@officialbarbarakumari

August ends not with a bang,
but with a half-melted candle and a whisper from the rug.

You don’t have to be productive.
You can just be peculiar.

I rearranged the furniture and upset the balance of power.
The chair by the window is smug now.

Even the spoons seem existential today.

There are hours of the day
that feel like they’ve slipped through a crack in the timeline.

I don't hoard objects.
I rescue them from obscurity and let them haunt me gently.

If I go missing,
assume I’ve wandered into a used bookstore and forgotten time exists.

Sometimes I feel like a sock in the laundry cycle—
briefly warm, constantly spinning, and never quite where I expect.

There’s always one drawer that refuses to open smoothly.
That’s where I keep my unresolved character arcs.

Every houseplant is a tiny drama.
I water them like I’m breaking bad news.

The more I declutter,
the more I realize I’m just curating a personal museum of peculiar decisions.

Today I found an acorn in my bag.
I haven’t been near an oak tree in weeks.
I took it as a sign. Of what? No idea.

Even the soap dish has seen some things.
Probably more than I have.

The moth in my room keeps circling the lamp.
I respect a creature that mistakes light for salvation.

If the paint peels just right,
you can almost read what the walls were trying to say.

I think in layers.
Sometimes the top one is just fog.

The quietest part of the day
is always when the kettle starts to sing.

The floor creaked in Morse code again.
Something about overdue library books.

I like my notebooks slightly dog-eared.
Keeps the prose humble.

Sometimes I walk into a room and forget why.
Other times, the room forgets me.

A House with Breathing Walls Last night I dreamed of a house I’ve never lived in, but it felt like mine.

Last night I dreamed of a house with no doors.
Only archways, a crow in the rafters,
and walls that breathed like they’d waited.

This week’s dispatch is for the weary-hearted—the ones who need a place that doesn’t ask them to heal, only breathe.

officialbarbarakumari.substack.com/p/a-house-wi...

My socks never match,
but they do collaborate.

I don’t clean to tidy things.
I clean to make space for the ghosts to stretch their legs.

My favorite weather is the kind that makes the sky look like it's up to something.

There’s a smell in the air that says,
“Change is coming.”
Or maybe just burnt toast.
Hard to tell.

I once opened a cabinet I’d never noticed before.
Inside was one button, a paperclip, and something that flew away.

I measure time in how long it takes for the tea to cool
and the thoughts to get weird.

Letters I Meant to Burn Sent from the edge of the firelight — May 28, 2025

Some letters were never meant to survive the dawn.
And yet—here they are.
Ash in your coat cuff.
Ink in the hollow of your hand.

This week’s dispatch is for the ones you never sent,
but still smolder in your chest.

officialbarbarakumari.substack.com/p/letters-i-...

Everything in my junk drawer has been retired with honors.

Sometimes I organize my thoughts into neat little boxes.
Then I forget which ones are real
and which ones were just metaphors with good posture.