Running Connor’s Run

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I know that my eating disorder should not bring me as much shame as it does, but it still embarrasses me to admit that I did have a terrible binge the night before the 18.8km run. What started off as getting out of bed at 11.30pm for a ‘little snack’ morphed into a feast of a 250g pack of Medjool dates (~11 dates), four large ripe bananas and four cups worth of nutty oatmeal. All of it could have easily amounted to 2000 calories, which is close to maybe 3 quarters of a relatively active female’s day’s worth. I told only one person as it happened, and she told me only three things:


Sydney in September Part I (+ vlog)

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Hugging Mum again felt like life was breathed into my bones. It has been months apart for us at this point, and I didn’t realise how much I had missed her touch, her scent, her smile, her everything, until I saw her in flesh before me. Dad couldn’t be here for he had to settle a few things back in Austria, but

I’ll take one if I couldn’t have two. :’)


Like Pearls Slipping Off A String; Pt. I


It’s the end of the second week of Semester 2 as I’m typing at the moment (05.08.2017, 13:54), and I’m still in the midst of watching parts of me and people around me fall into place for this new semester. I could liken this process to a game of Tetris — cautious, hesitant, but progressing nonetheless.

Timestamp of this very moment:

  • I showed Shu Lin the sky out of my window and she showed me hers — I realised through the short video she sent me that we were listening to the same song at the same time: ‘Feel So Close’ by Calvin Harris, aka. my favourite song in the whole entire world. She’s a friend for life for sure. She told me she’d let me read ‘This Modern Love’ by Will Darbyshire one day, and I felt a flower bloom in my heart.
  • There’s a cloud that I’ve been trailing across the width of my window, and I promise it looks like an octopus. A really cute one.
  • I looked to my left and I see ‘OH, THE PLACES YOU’LL GO!’ by Dr. Seuss that Rhiannon Tambini-Mcgee gifted to me before she left last semester. I reached for it, closed my eyes, opened the book and the first thing I read:

“Somehow you’ll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You’ll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.”

I’ve got a room that I have every reason to be thankful for this semester, and I still pinch myself whenever I wake up to a world where the ceiling is high, the floorspace is generous, and the air is still and tinged with lavender and lemongrass. I’d turn my head to the left and I’d see purple, like an amethyst crystal, only more magnificent and alive as it transitions from lilac to violet, violet to salmon-pink, salmon-pink to yellow, and yellow to the grand finale: a blinding, empyrean white as the sun’s rays fully stretch across the heavens to tell us she has fully risen.


You know, things are great at the moment, but have You heard of ‘nostalgic preferences’? It is a belief or perception that our past experiences are better than the same kinds of experiences we have today.

‘But was the past really better, or is this perception a trick that our minds play on us? New research at Carnegie Mellon University finds that the workings of memory seem to filter our view of the past with rose-colored glasses, biasing what we remember in ways that profoundly impact how we evaluate the past in comparison to the present.’

I have a strong inkling that it’s exactly this ‘nostalgic preferences’ that’s been directing my dreaming patterns — You know, that funny part of the night when our brain shows us what we’ve been yearning for/ worried about, or is simply random (and incomprehensible), depicting a scene of a lush meadow filled with hopping quokkas — towards reliving the recent past back home. It was sweet, simple, and… like pearls slipping off a string.

“After all,” Anne had said to Marilla once, “I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.”
― L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea