Amonranella

YouTube video by amonranella Peeling: Strange Lessons On Being Seen

I’m wondering about curtains and skins as the banana begins to show me more:

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YouTube video by amonranella How Did It Know What We Should Have?

As I cut the slices, each one falls away with grace. And then I hear it, the voice. It needs to tell me something.

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The passionfruit doesn’t pretend. It is what it is—chaotic, unashamed. I stare at it too long, feeling something I can’t name.

YouTube video by amonranella I Was NOT Ready for What Was Inside

Passion is supposed to drive you, right? So why does it taste like exhaustion? Why does it taste like something I lost? How do the gatekeepers play into it?

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The best laughter is that of a donkey and child. The mango was a portal.

Juice ran down my fingers like melted sunlight. Nothing else mattered.

I wasn’t in my kitchen anymore. The air shifted. The world softened.

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YouTube video by amonranella While Cutting, I Stumbled Upon a Way OUT

The mango was heavier than I expected. And it took me where I could have never expected to go.
It had something to say. I listened.

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A slice on my tongue—bright, sharp, real. Even the smallest things offer something. Even me. Even you.

The world is waiting. The basket is filling. The fruit does not fear transformation. I wonder if I could be like that.

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YouTube video by amonranella How To Know — It Was Then That I Understood

The kiwi does not flinch. Outside, laughter. A life I am not living. A moment I am not part of. The fruit opens. I hesitate.

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A severed pineapple crown still holds its shape, waiting. A mandarin peel curls in on itself, stiff with memory. The kiwi? It surrenders. Some things fight becoming. Others know it is inevitable.

The fuzz gave way, the green split open—vivid, alive, unafraid. I wonder what it’s like to exist without resistance.

I eat. I think of places I haven’t been. Love I haven’t found. The scent of citrus lingers, then fades. The day moves on. So do I. 🍊

YouTube video by amonranella I Ate The Fruit – Not Sure I Should Have

The mandarin is gone. Just the peel remains, curled like a memory, drying into something else. I watch my empty hands. I should move on.
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The way my mother’s hands peeled these so easily, like she knew how to make the world soft. I try. It opens. A quiet kind of love.

A message I don’t open. A fruit I do. The past and the present, peeling away.
This is going to be sweet. Sharp, alive.

The Weight of Small Things—
a mandarin in my palm. Light, too light. A tiny planet, a secret, a soul. I peel it. It doesn’t resist. Some things are meant to be let go of.

The blade goes through. A sigh—mine or the pineapple’s, I can’t tell. The kitchen is too quiet. I wipe my hands. I think about sleep. I think about nothing. I think about everything. And then I eat again.

YouTube video by amonranella The Fruit That Should NOT Be Cut

The smell hits me—syrupy, cloying, like a summer that doesn’t belong to me anymore. A memory of slow days, thick and golden. Was I happier then? The pineapple doesn’t care. It’s fighting back now, fibers clinging to the blade. This is not a fruit.
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The pineapple twitches. I freeze. I think about emails I haven’t answered, the ceasefire negotiations, the new executive order. Juice seeps from the cut, too sweet, like a bribe. Like a distraction. I should stop thinking. I should keep cutting.

I press the knife to its skin. It resists—just enough to make me wonder. The blade sinks in. The pineapple shudders. Maybe it’s my imagination. Juice wells up, thick and golden. Almost red.
I should stop. But stopping is the same as losing…

Pineapple and a hand with a knife

The kitchen hums with uneasy silence. A fan whirs. The knife waits. The pineapple sits, armored and ancient, daring me to make the first move. This is no ordinary fruit. This is something older. Something that knows.