a very small roof
on the stop
for the bus—
but which one

I’ve been here
sitting since forever
looking at a spider
and its little legs

but

faces and voices
dreams and noises
waiting near me
waiting with me

faces and voices
they come and go
banter with me
and— leave me

i look up and see
the bus in front of me
and those green eyes
in the window

the green eyes
of a man only sitting
at the bus stop
doing nothing else

and he is so scared

next bus passes through
and this green-eyed man
looks all high and mighty
in his stupid suit

another bus
he now looks old
another bus
and he is trying his best

now he’s very young
(never made it past his twenties)
now he’s going on a date
now he’s going to a wake

he has a daughter
he has a cat
he has a near empty bottle
in his hand

he’s with his mom
he’s all alone
he looks very fat
he should wear a hat he’s surrounded by friends he’s being mugged he’s smiling to his phone he is wailing he can’t tell right from wrong he doesn’t even try he knows his path he is adrift he believes he’ll be saved

he knows there’s no future ahead
he is singing for coins and bread
he reads out loud from a book
he never went to school

he has become a blur

eventually there are
far fewer buses
until the last one
passes by

but I'm still waiting for mine
so perhaps that last one
isn’t the last one
right?

no more faces
no more voices
no more dreams
no more noises

just his eight little legs
finally reaching the roof
of the bus stop
and I wonder

how many sets of eyes
did he see?

my bus never came
if it ever was mine
to begin with
so I guess—

i’ll start walking

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Somewhere in that limbo I dreamt of a white cat—
one who was asleep on my lap

Dreamt a lot more of course but can’t remember now,
there was no energy to write it down

Even now I remember his weight. Not the cat’s of course, no.
My dog’s — whose whimpers would know, while scratching under the door.

He would know
‎

I can feel so lonely sometimes in here
though I am the one who puts the weight against the door.
Yeah, the lock’s not enough here

I can always hear them laughing after I leave the table
I can hear the soccer match at the park, the dogs barking,
the incessant bass from that goddamned bar,
and the fireworks from the neighbors next door.

Why. There’s no celebration,
only the allergies their negligence gives me

All of this through my window that shows me nothing
just another four sad, badly painted walls.

My stupid walls are as white and unadorned as I am.
‎

No seasons here, nothing ever changes
You all speak of it, and it stings me to my core how I’m so far away—
again.

Only music, who now becomes my pain once more
My one constant I can never be sure of
‎

No strength to reach out, but… at least this time I know I can.
I know I will next time
‎

Next time… damn
‎

I’m writing now and it gives me back my self to me,
for a while.
That small breath of fresher air

How can there be a purpose to it all, a reason.
Please let there be one—
one that I cannot see from beneath my bed sheets.

‎

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Today began as the day ended: Hours stretching into infinity with no real purpose to them.

A regular day it seems. Okay.

I drag myself through it like I have for the past few weeks. Grey, grey. The sun feels warm on the skin, not my skin - everyone else’s. I check my phone: no messages, no mail, a plethora of useless notifications. Eventually I get out of bed and slowly shuffle myself down the stairs. Familiar voices are so distant, but so loud too.

Another day.

Eat more than I need, stay in my pajamas, further dissolve into nothingness.

A thought! The neighbors’ dog might be around. That means instant dopamine, right? Go back up, put on my buttoned green sweater – my favorite companion now. Go back down, slightly faster now. Open the door, cross the threshold, look and – nope. Why should I even care I mean it’s not like it’s my own dog, mine is gone and has been for a while and even if that other one were there what would it even…

huh.

It seems there’s mail.

I walk over to the mailbox. Open it, and sure enough: Nothing. Awesome. Stupid kids. Wait… what’s that? Mold? Of course. Love this day so far. Now there’s black mold growing on my — wait waaaait, what…? Why is it growing. It’s actually larger now. What is that … wriggling — Hooold on that’s not mold it’s not mold at all, what the actuaal fu-

Is that a mystic space portal behin-

OH SHI-

¡¡FFFFSSCHHIIUUUUUUMMMM!!

Whoever told you that interdimensional magic portals were instantaneous – dead wrong. Remember Loki falling for 30 minutes? Yeah, like that, but worse. It’s like being peeled out of reality and stretched through infinity. It feels like falling upwards and not quite as fast as you’d expect.

This one is a claustrophobic swirling mess of black, red, and green splotches everywhere intermingling.

After some unfelt time trying to focus, I can see what this mess is made out of — maybe. Those aren’t mere shapes, no. They’re letters! Words actually – whole words, drifting past like debris in a tornado.

Oh.

Oh no, that is….

Dear God, it’s French!!

I extend my hand towards a single word, brume, and it goes through but not without offering some slight resistance. Liquidy resistance. Grateful for the little light and my eyes now adapted to the dark, I can see that my hand is now dripping with dark, lustrous ink.

A growing, wriggling, ever-consuming ink.

If I wasn’t before, NOW I’m panicking. Why was I feeling grateful this is even worse now! Extending from my hand, through my arm, and slowly covering my entire body, my last thoughts obviously go to “so this is what commander Rourke must have felt”.

Great last words. No notes.

I come to face down on the floor.

Did I fall once more? Shit, that was the weirdest dream. Back to bed.

Whoa, why’s my hand dirty, looks stained. Ink. wh-

“Hey dude, you okay? You look weird.”

I hear her voice before I see her. What?

“Come on, don’t drool on my floor! Get up, man”

Like under a spell I do as she says while my eyes still adjust to the scenery.

Thankful for the gentle amber warmth, I can see now soft blankets draped over creaky wooden chairs, shelves overflowing with well-loved books and cared-for snow globes, several plants thriving in every corner; flickering candles carefully placed on multiple surfaces reveal it all, including her.

And her wall-climbing, ceiling-crawling, cat. … What.

Aaanyways, her.

She stands confidently in the middle of the room, wearing a detailed burgundy dress paired with a sheer black shawl that hangs from her arms like drifting shadow. Heavy, decorated boots.. huh, doc martens! Shimmering piercings catch the candlelight, scattered across her features like small constellations. Her hair seems dark at first, but threaded throughout are shifting, mesmerizing colors that move and change effortlessly. And her tattoos. HER TATTOOS! They move too. They curl and glide beneath the surface in slow, intricate patterns — there’s life to them! They are alive.

Her green eyes lock onto me immediately — sharp, precise.

Shit. I got caught staring.

“I told you, stop drooling !”
“I—”

Yeah, no. Nothing useful comes out. I just gesture vaguely. Her. The cat. The room. Everything.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“You’re stable. Good. No bleed, no echo…”
“No what?”
“You’re fine.”

That… does not help.

She sighs. A decision has been made, and so she gestures toward the door.

“Alright. You’re okay, you’re intact, and you’re not immediately dissolving into ink. That’s good enough for me.”
“That’s your bar??”
“Today ? Yes.”

