strand

‘I’m after the painter of memories.’ Aidan turns up the call volume; the voice sounds distant. 

All year, we wait for that perfect time again: summer. The season of tan lines, iced lattes, and late-night memories with our friends.

Last summer, I realised I was trans. When I go back to the sea I love and the neighbourhood I don’t, it’ll be a bit harder to breathe but it’s only for a little longer. I have learned to be comfortable in my changing and the time it will take.

More often than not, I am wrong. I am constantly (if unintentionally) lying. After twenty minutes convincing my poor interlocutor that I, in fact, must be right, a simple Google search proves me to be unequivocally incorrect. 

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.