strand

Cultural spaces in South London are fading away, only to be succeeded by construction that never seems to benefit local residents.

Grief plagues everyone differently; the forlorn objects left behind are both a comfort and a cruel reminder of a marked absence. 

Is it any wonder that the symbol of the mango – ripe, yellow flesh, honey-sweet – has become an enduring symbol for the Pakistani diaspora?

I think about riding roller coasters with my dad almost every day. It has made me consider a lot of the things I take for granted.

Pleasure is an integral part of our existence - it shapes our decision-making processes and is a source of positive mental wellbeing.

I write this preemptively, I am not dead yet, but I write as a matter of urgency. This letter concerns the matter of my body.

I do not believe that pleasure, to anyone, is a place. I grew up in a landscape desired for brief encounters - a ‘cultural desert.’

It’s a running joke among my friends and I that my twentieth birthday was the longest day of my life.

Situationships feel like a war in which you act like a secret intelligence officer gathering intel on your love interest.

I’ve found myself forgetting the walk from the library to campus, unable to recall the faces of those around me on the Northern line.