Fair.

The door creaks open, cool air spilling in. She steps aside, one hand on the frame, the other making a small, gentle shooing motion.

“Go on. You’ll be okay. Probably.”

I hesitate.

Her gaze stays on me for a second longer, steady and expectant. Then, livelier, she says:

“Out ! Before the house decides it likes you.”

I pause, then I start slowly shifting towards the door, still amazed by everything around me.

She exhales through her nose, glancing back at me like she’s already accounted for this moment.

“You weren’t pulled here by accident. You’ll fit somewhere.”

That lands… weirdly well.

A small shooing motion again, softer this time. Not pushing me away but simply letting me go.

And I do.

CHAPTER II

The forest

The door closes behind me with a creak and a soft click, and I take a small moment to take it all in. The fresh air outside feels cool, clean, carrying earthy smells of resinous pine and petrichor. It must have rained recently, which is lovely. No sarcasm there. Tall trees gather around and the moss feels soft on my …. bare feet, nice.

Must have lost my flip flops on the ink vortex.

Speaking of, I’m still in my pajamas, but also have the green sweater on, phew, that’s important. Coziness. Alright!

And so, I start walking, feeling all hobbit-like in this enchanting forest.

I walk for around ten minutes, having found a pathway between the trees, still processing all that’s happened. Trying my damndest not to worry about the future. And amidst the sounds of songbirds and a gentle breeze whispering between the branches up high, I find myself still thinking of her, of , and all I saw inside her cabin. So, there’s magic here.. and that freaking cat, I mean it looked cute and all, but like, how was it-

Suddenly, a dog!

A beautiful labrador retriever walking alongside a woman through the pathway, they see me and kindly greet me, I pet the doggie a little and already feel more relaxed. That woman was with a sweet little “hello, welcome traveler!”

Still under the joy felt by being greeted by someone new, and of course the petting of the dog, I start to feel slightly elated as I walk.

That is until, some minutes of wandering later, I hear it: a gentle, wistful, impossible melody. I am instantly drawn to it and stray off the path to follow the sound.

Again, as if I suddenly was under a spell.

There, in a meadow sitting near some rocks along a small creek, is playing the flute. I don’t want to interrupt this little moment in time, it feels precious. But what I want and what the dry branches under my feet decide are rarely the same thing. She turns towards me, slightly jolted, but doesn’t stop playing.

Or does she?

The melody kept going, echoing through the trees, but her fingers did stop for a moment there. I’m sure I saw that…!

Still, I smile and wave at her and she answers accordingly with her head, still mid-melody, with a gentle acknowledgment. Mysterious. Charming too.

I retrace my steps and reach the path once more, see a couple other cabins and rustic, yet well-kept, cottages in the way, until I watch in the distance a man; that would be . He is taking a quiet walk along the edges of the forest, pausing often. He carries a small notebook in his hand but sure seems to take his time writing there; he’s mainly observing. Peculiar.

I try not to be seen, who knows what he could write about me: the random man on his pajamas wandering through an enchanted forest.

As I reach the edge of the forest I see , with a gorgeous dog accompanying her, painting on the biggest canvas I’ve seen ever! Taking inspiration from different deer and other creatures that she’s seen in the forest, painting in what seems to be a glowing canvas far too large to be called as such - in a normal world of course. This place is starting to confuse me in a most fascinating way.

The plains

The lush forest slowly begins to thin out giving way to wider paths, smooth cobblestone, and the first signs of small buildings.

One of these houses catches my eye immediately. Fabrics of all kinds hang from its walls and windows, diverse colors and arrangements that are stretching slightly on their own, snapping back, weaving together… my awe has reached new heights. This is ’s place, and I swear I recognize some of the patterns! Are those.. cartoons? Now I’m feeling nostalgic. That’s cool.

The path shifts and a few more houses appear, closer together now.

First, there’s ’s, and would you look at that! More cartoons, am I seeing a pattern here? Not yet but now expectation has been built. Gazing through the window I manage to see mountains of books, an entire shelf dedicated to … dice, and hear her hum a gentle melody. That one’s from Barbie! I recognize it!! Ok, so I’m not in another dimension altogether, just in a similar, and apparently better, place to the one I know.

Off in the distance I notice a mysterious house, dimly lit even in daylight, a sly shadow gathering around it. For some reason it feels like it belongs; it’s a contrast, yet also a vital part of the picture. It scares me a little to be fair.

As I’m strolling through, stopping momentarily to admire that shadowy effect, I hear fast footsteps getting considerably closer and turn right on time to move out of the way from this medieval-looking knight (WHAT!)

From beneath the helmet I hear a muffled female voice say:

“Hi, welcome! You look weird. Ok see ya!”
“Wha.. wait — hey! Who even lives out there?”

I say, pointing towards the shadowy house.

“Dusk guy! Nicholas… something.. !!”

And this knight doesn’t stop and keeps on trotting to where I was headed. Seriously. What’s going on. Later I’d learn her name was .

Further in, the air starts to feel slightly less wild and I notice a small open studio that rests just off the path, blending into the place naturally. Canvases everywhere, soft colors, a calming energy. There’s another beautiful, golden dog this time, looking up as I pass and that just makes me feel more in touch with this whole place. ’s studio, where she creates her most inspiring artworks.

Not too far from there, I pass by a small garden tucked just off the path. Less wild than the forest, but by no means less alive. Rows of herbs, freshly turned soil; small signs of constant care. A kind-looking woman moves through it, barefoot too! She looks up as I pass and gives me an easy smile.

“Hey there, hello friend!”
“Uh… hi”

She chuckles softly, brushing soil from her hands.

“I’m . I see you’re getting your bearings but if you ever feel like stopping by properly, you’re welcome here!”

I nod and smile. I’m absolutely coming back later.

By now the forest is completely behind me, though I can still see it when I turn. This is such a lovely place!

One more home that caught my attention as I walked by was ’s. Her house seems divided into multiple small creative spaces both outside and inside from what I can notice through the tall windows; each space dedicated to something entirely different! She glides between them freely, following curiosity. Incredible.

The village

Eventually the path evens out and leads me towards an archway that is connected to a long stone wall, barely a meter tall and built from uneven rocks stacked with careful precision, establishing the boundaries of the main village. This place is enormous! But it’s not quite a city either, it seems walkable.

These bare feet are made for walkin’ ... but now I’m tired.

It’s been a lot. Need to process. I simply sit against the wall a couple meters away from the main path and take a breather. One. Two. Three deep breaths.

What am I doing. Why am I here. It’s beautiful, yes, but also a lot. I’ve already greeted more people in an hour than I normally do in a week. Do I want to wake up? No. Won’t go back. I can’t. Besides, she said I’ll fit somewhere.

Gotta trust the weird goth lady.

And there are several adorable dogs here.

I let the quiet settle for but a moment longer, feeling the breeze pass through carrying distant sounds with it: voices, faint music, a rhythmical metallic clanking in the background, footsteps.

