Normally, when I was younger, if I had set my mind to writing a poem, it would require me to put on my headphones and play a song, usually sad, in order to reach the correct emotional state. I would begin the writing, often with no prior ideas, depending heavily on how the music made me feel. Today, I try to stay clear from such impulsive writing. Slowly, it shifted from a form of therapy or necessity for well-being to, instead, more-so of a hobby, a desire. I also find that I tend to favor the writing that is produced in silence, with considerable thought, over longer periods of time. So, here we are. There is no music playing. No backup plan.

Similarly, I like to run, take walks, draw—-on a somewhat standard basis. All of these activities were performed with a quirky, informative podcast episode or a cool niche instrumental playlist, that I wished to forcibly categorize within my music taste. Maybe this suggests a continuous need to better oneself, a fear of boredom, or pursuit of mastering multitasking. By some supposedly wise calling, I’m working on tackling one thing at a time. Eating my food without looking at my phone, or doing anything else for that matter. I think my brain is getting better at coming up with its own stimulation. As Dr. Mariam Aly, assistant Professor of Psychology at Columbia, remarks in her twitter bio, “I study brains and sometimes use one”. Me too.

When I prepare smoked salmon, I use my hands to unfold the pieces, separating the sticky layers. I like the cold, soft texture, its fragility; I like the challenge of gentleness. When I use a fork, it tears and tugs in all the wrong directions, messing up the salmon. There are some things like this where there is great satisfaction in using your hands. I used to be so scared to touch things, my hands a device for ruin. I shaded my drawings with a blending stump, applied makeup solely with a brush, and used toothpicks to pick up cheese. I trusted human-made machinery over my own human form. My hands weren’t a tested product; they lacked reviews on Yelp. Over time, I slowly found myself dissatisfied with the result of this work; my face not as clean, my drawings not as neat. My senses were stunted. It’s simple, now, the sense of control that relieves me when my hands are put to the test. My body and mind are friends. They trust each other.

My grandpa and I never talk much; we aren’t very good at reading each other. Not much of me is standout-ishly similar to him, in terms of physical appearance, humor, interests. However, we have one of the most important aspects of life in common: we share the same preferences for toast. It may seem insignificant, but I honestly have not met many people at all who like, and even prefer, their toast to be slightly burnt. My eggs are never runny; they are crisp and brown on the edges. One night, way past dinner, I told my grandpa how I like my smoked salmon. Bread, very toasted, no butter, topped with the salmon, drizzled with lemon and sprinkled with pepper. A side pickle and cup of tea, peppermint. No response from my grandpa; he nodded and said nothing. Later in the night, I walked outside to turn the porch lights off and I saw, through the window to the kitchen, my grandpa sitting and eating toast with salmon, alongside a cup of tea.