writing
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Some things are just not worth fighting for. There’s a moment—sharp and clear—when “enough” is no longer a warning but a wall. You reach it, you feel it, and you know the choice is here: save them or save yourself.Always save yourself. Stop listening to the negative voices. Sometimes they crawl inside, weaving their way…
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You came here in search of an answer.Not the answer, mind you—just one that might scratch that itch you can’t stop picking at. The question has been nesting in your head for years, a restless bird with claws for feet. And yet, from where you stand, you’ll never understand it. If I told you the…
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We were once told to bend our heads and fold our hands, as if we were not the bearers of life itself. To obey without question. To swallow our own thoughts because they might trouble the air. To feel nothing, or at least to pretend we didn’t. We were made to feel small—irrelevant—a placeholder until…
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No one walks into an art gallery and assumes that every painting is about them. No one strolls through a museum pointing at each brushstroke, each sculpture, each dusty relic behind glass, saying, “This was made for me.” And yet—step into life, and suddenly, everyone becomes the main character of a story they barely understand.…
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There it sat.A thing, once forged with purpose, now dulled by time and comfort. Not broken. Not ruined. Just… hollow. Not by accident, but by design. Its shape still held, the surface intact, but what echoed inside was nothing. No resonance, no meaning—just a vacuum of self-importance. To the untrained eye, perhaps it was still…
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I see you out there.Squinting into lives you don’t understand, like you’re peering through glass that only reflects your own face back at you.You think you’re watching a fall from grace.But you’re really just watching someone climb a mountain you’ve never had the courage to approach. You parade your opinions like a letterman jacket from…
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You never loved me. You just wanted to own me. You didn’t fall in love with me.You fell in love with your reflection in my eyes.I was the canvas, you were the brush—but the painting was always your own face.You whispered sonnets soaked in sugar,but every word was a leash.You didn’t want a partner.You wanted…