One thing. Two things. Three things. Four things. Five things.

Alright

I push myself up, brushing imaginary dust off my pajamas, and glance once more at the archway.

Not feeling dramatic, trying not to make it feel like a big decision, I walk in; and just like that, the village opens up.

CHAPTER III

People walking. People talking. Colors everywhere. Buildings of stone, wood, and the occasional piece of magic. Sounds mix together in what would appear to be a cacophony.

Nope. Too much.

Still looking inward, I instinctually take a step back, then another, and would have taken a third one were it not because I stumbled and fell ass backwards.

And then, a cackling laughter.

She laughed so hard! It is an infectious laughter, and so I started laughing too. Let’s be honest, that must have looked funny.

“Are you okay???”

She said, wiping away a tear from her eye. I stood up to see who laughed at me. No, with me.

And saw a woman with black, incredibly curly hair, wearing the most colorfully striped and coziest of cardigans, fun-looking pants that subtly change color with the light, a plethora of bracelets, and a beautiful necklace she later told me was gifted to her by a literal goddess.

…Was that a secret? Sorry !

“I’m alright, I think. It just felt like a lot and then, well... you saw that backflip attempt.”
“Yeah, you almost got it! But it’s ok”

And smiled again, most tenderly... a smile that felt like such a tight hug. All too necessary.

We talked for a moment, and she offered to guide me for a little while; after all, she also had to walk through the whole town delivering messages and fliers.

The first stop was the main thoroughfare, a plaza in the middle of the town where a farmers’ market was taking place. There she introduced me to who was picking some parsnip, cauliflower and strawberry seeds for her garden; , who had the most peculiar looking basket where every fruit and vegetable she placed in it instantly became so... well, aesthetically pleasing; and .

After taking off her headphones to greet us I could still hear subtle traces of what she was listening to; didn’t recognize it at the time but knew that those were some real bangers!

Anyway, she was picking the best ingredients for the most scrumptious salad ever, with the confidence of someone who has never in her life picked a bad tomato.

Fiona then showed me what I could only describe as the heart of the town: ’s Diner.

Warm light spilled out into the street and the coziest of chatter and laughter came through the windows. We entered and I was amazed by all the art inside — It was a place to, properly, celebrate people’s expressions of life! Paintings on the walls, a scenario for poetry and song, even the kitchen was adorned with a bunch of colored tiles depicting multiple lovely scenarios.

Inside I instantly recognized the knight from before, unmistakable with her armored dress - already mid-story of her adventures and drinking from the mightiest of tankards that would make Merry and Pippin jealous. Then there was , who was attentively listening to the knight’s story; with two swords hanging from her belt, one at each side. Tremendous. And with a similarly tremendous gentleness, sat comfortably in her chair by the hearth, smiling to herself while reading a beautiful white book.

In one table there was setting up a board game of sorts and teaching several other patrons how to play; I’m always up for a good DnD session so I might end up becoming a regular, so long as there are fruit salads on the menu. Oh, and the one by the stage singing and playing her guitar is none other than , who held the whole room together while performing a song from her adventures – something about… going to jail?? What?

There were several more people inside, all their faces reflecting the wondrous quality of the place and the food, but these were the ones my new friend introduced me to.

We both stepped back out into the street, the warmth of the diner lingering still for a moment before giving way to the cool, open air.

Now, besides all the fascinating, intriguing, and admittedly attractive people I saw, there were also cats everywhere! A town of cats! We of course stopped to pet them whenever they allowed it, which, luckily, was often.

All around us, little pockets of life kept forming: small gatherings, passing laughter, even some friendly dueling! I’m not sure when it happened exactly, but… I was actually starting to feel excited to be here.

That realization caught me off guard.

I was smiling.

Not long after, we met with , just outside what looked like a laboratory but… with plenty of books too. Fiona explained to me a little about this alchemist’s prowess on writing evocative stories (some of which can be somewhat… provocative). A fascinating man indeed.

As I was still thinking about those books, a door burst open nearby, startling us, and out stepped . Wide-eyed and with bright excitement; a spark in her eyes. Behind her, a lively arcade glowed with colorful lights and playful sounds. And just like that, she went off with a pep in her step and an idea in her head; a flurry of a dark, intricately stitched dress trailing behind her.

A few steps later we met – colorful headband on, sleeves rolled, hands deep into some half-assembled arcane mechanism. He looked up and greeted us with an immediate, almost disarmingly strong warmth. So magnetic. And to this day I still don’t know what he was working on. It seemed cool though.

And then, further along, we found , right in the middle of a small group of children. She was accompanied by a peculiar parrot who seemed to communicate fluently with her. Maybe another professor? I made a quick mental note to ask the inky witch if there are animagi here. Be that as it may, she smiled towards us without breaking the flow of the class and continued teaching, entirely at ease.

We kept going for a while, getting to know new places like the Observatory Hill where lives - she had the most incredible antique chair and work setup ever, and ’s bakery where we stopped for a little while to catch a delicious, crunchy, bite - accompanied by a cappuccino for her and black coffee for me. Someone else at the bakery we met was having her own coffee, must be Monday then, good time to notice. Well, she was kind!

I’m now feeling a little better, still taking it all in of course, and it’s a lot — but having this moment to rest and watch the village unravel outside the window is, quite honestly, a blessing.

Going outside did trigger the shock once more.

Damn it.

So many beautiful people, and I don’t want to talk to a single one. Even my voice is tired, I just — get quiet.

We walk around a little more and Fiona most likely noticed the shift in my demeanor because we stopped drifting and began moving with more purpose, somewhere.

She is now taking me towards the outskirts of the village - an idea on her mind, I bet. I’m just not processing anymore so I simply let myself be guided forwards.

There’s another archway in the distance, opposite the first one we crossed. Huh. Literally traversed the town now, I mean, that’s good. Achievement unlocked or whatever.

Oh, and my feet are now growing calluses. Those hobbits are seriously resilient.

One step, then the next.

One person close by, then the next.

A chime, then the next. And the next. And the next.

I turn around looking for whatever bell created that glorious sound and eventually find it: A bell tower crowning a small chapel. A white, wooden building just off the path, rosebushes curling around its walls.

Again, I take a couple of steps and move toward it.

Inside, I notice this lady, , pacing gently, rehearsing what must be a speech, with a notebook in hand.

This feels… nice.

A warmness.

I can definitely see people gathering around her to listen to her discourse, or her voice — most likely both.

I keep getting closer until I see her companion inside as well:

A massive orange tiger, lying calmly on the floor, listening as if it understands every word she says.

… I know I should be surprised.

I might be. I just can’t feel it right now.

Heh.

Colorful stripes… kinda like—

OH NO, FIONA!

I run back to where I last saw her. She’s not there. She’s gone. Where could she be we were just looking at that church when she simply disappeared or maybe it was I who-

Ah no wait, there she is.

