writing
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They said silence was golden, but they never mentioned how heavy it could get. The face on the wall is not screaming. Not quite. It’s the kind of expression that happens just after the scream stops. When the echo folds itself into your ribs, and the birds begin to fly out of your mouth because…
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It wasn’t named yet. The thing the child saw. It had no label, no boundary, no fixed place in the catalog of what’s real and what’s not. It just was. Suspended there like a question that had forgotten how to end. The child blinked. It didn’t go away.Instead, it shimmered — not like light, but…
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It doesn’t come from the outside. It never has. What you see—what you call art, creation, a masterpiece—started in a place that no one else gets to live but us. It isn’t always beautiful there. It isn’t even always safe. But it’s ours. And it’s where it begins. The brushstroke is not a brushstroke.The line…
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The mirror in the hallway blinked before you did. It didn’t speak. It didn’t shimmer. It simply waited. You told yourself it was your imagination—the way the air thickened when you passed, the way your reflection lingered a second too long. But you felt it. That hum beneath the surface. That presence watching from behind…
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Once the Glasses Go On, You Can’t Pretend You’re Blind Some truths come dressed in light. Others wait in the corner, arms folded, watching to see if you’ll finally notice the shape they make in the dark. You thought awakening meant you were done with illusions—but no one ever warned you that clarity comes with…
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There is a certain kind of ache in walking awake among the sleepwalkers. You feel it in your bones before you ever speak a word—that pull between knowing and pretending.You remember what it felt like to wear the mask.To shrink your voice down into something digestible.To smile when the room was cold, just to keep…
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There’s a moment, quiet as a breath, loud as a scream, where the creator finally stirs behind sleeping eyes. Not awake yet. But close. Close enough to feel the hum beneath the skin, the ancient rhythm that calls them by name, the one they forgot. Or pretended to. They stretch. Not with limbs, but with…
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When something ancient stirs behind your eyes. A flicker. A pulse. A whisper at the edge of the void saying, “You’ve been here before.” But this time, something’s different. The creator woke up inside the creation. Not above it. Not outside it. But living through the marrow of it. Through bruised knuckles, saltwater tears, and…
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You weren’t meant to remember all of this.Not yet.But there you are… remembering anyway. At first it came in flashes, didn’t it?Like static between radio stations — faces you never met, places you couldn’t have known.But somehow they belonged to you.Somehow, they were you. The watcher woke up before the story ended.And in that pause…
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It begins with a quiet hum. Not a sound, exactly. More like the feeling of breath before it becomes wind. A signal so subtle most miss it unless they’ve sat still long enough to forget they were waiting. I was the one waiting.I thought I was the one watching.But I wasn’t. I was being watched—by…
