Fish Tale

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Fish Tale

Home » Archives for November 2025

Because of a genetic predisposition to schizophrenia, I avoid drugs. Instead, I snorkel. 

Many may ask how I could ever compare tripping off acid or doing shrooms to snorkelling, but I believe you get the answer as soon as you finish asking the question. Think about it—you’re floating in water looking down at a whole different world. It feels like you’re flying over intricate cities, watching its inhabitants going on with their lives, very rarely paying attention to what you’re doing. They’ve all got their purpose and their routines, symbiotically co-existing in this beautifully designed chaos, where everyone contributes to the shared ecosystem. I get the same feeling walking through a busy street in a city during peak hour, everybody has a place to go and a place to be and no one is paying attention to me. It feels like I’ve died and no one can see me, and I’m watching over them like some sort of spectre. Witnessing these sea creatures exist makes me realise that I do not matter, life goes on without me and that to me is a form of soft ego death.

I am also reminded of how vast the ocean is and every snorkelling moment is a reminder that I am so small. Just like when on drugs, I start wigging out about how small I truly am and how vulnerable I am in this big blue sea and have to comfort myself by imagining that I am swimming in a fish tank in a Chinese restaurant somewhere and that there are no threats around but people eating sweet and sour chicken.

You cannot convince me that the visuals of hallucinations are better than those you see in the water. I have tried my best to explain a few of the things I have seen, both odd and beautiful, but I can’t seem to get it right, they are too unique, too peculiar to even find the words. I do not have enough skill or vocabulary to do these phenomenal beings justice. But all I can say is how I find it so fascinating how everything in the water is organised. For instance, the shades co-existing, creating such an immaculate symphony of colours, where the fauna matches the flora perfectly. Or the schools of smaller fish of the same breed coming in multiple colours in the perfectly balanced colour palette as they move in such synchronicity. How their stars live among them, coming in different shades of blue, crimson, bright orange and more than anyone can count. Why wait to meet aliens when nudibranchs are a thing, these extraterrestrial-like miniature creatures that come in the craziest forms, or even just cuttlefish that can shape-shift and change colours? Let’s not forget the flora: like these gorgeous lilac seaweed I saw on my last snorkelling trip that resembled feathers of a big bird growing out of vibrant corals, calmly swerving side to side as the current passes.

Many people dismiss fish as dumb creatures made to be eaten, but if you think that, you’ve probably never watched tropical fish in their habitat. Their faces hold so much character — almost human, in a way. The triggerfish, for example, has a stern expression, big lips, and unkind eyes that perfectly match its nasty personality.

My personal favourite is the pufferfish, with its googly eyes and chubby, nervous little body. I once stalked one for a good ten minutes before it couldn’t handle the attention anymore and hid under a rock until I left.

Did you know there’s even a fish with a nose that resembles Pinocchio? I don’t know much about them, but I imagine them as snobby French timekeepers — that’s how vividly expressive these fish faces are; you can almost picture what they’d be like as humans.

Divers know this best: fish have personalities. Some are curious and friendly, and some will come straight for you if you’re in their territory, no matter how much bigger you are. It’s disappointing that we don’t appreciate them as much as we should.

Nothing compares to witnessing a Manta Ray in the wild. These majestic creatures will instantly put you in a trance just by being in their presence. Watching them dance in the blue abyss, some are larger than me but they appear so light, like a light veil dropped from a building gracefully floating in the wind. They are calming and regal and hold this tangible energy that I once again find hard to explain. I will never get over witnessing a sea turtle and find it so endearing that they move through life in solitary and admire how comfortable they are being alone. They remind me of puppies as they play in the reef. But my favourite part is seeing them sleep with their eyes closed surrounded by fluffy seaweed and squishy corals, I had once seen one resting its head on a white shell like it was a pillow.

The ocean equally calms me and makes me think more than any other place. I often think about how fish have no idea what they look like and it made me wonder how life would be if I, like a fish, didn’t know what I looked like. How would that be? Like, does a frog fish know how unpleasant it looks? If it had the possibility to see itself and realise that what it’s looking at is actually itself, would it affect them? These are the kinds of questions that arise as I float about.

