Like a Magpie
An inventory of small shimmers, big feelings
I’ve been thinking about how magpies don’t just steal everything shiny. Just the things that hum faintly with unfinished business.
Things I’ve saved this week:
a receipt from a restaurant I didn’t even like (but apparently I’m archiving my disappointments now)
a photo of light through a spoon (looked meaningful, wasn’t)
someone’s typo that said “I’m fine-ish,” which honestly felt like the truest thing ever written and belongs in scripture
There’s a dent on my phone from when I dropped it on purpose.
Power move. Outcome: bruised toe, humbled ego.
A voice note titled “ok so quickly” that’s fourteen minutes long and contains a rant about adulthood, a yawn, and the sound of onions frying.
I will, of course, send it anyway.
I am nothing if not generous with chaos.
Someone once said I keep memories like they owe me rent.
That’s inaccurate.
They’re squatters. They’ve unionised. I’ve lost legal control of the property.
My brain, for instance, hoards birthdays.
Every single one.
I can recite the entire 8th-grade roll call like a Gregorian chant.
I forget where my pencil box is but remember that Rohit Sharma, was born on 6th November 1992. He left school in 8th-grade, never spoken since. What is my brain.
Nani ka nuskha was that badaams improve memory. Clearly I have over-dosed.
Other things I’ve been foraging:
Postcards from cities I’ve never been to (some gathered, some emotionally inherited)
Wrappers that looked shiny enough to mean something in the moment.
Mini essays I’ve written over the years but never shared, too long for texts, too honest for drafts. And now, apparently, perfect for this Substack. Growth? Regression? Hard to tell.
Moments I should’ve left quietly, but instead stood there like a penguin from Madagascar, “smile and wave, boys, smile and wave.”
People I’ve been kind to who mistook it for flirting.
Crunchy autumn leaves that exist to make me feel like I’m in a slow-motion montage no one asked for.
Maybe collecting is how I practice noticing.
Or maybe it’s how I keep delaying letting go.
Hard to say. I’m bad with verbs.
I once tried deleting old notes from my phone.
The app crashed.
Even my technology refuses closure.
There’s a single earring on the park bench by my house.
It’s been there for weeks.
I’ve started saying good morning to it.
I’m 85% sure it winks back.
Sometimes I think I’m a sentimental crow dressed as a functional adult.
Other times I think I’m doing fine because I label my spice jars.
Neither feels entirely true.
I’ve been ghosted more times than I’ve updated my resume, which says a lot about both my heart and my LinkedIn.
I still lead with kindness. Not because it works, but because I don’t know the settings to turn it off.
I know it’s foolish, but that is me.
I once read magpies bring gifts to people they like, bottle caps, keys, bits of foil.
They think, this looks shiny, you might need it.
So here’s mine:
A slightly dented essay, full of receipts and birthdays and badaams.
If you find something glinting inside it, it’s definitely not wisdom.
Just a relic from my cluttered nest.
Anyway, that’s what I’ve gathered this week.
You can look.
Just, please don’t tidy.