Curls in the wind, walking back from the archway.

“Sir, you ditched me! How could you?”
“No wait, I jus-“
“I’m kidding! Don’t worry, it’s alright. Just one final stop for us, come on! You can do it!”

And so, we walked.

The village started thinning out, its sounds peeling away one layer at a time. Buildings gave way to wider paths, then to open space, then to the most wonderful quiet. At least in comparison. There’s now a gentle, constant murmur. One that was definitely present while we were at the village proper but couldn’t really hear over all the noise.

And now it presented its source:

A large river stretching across the land, easily twenty meters wide at least, moving in a slow and steady rhythm. Water catching the glimmer of the sun as it begins its descent towards the horizon, breaking it into scattered gold.

The riverlands

We followed the road until it turned from cobblestone to a wooden walkway, getting closer to the river itself. There are still several houses and buildings around, though definitely less so than before, multiple high reaching trees forming a grove, and there’s even a small dock with a couple of boats tied nearby.

Fiona then pointed towards one particular house, technically a treehouse, saying that that’s where she’ll go now to visit her friend and that I should definitely visit her as well some other time. I can see a chicken coop beside the treehouse, as well as a defined spot for a fireplace. It seems extremely cozy there, so I will probably go. Another day though.

Huh, “another day”? Planning to stay -me-? When was that decided?

She interrupts my thoughts:

“Okay it’s been nice to meet you, byebyeeee!”

And just like that she left. Easy come easy go, I guess. Way to read the room honestly, that’s such a gift.

I kind of stand there for a second like I’m supposed to answer, but… who wants to have the final word on a nice conversation? So I just smile and wave back even though she’s now quite far away.

Now, with the entire weight of my body, and of my heavy mind, pushing me downwards, I feel so damn exhausted.

I’ve ignored my tiredness all too much today, possibly even longer than that..

And I just plop down on the edge of the pier, feet dangling over the water while being softly splashed by the river.

For a while.

No thoughts,
no questions,
nothing.

Cero responsibility towards time; let it do what it does, I don’t really care right now.

And that is peace.

CHAPTER IV

The sun is slowly setting, the water no longer sparks, and I notice I’ve reached the end of the day still wearing my pajamas. That doesn’t happen often. That’s reserved for the worst days but today wasn’t one of those.

Not by a large margin.

Why must thoughts still form even when I’m trying to find some peace and quiet here; It’s always like that.

Meh, nothing to it. It just is.

I can hear some people walking around this side of town, and it’s good that even here it still feels lively, only softer.

Footsteps on wood behind me.

Nah, not turning immediately. Just... please don’t push me.

“You know, in rivers like this most fish aren’t actually in the middle of the current. They mainly stick to quieter edges where the water is slower; it’s simply better for them.”

Now I glance back.

is standing there, looking at the river as if in mid-conversation with her own thoughts. Behind her, slows down his step and adds:

“So they’re basically in low-energy mode; pacing themselves really well.”
“Efficiency problem!” She says. “Nature just doesn’t waste effort.”

He hums, amused.

Then she shifts towards me and says:

“Anyway, pajama-based river contemplation is an interesting life choice dude.”

Lexie laughs a little, while I just let out a quiet breath through my nose. Like the actual laughter you have when you reply “lol” — not fully committed.

“I guess? Didn’t really plan it though.”
“That’s how the best life choices usually go.”

She gives me a sly smile, while Lexie gets closer and sits down next to me.

After a moment he tells me:

“This is actually a really good spot you found; it’s got a nice calming energy to it. Kind of like you...”

Wait, did he just…?

“Long day?” He asks
“You could say that, yep.”
“Been there, it gets better though… Well, we’ll leave you to it, it’s been a pleasure! You looked lonely so we wanted to stop by, check up on you.”

That’s so touching

He then smiles and the day suddenly feels a little warmer.

We talked a little more, then said our goodbyes knowing we would most likely see each other again.

It was a beautiful sunset.

Whatever, or whoever brings the night, I know will be exciting — just not for me tonight.

The river whispered softly beneath me as the first stars began to shine through — it leads to a sea I will one day discover.

This dock, this place, this village... these people; each a melody I could learn. Maybe even write a small song for.

Tomorrow I might play, I might dive, I might just wander again.

Time will tell.

Tomorrow could bring more people, more stories, more dogs, cats, and magic — but tonight I simply watched the river and felt the world exist around me.

The hours are still there, stretching into each other... but they don’t feel empty anymore.

I look at my hand, still stained. Good.

I think she was right.

You who are reading this, know that I love you and this is but a little way to show it. At the time of writing these words I’ve been here for barely over two months and it’s been such a wild ride - specifically one of growth for me.

Please let me know what you thought here - maybe I didn’t capture your aura or maybe I didn’t mention you. This is a pretty large village, and there are plenty of people here I haven’t yet met or interacted with more than a passing smile.

I love seeing all your endeavors.

And your pets.

- Juan

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ACT I

We have been told she is special - something with her blood, something about dragons, though no one explains what that means in any way that matters once the blades come out. Orders are simpler than the truth: Keep her alive. Do not let them take her.

That should be enough.

And yet, from the moment I see her — ebony hair catching the pale spill of daylight through the high windows, her left eye half-hidden by shadows, her right eye a faint glowing ember — I feel something settle into place that has nothing to do with command. It’s not recognition, not quite. Something more akin to inevitability, as if the shape of this moment had already been determined and I have only now stepped into it.

This house is wrong for defense. Too many openings, too much light filtering in. Sunlight cuts across the floors in long, cold bands that expose every movement. Every misstep. Steel crashes and rings from below, sharp and constant, punctuated by shouts that end too quickly. Sound travels cleanly through the walls, giving shape to a fight I cannot see but understand all too well.

They are getting closer.

I guide her toward the stairs, one hand clutching my rapier, the other hovering near her shoulder without quite touching. She moves when I do, quick to follow, quicker than I honestly expect it. Good. That helps. Everything depends on that — on motion, on timing, on the fragile illusion that we are still ahead of what’s coming.

A crash breaks through the rhythm below: wood splintering, boots fast on tile, unknown voices.

“Up!” I tell her, already moving.

We climb towards the terrace, sounds follow. At the landing one of ours stumbles past, blood running down his arm and his grip on his weapon loose but unyielding. A quick, silent look. Understandment. That was the last time I was going to see him. Keep moving. Grieve later. There will be time to account for it all. There has to be.

Harsh daylight floods the upper floor, striping the world of shadow, leaving everything exposed — us most of all. Beyond, figures move with practiced, inevitable, precision. Dark coats. Measured steps. Blades that rise and fall without hesitation.

We meet them before they reach her.