But mainly, I think about how I envy their freedom in being born with a set purpose and task, that they were put on earth to do a few things and few things only, resulting in them being freed from any questions on their purpose in this world. They do not have to think about what it is that they are, they just do what was programmed. A fish is free.
I may never be as free as a fish but I have felt freer and freer every single time I am in their presence, learning from them just existing. How sometimes maybe I shouldn’t be so preoccupied about what it is I should be or do and just do what feels natural to me and follow my heart like they do with the current. I have also learned that no matter how small or how insignificant I feel, I belong in this world and have something to contribute, just like how the small fishes are detrimental to the well-being of the ocean life, they matter way more than they seem to. This last statement may contradict what I had mentioned in the beginning but both are true and it may be confusing for some but to me it makes perfect sense.
Where the strongest currents are, where the movements are most intense, is where wildlife thrives, bringing in the richest biodiversity because currents carry the most nutrients. The same goes for life, where the most beautiful things grow from rough patches, and every hardship becomes a chance to grow your internal garden bit by bit. Last but not least snorkelling reminds me to stay curious and look closely at things, to take my time observing and being patient, because in those moments is when I discover the most beautiful gems the ocean can offer.

I can assure you that no drug could ever bless me with lessons so impactful.

Vahine Blaise, Komodo Islands, November 2025

Yung Lean

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Yung Lean

Home » Archives for November 2025

I just watched a clip from a Yung Lean interview with the New York Times where he talks about realising that all of “this” isn’t that deep after going sober. In his case, “this” referred to the noise surrounding fame and the music industry but for me, it resonated in a different way.

My mum had asked me to come to the “old house” to see what things I wanted to keep. This was the house we moved into when she finally left an emotionally abusive relationship that she’d been in for over a decade. She has worked very hard to build another home for us now, which we moved into just six months ago. As much as the old house was in an unfavourable area and riddled with rats, it symbolised our freedom. So as much as I hated that house and begged my mum over and over for us to move, or at least fix the collapsing roof, it gave us the shelter and the mental peace we had been deprived of for many, many years. Freedom from living with that man felt so good that I never mourned the more luxurious lifestyle I’d had living with him.

All I cared about salvaging were my diaries. Most of them were half-empty because I loved buying new ones but never managed to stay consistent with journaling. I even found old audio notes buried in my phone, my sleepy voice whispering various “deep thoughts” that honestly made me cringe a little. Some of the writing, though, was surprisingly good. I was impressed by how clearly I could articulate my feelings back then, how well I understood what I was going through as a tween.
I sat there for hours, reading, listening, and reliving every emotion, instantly transported back to the person I was in those moments.

Then came a wave of sadness when I realised that so many of the things I’d been worried about or struggled with hadn’t really changed. It hit me that I’ve spent years feeling upset and confused about the same things, again and again. It felt maddening, like Groundhog Day repeating the same thoughts as if trapped in some loop of obsession. I pictured myself as that person at the metro station, rocking back and forth, mumbling the same sentence endlessly.

Nothing in life should be deep enough for me to struggle with for over a decade. Or at least, I no longer want to accept that for myself.
I’ve tried to give myself grace and I still believe in being patient with myself but I think I may have gone too far. I’ve spent years viewing myself as this chubby, pouty little crybaby who constantly needs care and attention, pointing fingers at all the people who have hurt her. I’ve tried to heal, and to some extent, I have. But I see now that I could never fully do it, because I’ve given too much power to the things that happened to me. As much as being shaped by the trauma you’ve endured is something we cannot change, being defined by it is a choice. It also means giving too much credit to those who have disrespected me, allowing them enough power to live within me for so long. Why would I want them to be a part of me forever? Who are they to have such an impact on the way I move through the world? Why would I allow their actions to rob me of experiencing the beautiful things in this life?

None of us are special. This may sound harsh at first, but if anything, it’s comforting. No one is special enough to have a completely unique thing solely happen to them. Even when something feels like an isolated struggle, we are never truly alone. The beauty of the human experience is that, no matter the distance between us, someone, somewhere, will walk a path that mirrors our own. So to excuse bad behaviour or have a perpetual case of the sulks because that one thing happened to you is too easy. Because there is someone out there who went through the same thing, yet was able to be decent and happy because, well, they simply made the effort to do and be better. It may feel like there is no light at the end of that tunnel sometimes, but there is always a light, always. I don’t know anything about anything, but this is something I could swear down on.

There is real power in letting go. It no longer matters whether they feel regret or share your pain. I’ve learned that it doesn’t make things any easier. Maybe a touch of empathy is better than none, but the pain remains all the same. Now that they’ve done the damage, now what? Are we just going to sit there and scream at the void with no one listening? Maybe it’s time to turn around, walk the other way, and continue on the path.

Now, if you’re reading this and feel some type of way about what was said, I understand and I’m sorry. Who am I to dismiss how you feel?
But all I hope is that you’ll look back one day and realise that Yung Lean was right — it wasn’t that deep.

Vahine Blaise, Bali, November 2025

The Elephant

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The Elephant

Home » Archives for November 2025

I have been blessed with a perfect memory. Not the kind that recalls math formulas or reminds me to return the sweater you left at mine but the kind that remembers how it felt when your fingers accidentally grazed my forearm. I remember the way you looked at me that one time, the crack in your voice when you told me what happened. I remember the moment exactly, how it felt, entirely, perfectly.

