That’s the first thought that crosses my mind as I stare at the glossy, perfect surface. Maybe it’s a cake in the bakery window, layered with rich icing and topped with fresh fruit. Or a brand-new phone, sleek and untouched. Maybe it’s a photo on social media—someone’s sunset vacation, their flawless skin, their perfect life. It doesn’t really matter what it is. The feeling is always the same: instant admiration, followed by a curious emptiness.
In a world driven by image, we’re trained to react to appearances. We scroll, click, like, and share based on what looks good. We decorate our lives with filters, polish our moments for an audience, and measure value by how well something presents itself. “It looks so good” has become both a compliment and a trap.
But what lies beneath that surface? What happens when we stop and ask, not just how something looks, but what it means, how it feels, or what it costs?
The cake might be beautiful, but overly sweet. The phone, shiny but distracting. That perfect Instagram photo might be masking exhaustion or loneliness.
There’s nothing wrong with appreciating beauty. We need beauty. We seek it, crave it. But not all that glitters feeds the soul. And sometimes, the most meaningful things aren’t the most polished—the worn-out journal, the messy kitchen after a family meal, the face without makeup, smiling honestly.
So yes, it looks so good. But look closer.
Family Tradition
Every Sunday morning, as the first light filters through lace curtains, our house awakens with the scent of cinnamon and vanilla. It’s the aroma of tradition—one woven through generations, binding us together in ways both visible and unseen. At precisely eight o’clock, my grandmother’s call echoes from the kitchen: “Time for biscuits!” And one by one, we gather.
The ritual begins with my grandmother measuring flour by eye, a gesture learned from her mother, who learned from hers. No recipes, only intuition and memory. With gentle hands, she crumbles cold butter into the bowl, and we watch as the pale lumps become a dough, soft and yielding. My father, ever the perfectionist, steps in to roll and cut each biscuit, his uniform circles marching across the counter like soldiers ready for battle. My younger sister sprinkles sugar on top, her laughter scattering like confetti.
While the biscuits bake, we set the table: a simple white cloth, mismatched china plates collected over decades, and silverware that clinks with history. We light a single candle in the center—flame flickering, casting warm shadows on smiling faces. Somewhere in the background, folk music hums its familiar tune, a nod to our ancestors who danced for harvest and hope.
When the biscuits emerge, golden and steaming, we gather around. Butter melts into every crevice; jam seeps into soft layers. We break them apart slowly, as if reluctant to end the moment. Conversation drifts from school projects and weekend plans to childhood stories: how Grandma once forgot to add sugar, or how my aunt spilled flour everywhere, her cheeks reddening with laughter.
This Sunday tradition doesn’t just feed our bodies—it nourishes our hearts. In the simple act of baking and breaking bread, we honor the past, celebrate the present, and pass a legacy forward. Family tradition is more than ritual; it’s the warm embrace that reminds us we belong.
Song is Stuck in My Head
It starts with just a few notes—maybe a chorus, a catchy verse, or even a simple jingle. Before I know it, the song is playing on repeat in my mind like a broken record. I try to focus on other things, but the melody keeps slipping back in, louder and clearer. It’s stuck in my head, and there’s no getting rid of it.
Sometimes, it’s a song I love, and I don’t mind humming it as I walk down the street or wait in line at the grocery store. But other times, it’s a tune I barely know or don’t even like, and that’s when it gets frustrating. It’s like my brain has its own personal DJ, and unfortunately, it’s not always playing my favorite tracks.
I’ve tried everything to shake it—listening to other music, distracting myself with conversation, even reading in silence—but nothing works right away. The phenomenon is so common that psychologists have given it a name: an “earworm.” It’s a harmless but persistent mental loop, often triggered by hearing just a snippet of a song or experiencing something emotionally charged.
Still, I can’t help but wonder why our minds latch onto these tunes so tightly. Maybe it’s the simplicity of the melody, the repetition of the lyrics, or some hidden emotional connection. Whatever the reason, I’ve learned to live with it. After all, the song usually fades eventually—only to be replaced by another one a few days later.
Until then, I’ll be whistling that chorus under my breath and tapping my fingers to the rhythm. The song is stuck in my head, and for better or worse, it’s the soundtrack of my day.