The clash is imminent, overwhelming in its clarity. Steel strikes steel with a brightness that cuts through thought. A flurry of small moments becoming life or death decisions that are barely noticeable. They don’t seem to want to hurt her, but won’t hesitate either to do what must be done to secure her. I plant myself between her and them; not because orders say so, but because there is nowhere else I would rather be.

The fight stretches and compresses. Time loses its shape under the repetition of choices. Someone falls beside me, I feel their still hopeful eyes on me as they lose their spark. I do not turn, I cannot. The space in front of me demands everything.

And then, abruptly, it doesn’t.

Pressure breaks, the line falters, and the remaining attackers withdraw. Yet not in panic, but with purpose.

A wrongness settles in before I understand why. I turn and—

She is gone.

The absence is immediate and absolute, like a melody cut off in half. For a moment the world continues around this absence — the clash of distant blades, the scraping of boots on now-wet floor — and none of it reaches me. The space she occupied feels defiled, as if she should still be standing there just beyond sight.

“They’ve taken her”, one of my companions says.

Taken.

That word lands heavier than any blow.

Time stops for but a moment as if it ceased mattering anymore.

Below we hear the sound of engines humming to life. We reach the edge of the terrace in time to see the black cars pulling away along the paved street, their movement smooth, unhurried, as though resistance had never been a possibility.

I don’t remember deciding to move. Only that I cannot remain where I am.

‎

ACT II

We follow them into the dark, though I could not say how we end up finding the palace. The path dissolves in memory even as I move through it, replaced instead by a sound - a cacophony - that grows steadily stronger the closer we get. Something vast and rising, cutting through the night with complete certainty.

By the time the palace reveals itself, with its pale stone wings stretching in perfect, repeating symmetry, and its tall windows receding into shadow-like reflections of themselves, the music has already taken hold.

Fire consumes the entire west wing, its light spilling out across the vast courtyard in flickering gold and violent shadow. The flames bend the air, distort the stone, and amid the crashing of swords and the crackling of burning wood, an impossible orchestra rises — clear, powerful, unbroken by the destruction around it.

The battle unfolds as we enter, steel and shouts are absorbed into the swell of sound until it becomes difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. The rhythm of battle finds its place within the music, or perhaps it’s the music that which reshapes the fight itself. Either way, I move through both as if they are one and the same.

Forward. Always forward.

After little time I see her across the courtyard near the edge of the firelight, her hair mixing with the shadow that battles the flame. Two soldiers are taking her inwards, towards an entrance below the burning second floor. A window explodes and bathes them with colorful flashes of glass.

Nothing harms her.

Seeing her, untouched by the surrounding chaos, the world narrows down for me again towards that single and inevitable point. That same pull I felt earlier in the day is sharpened now into urgency.

I start running towards her while her captors keep on ushering her into darkness.

Soldiers in the way are cut down without a second glance; the only thing that exists is the point I’m at, and where she is.

Oh, and him.

Considerably larger than the others, his presence immediate and immovable. Firelight gathers along the curve of his shoulders and his shaved head. No armor, only glistening, scarred skin, and a greatsword that has no right to be that big. It’s basically as tall as me, how in the world would I—

No time to think - that first strike, though repelled, still surprises me. Its force travels through my arms and into my chest; a blunt reminder that speed alone will not carry me to victory. He presses forward, with an unnerving precision that wastes nothing, each movement calculated to end rather than test.

This is taking too long, she’s right there! The world narrows down to distance, to timing, to the thin margin where his reach fails and mine begins. My blade is lighter, faster, can find better openings that exist only for an instant. But a single strike from him will mean my end. I take any opening available without hesitation, each motion driven less by strategy and more by the growing certainty that I am already too late.

The music climbs higher, impossibly so, filling the space that was left by thought.

Fire and shadow dance to the sounds of a dying orchestra, one that refuses to stop even as destruction reaches it.

There! — A shift, a fraction of a moment. Just enough.

I lunge.

‎

…

The music breaks.

Not fades — breaks.

As though the thread holding it together has been cut.

‎

Blood.

Darkness.

And her blood-curdling scream is the last thing I hear.

‎

‎

‎

ACT III

The bell above the door rings softly as it opens. A small, precise sound that settles into the quiet of the shop and lingers there with its sweet echo.

I have grown to appreciate sounds like that. They are easier to hold onto.

Outside, the day is warm, unremarkable. Wonderfully so. Inside, the air holds the faint weight of old wood and older things — objects that draw the curious more often than the serious.

They’ve asked if the pieces are magical.

I tell them that they carry memories, an answer that satisfies them gleefully.

Footsteps cross the threshold — light, measured, accompanied by the soft shift of the bell settling back into place, and that of soft fabric against movement.

“Helloo?” a young voice calls.

I look up.

She moves through the shop with a kind and careful attention that feels out of place for her age, pausing at each shelf as though each object holds something worth considering. Her hands hover close to the surfaces without touching. It seems she understands that some things are not to be disturbed and so become all the more precious.

She stops at the old chest near the window. Of course she does.

A wooden dragon, not larger than my palm, rests where it always has. Worn smooth by time and gentle handling. She picks it up turning it slowly in her hands and carries it towards the counter.

Sunlight catches in her hair.

Black.

Not the same, no. Not entirely.

With the aid of my hollowed-out cane I stand. It’s still difficult, but she is worth my reverence. My hand brushes along the worn grip, thumb catching the seam where, with a twist and a click, the wood would part to reveal the thin steel hidden within. Old habits do linger.

She carries the wooden dragon to the counter, tilting and turning it.

“Where did this come from?” she asks.

Up close, the details come together too quickly. That steadiness in her gaze, the quiet yet deliberate way she stands. And then the light catches her eye—

My breath catches.

The world narrows.

I…

—

‎

I wake.

‎

‎

This story came to me nearly six years ago, at night of course.
I’ve done my best to portray it as it felt back then and believe me, those visuals, and sounds (particularly the scream), still haunt me most delightfully until today.
This is my little way of immortalizing my favorite dream so far, brought to you thanks to for inspiring the idea through the simplest and most wonderful of questions.

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Steam rises from a charming mug on the kitchen table,
the morning’s light glides across the counter
casting long shadows of cups and spoons.
A window rattles in the still air,
and the hum of the fridge, steady,
welcomes a new day.

Laundry flutters on the line outside with the morning breeze
sunlight brushing every fold and crease,
time pressing into the drying cloth.
Swallow wings stir the open air
as it lands briefly on the fence
offering its sweet song.

Two people sit side by side on a worn couch,
sharing silence and a quiet smile,
hands brushing unconsciously.
A nervous laugh slips between them
as the room grows warmer, familiar, alive.
Presence becomes everything, words falling away.

A well-loved book opens again after years,
its pages whispering memories long forgotten.
Lines once overlooked now bloom with meaning.
Time reshapes all too familiar characters
as words breathe life into tucked-away corners,
and suddenly the past feels fully present.