I have memories from as early as three years old. Some people tell me that’s impossible, that I must have invented them. But how could that be, when I’ve had them for as long as I’ve been conscious? There’s never been a version of my life without them. And if they’re made up, then how is it that my mother remembers them too?

I can still remember the sounds of the waves crashing as my mum put me in bed in our wooden beach house, how it lulled me yet also terrified me. The head of the snake my father beheaded on the step of my childhood bedroom, the way the ants crawled out of its mouth and the its dead eyes staring back at me. I will remember my mother’s screech before he did it, begging him to not kill it because it is forbidden in our culture. The feeling of deep joy to see my father come home from work, I still feel his strong hands holding me tight. I also remember those same hands yanking me off the floor after I had ripped his cigarettes open thinking they were little gifts. How my little fingers burned when I decided that the chilli needed a bath in the bathroom sink. The feeling of sneezing while eating my mother’s mushroom omelette in the morning and spitting it all over the place every time I sat on the sunny side of the table, because even then, sun rays made me sneeze. The deep frustration I felt when I’d see my own shadow because I hated how my curly hair looked as I tried to rip the strands off my head. I remember the way he enjoyed the very mediocre cookies my mother and I baked, how hard and sweet they were, how he told me I did a good job. How proud I felt in that moment. I remember the love I had for them both and the love they had for each other.

I remember the day he left us, the day she ran to the beach to find him. The fear and confusion of having to sleep at the neighbours for a few days. The smell of their room when it was only her, how unpleasant it was, like as if her tears had a scent. Oh god the pain, in her voice as she held my tiny head in her hands and how irritated I felt for some reason. I will forever recall the moment I understood that he wasn’t coming back. The moment she couldn’t accept it and ran towards to waves to try and join him. And it was like in that moment, my very little self decided that all I could do was remember as it was the only way to keep him alive somehow. 

I can only speculate that keeping his memory so vividly alive has, in turn, trained my brain to remember everything. It’s a habit I’ve practiced for so long that forgetting now feels almost impossible. In many ways, it’s a gift. I’ve become the keeper of happy times, the key to memories others struggle to recall. When we finally sit down for coffee after months apart, I bring up that one story, and I love watching their faces light up as the sweetness of the moment returns to them. It warms my whole being to see them so touched by the fact that I would remember such detail because it lets them know that I care and I care to remember. 

Being in love with a memory like mine can be magical, it’s a strength that makes me a better partner. The small things you say, even when you’re just muttering to yourself about picking something up from the store, stay with me; I’ll remember and bring it home to you. The way your face lit up that one time I made you tea is enough for me to keep doing it, just to see that flicker of joy again. And the harder things too — I’ll never mention that family member again, because I could tell, from the way your body tightened without a word, how deeply it hurt. My memory allows me to love completely, and to love right. And when I miss you, I’ll remember how your sleepy hand felt resting on my tummy this morning and the way your lashes looked up close when I woke before you, and I’ll close my eyes and remember the smell of your sheets and it’ll be like I was still right there with you. 

Like most beautiful things, this kind of memory carries weight, it haunts, it hurts. Sometimes it feels like a curse, because memory does not choose sides. It lets me recall the warmth of your kiss, but also the ache of the last one. I lie there after it’s all over, trapped in the loop of what was, feeling the ghost of your hands that are no longer there. Your voice, still soft and gentle, repeats itself in perfect rhythm, like a record that won’t stop skipping. My heart keeps falling to my gut, again and again, just as it did the first time you told me. 

I bite my tongue when I meet someone new and feel myself starting to fall, holding back from asking them to please be careful, please be gentle — it’s hard for me to forget. But, I do not say anything at all.

Sometimes it feels like no one understands how isolating it is to be the only one who remembers. As if I were the sole witness to something that never really happened. The pain they caused isn’t real to anyone but me because no one else remembers it. Their words and actions still echo, cutting into me over and over again. And when I try to mention it, even lightly, and they respond with “I said that?”, I realise that I was the only one who suffered. That moment wasn’t shared, it was mine alone. 

I have no choice but to remember. I carry everything with me as life goes on, the good and the painful alike. Sometimes it feels heavy, like being followed by ghosts of my own making, a chronic nostalgia that demands effort just to stay present. But it’s worth it, because I get to keep the sweetest memories too the ones that still glow inside me, shaping the young woman I’ve become. I gather them the way I once gathered seashells and small dead crabs on the beach, my father nearby, watching me with that quiet, knowing smile.

Vahine Blaise, Bali, November 2025