe, and you’d be right there. Even that was too much, standing in-front of me blue in the lips. I think of a small self, lonely and fatigued from chronic disappointment. Picture that one scene of lil ‘ol Voldemort looking all gross and goo-covered—that is what I almost became. Almost. I spit everything out last minute, I couldn’t let all of that past my esophagus, not worth the humiliatingly minimal nutritional value for all that digestive work.
You’re an idiot and this self fulfilling prophecy is one you prop up, all on our own. Congratulations!
Each disappointment I swallow, pebbles stuck in my gastrointestinal tract and causing all sorts of problems. Stone soup got me by, but I can afford some real food now. I pass my final brick stool in agony, but it's all good now. It’s all healthy gut flora from here. I’m eating real food, really. Fuck.
Yearning requires devotion. Lust is a compulsion, nothing more than a conquest of empty horniness. Empty horniness sounds like a ring of hell, and maybe that's the samsara sentence for a majority of single men in New York City. Keep swiping, you cucks!
Whatever people are seeking isn’t really love, because loving is knowing and doing and action and not a feeling or compulsion or whatever the hell you seek through a $19.99 app subscription. You sit in that damn cuck chair feeling stuck, and you watch everything get fucked all around you. All subjugated and you’re not even getting off.
I reflexively text D.T. that NYC is samsara for hot people, that this empty pursuit will rot them from the inside out, that they will spend the next lifetime chopped as hell trying to figure out what love is. I am sad for those who cannot love because they cannot love themselves. I also know I cannot adopt everyone who is orphaned from their own selves, orphaned from the self they’ve abandoned. Something something their broken hearts shouldn’t break my own something something etcetera etcetera.
Abandoning yourself takes a lot of swallowing, and at some point, you leave no room in your stomach for all the good stuff. Full from your own saliva and repression, someone offers you a beautiful homemade meal you cannot work up the appetite for. You can’t let anything in if you’re full of shit.
🤎 related reading: how much does external beauty matter if you are spiritually chopped
what do you think? email me!
ayaka333takao@gmail.com
I wonder what my mother swallows. I wonder if these unrealized desires satiated me in the womb, a diet of forgiven transgressions and dormant rage. I wonder what my father swallows and I know now that no amount of my own agonized undertaking could make him better. For the first time, I allow him to fail me, wholesale and unmitigated. I let him swallow his words, choke even. These transgressions slip off me, oil and water. Like white-boy-Knicks-baller Tyler Kolek said,
“It’s barbeque chicken from there.”
It's all dominoes from there, letting men fail me colossally as I walk away. I don’t fix anything. I don’t even look back. Slam dunk right into the tender spot where it hurts, right in the absence of my presence you never thought would come. Cross over and dribble right past you, our arms don’t even brush. Three pointer, swish. Respectfully, fuck you.
If the things I swallow are what shape an abstract-idea-of-a-future-child, I better think through the things I leave unsaid.
I swallowed my words and met you more than halfway, toes millimeters from the finish line. All you had to do was breathe, and you’d be right there. Even that was too much, standing in-front of me blue in the lips. I think of a small self, lonely and fatigued from chronic disappointment. Picture that one scene of lil ‘ol Voldemort looking all gross and goo-covered—that is what I almost became. Almost. I spit everything out last minute, I couldn’t let all of that past my esophagus, not worth the humiliatingly minimal nutritional value for all that digestive work.
You’re an idiot and this self fulfilling prophecy is one you prop up, all on our own. Congratulations!
Each disappointment I swallow, pebbles stuck in my gastrointestinal tract and causing all sorts of problems. Stone soup got me by, but I can afford some real food now. I pass my final brick stool in agony, but it's all good now. It’s all healthy gut flora from here. I’m eating real food, really. Fuck.
Yearning requires devotion. Lust is a compulsion, nothing more than a conquest of empty horniness. Empty horniness sounds like a ring of hell, and maybe that's the samsara sentence for a majority of single men in New York City. Keep swiping, you cucks!
Whatever people are seeking isn’t really love, because loving is knowing and doing and action and not a feeling or compulsion or whatever the hell you seek through a $19.99 app subscription. You sit in that damn cuck chair feeling stuck, and you watch everything get fucked all around you. All subjugated and you’re not even getting off.
I reflexively text D.T. that NYC is samsara for hot people, that this empty pursuit will rot them from the inside out, that they will spend the next lifetime chopped as hell trying to figure out what love is. I am sad for those who cannot love because they cannot love themselves. I also know I cannot adopt everyone who is orphaned from their own selves, orphaned from the self they’ve abandoned. Something something their broken hearts shouldn’t break my own something something etcetera etcetera.
Abandoning yourself takes a lot of swallowing, and at some point, you leave no room in your stomach for all the good stuff. Full from your own saliva and repression, someone offers you a beautiful homemade meal you cannot work up the appetite for. You can’t let anything in if you’re full of shit.
🤎 related reading: how much does external beauty matter if you are spiritually chopped
what do you think? email me!
ayaka333takao@gmail.com
last edited 4/14/26