A single idea begins, too small to notice,
folded, repeated, and layered with care.
The piece grows, gathering weight in its own tempo,
taking shape like a calm spiral,
eventually becoming alive and full,
resonating like life unfolding note by note.

and a key change!

Todo está aquí
en lo pequeño que persiste,
en la luz que se detiene,
en lo que vuelve sin ruido,
y que poco a poco
se vuelve todo.

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Observation:
First sighting of a male duck. Plumage intact, behavior alert. He displays what can only be described as an attitude: quick turns of the head, lateral stepping, a refusal to yield ground. Some refer to it as “walking like he owns the place.”

Initial contact established via food offering (bread). Accepted without visible hesitation. Distance reduced incrementally over approximately one hour of intermittent exchange.

Subject remains within close proximity for an extended duration.

A provisional relational dynamic is created.

Commentary:
An hour is long enough to feel like something has been established, even if nothing might have. I found myself adjusting to his pace: waiting when he stepped back and staying still when he watched. It began to feel coordinated, which could mean that I was the one adapting more quickly. I referred to him as “my boy”. It felt accurate at the time, which is precisely what makes it considerably unreliable. The coordination may not have been shared. It was, however, sustained. He stayed. I stayed. That is the full account of the day.

April 1, 2023

Conditions: Light sun, intermittent cloud cover, ~12°C. Early cherry blossoms visible.

Observation:
First sighting of a female duck. Positioned at a distance beyond reach, across a narrow and still waterway (approx. 2 meter wide).

No attempt at contact. Movement pattern cautious, continuous scanning.

Commentary:
It is tempting to begin linking appearances, to assume continuity where there may only be repetition. I did not cross the water. She did not come closer.

April 17, 2023

Conditions: Mild, still air, ~14°C. Vegetation thickening.

Observation:
Adult female accompanied by multiple ducklings (exact count uncertain). Group observed moving through the waterway, passing through rather than settling.

Upon noticing my presence, she positions herself between observer and offspring. The group compresses behind her body, partially obscured, and continues moving.

No pause within the yard.

Commentary:
This was not an encounter so much as a passage. Still, the message was immediate and unambiguous. I shifted slightly, out of curiosity more than intention. She adjusted faster than I did, maintaining the barrier. There is a clarity in being assigned a position and being kept there. They passed through. I remained.

April 18, 2023

Conditions: Partly cloudy, ~13°C. Light southwest wind.

Observation:
Adult pair feeding together at a distance. Coordinated movement, no conflict observed.

Possible identification: male subject from March 29 and an adult female (uncertain if the same as April 1 or a new subject. I believe it’s the latter).

Commentary:
I observed them for an unprecedented amount of time, trying to confirm something I could not confirm. They fed together without reference to me. Whatever had been established earlier did not persist outside the conditions that produced it.

April 20, 2023

Conditions: Intervals of sun, ~15°C. Grass notably taller.

Observation:
Adult female (likely the same from April 18, unconfirmed) appears with ducklings in the yard.

Observation conducted from a second-floor window. No descent attempted.

Ducklings move in short bursts through tall grass, followed by periods of stillness. They appear to be playing among themselves, enjoying their surroundings.

Approximately 90 minutes later, a disturbance was detected: one black cat in a low tracking posture beyond the waterway. Group disperses abruptly.

Commentary:
Seeing them in the yard changed the terms, or seemed to. I had access now in a way I had not before. I did not go downstairs. I told myself this was to avoid interference, which may be true, but not complete. From above, everything organizes into patterns: movement, pause, disappearance. It becomes easier to observe and easier to remain where one is. By the time I considered acting, there was nothing to act on. It was sufficient to document and photograph.

May 1, 2023

Conditions: Overcast, ~12°C. Wind increasing.

Observation:
Adult female returns with a single duckling. Remains close to the waterline. A scanning behavior is frequent. Feeding minimal.

Commentary:
I tried to recall how many there had been and realized that back then I did not know. I had been watching without counting (though my assistant mentioned counting 10 ducklings). Now the absence creates its own measure. The number is no longer something I can reconstruct, only something I can compare against what is no longer present. There is a difference between witnessing and keeping track. I am not sure when one becomes the other.

May 3, 2023

Conditions: Intermittent sun, ~14°C.

Observation:
Two additional adults present (resting).

Primary female arrives from the water with one remaining duckling. Offspring larger, movement steadier.

Distance maintained between her and the other adults. Periodic visual checks in their direction. Departure shortly after arrival.

Commentary:
The space felt more crowded, though there were fewer of them. She kept her distance from the others in a way that seemed as deliberate. I found myself doing the same, even from inside. Never approached them. It is possible to share a place without sharing anything else. They left quickly. The yard did not seem to belong to anyone in particular.

May 7, 2023

Conditions: Early morning light, still air, ~10°C. Visibility clear.

Observation:
Upon opening the window curtains: a large wading bird (likely a heron) was observed carrying a duckling (lifeless) in its beak. Event brief.

Photographic record exists but is not included.

Later: previously observed black cat present. Remains in the vicinity (backyard). No aggressive behavior toward observer.

Commentary:
The event was brief and sufficient. I recorded it. Review did not alter the observation. The cat stayed for some time afterward. That felt like a decision, though I am not sure what it was deciding. I appreciated it, nonetheless.

May 10, 2023

Conditions: Warmer, ~16°C. Steady sun.

Observation:
Adult pair present. Feeding interaction resumes (bread).

Male subject from March 29 not definitively identified, but assumed. Possible absence exceeds one month. Female subject is the same that has been closely observed over said month.

Pair arrives together and departs together.

Commentary:
I looked for him in ways that were not entirely visual… something in the posture, the timing, the willingness to come close. Nothing matched with enough certainty. I looked for signs of despair or grief on the female, but saw none. I understand I don’t understand them. Still, I fed them. The gesture remained even if its original recipient might not. It is unclear whether this counts as continuity or substitution; I want to believe it’s the former. The language exceeds what can be verified. Yet it remains in use.

May 19, 2023

Conditions: Mild, ~17°C. Grass tall, unmanaged.

Observation:
No ducks observed.

Black cat present intermittently, using long grass as a resting site.

Commentary:
The absence settled quickly into routine. I continued to check, though less carefully each time. The cat’s presence did not appear contingent on any prior event. It remained without reference. It stayed, sometimes. So did I.

June 3, 2023

Conditions: Warm, ~20°C. Stable light.

Observation:
Cat returns. Displays erratic, playful movement.

No ducks present. Grass continues to grow.

Commentary:
The yard feels active in ways that no longer involve what I was originally watching for. I still look out in the mornings. Not with expectation exactly, but not without it either. It is difficult to stop observing once you have begun, even after the subject is gone. Still, i’m grateful for the company.

August 31, 2023

Conditions: Late summer, ~23°C. Light softening.

Observation:
Large group of ducks visible across the water. Count high. Individual identification not possible.

Probability that prior subjects are included: indeterminate.

