On Superman, melancholy, and Trisha Paytas.

I think there must be something wrong with how I can only write about being unhappy. I’m sorry to deject, and I don’t mean to be so pessimistic, but I can’t convey birds singing at the break of day and cats purring on the side walk as well as old people do. I guess my precociousness has its limits after all.

This morning, I sat at my desk aiming to write about things that bring me joy. Not to my surprise, I found nothing to say. It’s not that I’ve never felt happy, it’s that I can’t summon the feeling with pen and paper, or rather, I can’t do so whole heartedly. Rain came pouring outside as greyish light hastily creeped through my window, entering my room. I watched it convert my books and teddy bears and polaroids and movie posters into dull, muted versions of themselves. I wondered if a force as such had irrupted my mind.

Failing to come up with anything of value, I made my bed and switched out of my nightgown. I landed on my dad’s oversized Superman shirt after swiftly skimming through my wardrobe. The t-shirt’s ridiculously saturated and so stained I wonder if it’s ever been washed. I do own other shirts—cleaner ones at that—but I like how this one makes me look, how it makes me feel. Before you attempt to bring it to my attention, I know how foolish I sound. But I also know that when I stumble across a mirror and see myself swimming in this huge copyrighted attire, I am grand. I am limitless. I am powerful. I am things which are foreign to me. It’s hard to feel predominant knowing I’m made of nothing but a bunch of amassed cells, and live merely as a speck of dust in a pale blue dot. What could I possibly know about anything? When I am Superman, I know all.

As a child, I’d collect cheap plastic tiaras and would use them as gateways to imaginary places where I could be whoever I wanted. I still play dress up, in a way, when reality’s ceilings become too formidable. There are worlds in my head I escape to every so often—some from stories that have been told, others from stories I’ve made up. Castles, islands, spaceships, all boundless and completely mine. What makes me want to escape? The tediousness of my day to day, you could say, or my responsibilities as a student, a friend, a daughter, a woman. Part of me knows a palace and a crown wouldn’t fix those things. If I were there I’d find another reason to leave. The gowns would be heavy and itchy, it’d be way too chilly at night, and in there, I wouldn’t be able to find my beloved local vegan pizzaria. Best toppings ever.

“Sex will give you STDs, friendships are fucking fake, relationships will cheat on you, family will disown you… pizza is forever.”

Trisha Paytas

I’m in constant lack of something out of my reach—something I could swear I had once, and that I want back. I search for hidden messages in recurring patterns, nightmares, angel numbers, astrology (which I don’t even believe in), you name it. I know some things are simply what they seem to be and that’s all there is to it, but to someone like me, simplicity is boring. Why be content with grayscale when you could dream of technicolor? Maybe wanting things isn’t so bad—at least I want something. And I’m aware that in a way, that means I’ll never be satisfied, because if I had that something I’d surely want another something. I hope one day I’ll be able to wish for things while in concert, being pleased with what I have. But that’ll require some change on my part. And these things take forever. And I am exceptionally slow.

“Life swings like a pendulum backward and forward between pain and boredom.”

Arthur Schopenhauer

I know I shouldn’t fancy what I can’t grasp, and furthermore, write about it. Who am I to ask for so much after having given so little? I’ve wronged people and lied and been selfish and made it all about me and I can’t even wash the dishes without being reminded to. I live in a constant state of guilt, and every time I try to redeem myself, I mess up yet again. Guilt. Could one die from it?Maybe. I couldn’t tell you. But I guess for now, the cost of living with myself is enough.

Sometimes I get so sick of my life, I find a person to replace me—a muse, a prey, so to speak. After placing their body on a pedestal, I live vicariously through them. That is, until I notice a flaw. Then, I get disappointed. You’re supposed to be better than me, is what I don’t say. I seek Gods on earth because that is what I need most in my life, because I don’t trust myself enough to do this on my own. I need someone to tell me what is right and what is wrong. Someone to tell me what to eat for breakfast. Someone to tell me which jokes are appropriate in a professional setting. Someone to be who I would’ve been if I had turned out fine. I wouldn’t recommend it—being stuck in this endless misanthropic cycle—although it is one way to live.

somavinylstation on instagram (2026)

Now, certainly I’m young, and therefore I’ll change a lot—but I’m not so young as to blame all my mistakes on my youth. I’m young but I’m not. I’m mature enough to speak in front of a large crowd, and build my own furniture—but childish enough to have my mum do most of my paperwork, and to cry when anyone slightly raises their voice at me. I’m clever, but on occasion, ignorant. I’m self-contained, but still tend to buy trendy designer makeup. I’m relatively reserved, but unremittingly loud. I’ve been so loud for so long, I’m convinced one day I’ll run out of words. It’s funny—or maybe not—that no matter how blaring my voice is, no one ever really listens. And as unlikely as it may seem, I’m completely okay with that. After all, it’s just the way things are. I don’t scream because I expect people to understand me—I scream because I must. I scream in order to feel alive. In order to feel grand. Limitless. Powerful.

Wait, I suppose I did find a thing that brings me joy.