Commentary:
I tried, briefly, to recognize one of them. First visually, that was fruitless. Then through some expectation of familiarity: movement, rhythm, something I might have learned without noticing. Nothing presented itself. It may be that recognition requires a kind of closeness I never actually had. Or that what I am calling closeness was something else entirely. Recognition may depend on a degree of mutual exposure that was never established.

Conclusions

This record does not establish stable identities, only repeated appearances. Attempts to link individuals across days remain inconclusive.

What can be noted with greater confidence is a change in observational position: from proximity to distance, from participation to restraint, from naming to withholding.

Early interactions suggested the possibility of mutual adjustment. Later observations required accepting limits that did not change in response to attention.

No intervention altered outcomes. In several instances, the decision not to intervene presented itself as already made.

Over time, certain patterns became easier to notice: how distance is maintained, how boundaries are enforced without escalation, how presence does not imply permission, and how absence does not resolve itself.

Intimacy, in this context, does not appear to require recognition, reciprocity, or duration. It is not confirmed by response, nor invalidated by its absence. It emerges through sustained attention under constraint.

These patterns do not require closeness, but they do require limits that do not change in response to it.

No further data collected. The conditions remain.

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fr.

Thus time patched me with updates slow and odd,
Each year uninstalling who I’d been—
The child who dreamed the world would stand in awe,
The teen who wore his longing like a sin.

I reach back toward the boy I used to know—
The quiet kid convinced he’d someday win.
He looks at me a moment, head askew,
As though I’d lost the thread that once had been.

No anger.
Just mild confusion.

Like—

bro.

when did we stop trying to win?

‎

Another birthday hits the chat.
My rizz? Debatable.
My drip? Perhaps acceptable.
I stand somewhere ’twixt psalm and scroll.

Yet still I tell the quiet void itself:

“Pray silence—
for I am him.”

And if this poem readeth like a cry—
Well… maybe yes, or maybe just a vibe.
For none can tell how fast the years go by,
And birthdays lowkey feel midlife-crisis-type.

So crown me with the years I’ve yet to show.
Card me at Heaven’s gate—I’ll still get in.

For I am ancient,
lowkey young,
and lo—

A mortal frame that time keeps passing through:
Soft-glitched with awe, half-shadowed, and alight.

‎

I am a meme the cosmos took too far.

‎

And somehow—

still becoming

him.

‎

So thanks be rendered unto those who sponsored this ordeal:
the Cambridge Dictionary and its Thesaurus,
Green’s Dictionary of Slang,
and every neuron brave that perished mid-composition.

They straight-up seppuku’d for the bit.

Verily.

Subscribe, I beg of you

‎ ‎

‎

‎

‎

‎

‎

‎

‎

ok this time for real lol

I’m delighted to have you here for this moment

So, first things first: if you press the little play button above, you’ll hear my rendition of Tchaikovsky’s ‘March – Song of the Lark’, from an album called The Seasons.

It’s a small piece. Light. Almost shy; A small lark stretching its wings at the edge of spring. Not a grand, dramatic overture — just a quiet song rising into the morning air.

Larks are unusual birds. They can sing while they fly — long, continuous phrases carried upward on the same wings that keep them aloft. For centuries farmers listened for their songs as signs that the frost was loosening its grip and that the earth could be trusted again.

The lark wasn’t ornamental.

It was a soft declaration, suspended in the sky.

When Tchaikovsky wrote this piece, he avoided the kind of easy sentimentality that often surrounds spring music. There’s motion underneath it — a steady pulse that feels almost like footsteps — while the melody moves above it, climbing and circling before settling again.

Yes, there’s fragility.

Care, too.

But there’s also momentum. Like someone choosing to keep moving forward when the air is still cold.
‎

This is where my thoughts wandered to you.

(“You,” in this moment, meaning women. Men, feel free to stay, but shhh.)

Not in a symbolic, soft-focused way, nor as a “gentle muse of spring” — though I love that image too. But in that specific way of being both in motion and making your voice heard at the same time. Holding ground with one hand while reaching the skies with the other. Not waiting for perfect conditions.

The lark doesn’t ask whether the sky is ready.
It rises because it can.
It sings because waiting for ideal conditions would mean never singing at all.

I believe that is the point. Not fragility nor decoration. Not something to be admired from a distance and used for its purpose when the time is right.

But presence.
Movement.
Voice.

There is power in occupying space without apology. In continuing forward even when the air is still cold. In allowing your voice to exist at its natural volume; not louder than everyone else, not smaller either.

Just yours.

So, if this little March carries anything, let it be that: a reminder that taking up air, making sound, moving ahead on your own timing — is not audacious.

It’s natural.

And oh, so beautiful.

Recently, I saw a post by Joel L.1, where he said: “I owe women on this platform more than I can articulate cleanly.”

I don’t mean this in a dismissive tone, nor do I mean to be contrarian. I honestly don’t believe I can articulate my appreciation “cleanly.” Just as he mentioned, I too feel like you’ve welcomed me to this haven of poetry with open arms and gave me a place near the bonfire.

I’ll admit something though:

My boots were muddy.

I have been wandering the forest at its darkest

… maybe not its darkest,

my own.

Walking with my eyes closed.

I believe it is your warmth that has drawn me to the light.

‎

People sometimes say they “owe” others something for such kindness. But the word owe suggests a ledger — a balance that needs to be settled.

That is not what this place is about.

This place feels more like people, friends, sitting around a cozy fire, sharing pieces of ourselves. Vulnerable — hearts on our sleeves; trusting that warmth will be met with warmth.

As you possibly noticed, there were a couple of mistakes in my recording (and the recording itself was hell! Sound engineers, you have my respect too). I’ve been trying to learn and see the beauty of it. My piano teacher taught me that “you just keep going. Don’t stop and ask, ‘Can I start over? Please, I’ll do it right this time’” because life just doesn’t work that way.

We don’t get to save and reload the moment where something went wrong. We don’t get three or four attempts at the same conversation, the same decision, the same note.

You just play the note that comes next .. And yes, sometimes it’s wrong.

I make mistakes often enough.

No one enjoys that.

But the music doesn’t stop because of a wrong note.

You keep playing.

You listen more closely the next time.

You try again with a little more care.

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I’ve been told that I arrived here at the worst possible time given everything that’s been happening lately (I won’t go into it, I know it’s tiring). But honestly, I couldn’t disagree more.

Sure, I missed Valentine’s Day and maybe got a liiiittle jealous seeing all the love in the air. But I know I arrived right on time to witness something inspiring: a community showing perseverance, care, and solidarity.

I even got to participate a little in the conversation, so… yay!

I am really grateful for that. I’ve learned so much already — and I haven’t even been here for a full month.

You’ve been patient and understanding while I learn social cues, helped me notice things I might otherwise miss, and trusted me enough to hear the words that sometimes go unsaid. Your openness, patience, and care are small miracles in a world that often demands perfection before compassion.

You’ve made this a place to breathe, grow, feel safe — and learn.

Furthermore, I believe there is a number of lectures and books on feminine appreciation, politics, and history that will quite soon be shared here — conversations all too necessary from where I’m standing. Please give them a look when you can.2

There is so much to learn, and perhaps even more to unlearn.

So honestly I’m just thankful

That probably sums it all up.

‎

Oh — and I love you.

That too

Whether we’ve spoken before or not.

Like Phil Collins sings in one of my favorite songs of his:
“I don’t know you, but I love you.”

It’s Women’s History Month, and International Women’s Day falls quietly in this little March. Coincidentally, it’s also the birthday of a woman I admire (Mine as well… but sshh. Supposedly this isn’t about me.) Still, the timing feels fitting — March, like the lark Tchaikovsky wrote about, rises and sings even when the air is still cold.

Women have been doing exactly that for centuries: moving forward, speaking, creating, persisting — sometimes loudly, sometimes softly, but always present in a harsh environment that can’t wait to change for the better.

To the women here — poets, thinkers, listeners, those who speak boldly and those who speak quietly yet with such precision

thank you for letting me sit near the fire and listen.

You make the sky richer, fuller, and infinitely more interesting to fly in.

Alright.

And to the gentlemen here, thank you for your patience as well.

Today is not about us, so keep that ssshhh going on for a while more

Today is for women.

Their voices,
Their songs,
Their presence.

‎

Remember something simple:

Women should always come first.

‎

Let their songs rise uninterrupted.

1

Joel L

The Harassment Engine - The Uptick on Substack, the Structure Beneath the Noise and the Bannon/Epstein Connection

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2 months ago · 21 likes · 12 comments · Joel L

It is genuinely incredible how well he wrote this; if you haven’t yet, please read it. He lays out the architecture of digital harassment and manipulation with remarkable clarity.

Circe warned of hunger, of arrogance,
and men became what they already were.

Daenerys walked into flame;
men learned that fire remembers.

Marie Curie touched what others feared,
and science bent toward her light.

Malala Yousafzai asked for books;
a bullet answered
and the world ignited.

You see it, don’t you?
A pattern.

This pattern is old:
A woman speaks.
A man decides she does not.
Something burns.

As simple as that.

But now-
there are no desolations,
no prophets at the gates.

Only a woman in a room
choosing her words carefully
because history has taught her
what interruption costs.

Only a headline.
Only a bruise hidden by foundation.
Only the keys between her fingers.
Only a message typed and erased
because she is tired
of being called dramatic.

Only a woman speaking
and a man, uneasy,
reaching to turn the story
toward himself.

Though he sees himself an emperor
he does not see the empire crumbling
not an empire-
a partnership.
Not a throne room-
a dinner table.
A trust.

The catastrophe does not begin with violence, no
it begins with dismissal.

A joke that lands wrong,
a story retold without her name,
a warning laughed off.

Inaction on the presence of her truth.

Brick by brick by brick
the kingdom weakens.

There’s another tale
one that I cherish.

Here another king,
wounded and suspicious
was undone not by force
but by a woman
who told a story
and then another
and then another.

Night after night
she stitched mercy into the tyrant’s sleep,
not with rebellion,
not with her justified wrath-
with story.

She believed listening
could make a man human again

And it did.

Ten plagues didn’t budge the pharaoh’s heart.
One thousand and one stories changed the shah’s.

Not violence
nor spectacle-
her voice,
repeated.

A man,
finally quiet.

But she should not have had to risk harm,
death,
to be heard.

No one should
yet here we are.
A pattern as old as time
and as young as this morning.

There are no palaces now.
No sultans.

Only a man at his desk
deciding
whether correction is humiliation
or invitation.

Only a pause
in which a kingdom
either fractures
or strengthens.

He can dismiss, he can mock.
He can say “that’s not what I meant”
and explain her back to herself.

Or he could listen
and feel the small, humiliating death
of ego
and let something better be born.

Listen—
not because she is fragile,
but because she carries
the memory of what happens
when no one does.

Listen—
because force hardens hearts
yet story softens them.

Listen—
so the kingdom in your care
does not fall
for reasons history
has already written down.

Listen—
so nothing has to burn
again.


And you.
Scheherazade of our ungrateful world-
do not quiet yourself.
do not dim
please.

Your stories are not mercy for kings.
They are the light
by which I want to read at night.

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Why do I censor myself when
I could finally breathe?
Back pain.
shouldn’t have sneezed that hard.

It’s midnight.
The stars told me to go fuck myself.

If yesterday is gone,
why do its chains still cling to my wrists?
What is a life?
Where do they sell replacements
for the endlessly unsure?

Doesn’t matter,
still broke

Half my memories dissolve
into grey goo.
Can I remember?
Am I remembered?

Look at me —
I’m so angsty,
shut up.
This glorified diary of “honesty”
so overdramatic

I’m not searching for my voice.
It’s not lost,
only estranged.
No me gusta esta lengua, mami.
Zugehörigkeitsgefühl,
why do you slip through my hands?
merde

Hate this rollercoaster,
but I will NOT get off.
I go down so easily
Rising —
that’s the hard part.
But I am learning the climb.
Charybdis won’t feast on me.

I miss myself.
Can you miss someone
who only visits in dreams?
Morpheus, traitor,
why do you hold me so tight
and abandon me in the morning

Oh me,
oh restless mind,
why must you weigh the bad
with iron
and the good with feathers?

And you,
little heart
are no acrobat.
Skip a beat
fall on your face

Take away the layers,
see a child
cold,
clutching crumpled papers —
a thousand erased scores.
I want to set them aflame,
but I fear the warmth.

Come

Meet me in the depths

For this fleeting moment is your life.

Surrender yourself to the pressure

Immerse freely beneath your horizon

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And feel.

The steady, invisible weight enveloping you

The sting in your eyes when everything around is blue

Muted, warped, distant sounds

And one last breath slowly wasting away

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Be still

A strange quiet surrounds you

Is it a blessing or a blight?

Gravity has loosened its claim

You have become untethered

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Remember. Remember!

Drowning is never meant to last

Scream and there will be no sound

Salt fills the space that’s meant for sky

Do not linger

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And rise

Break the surface – gasp

Your breath stumbles, hungrily

The weight is gone

You are you once more.

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Ever since I can recall I’ve been enthralled by the sea – a siren song of which even the danger is appealing. It has never felt like something to fear, but something that calls for me; low and patient, equal parts promise and peril. Beauty braided with risk.

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“Ever wonder what it’s like to drown? A story of opposites. There’s peace in water, like it’s holding you, whispering in low tones to let it in. And every problem in the world will fade away. But then, there’s this thing… in your head, and it’s raging, lighting every nerve with madness to fight, to survive.”

— Silco, Arcane, 1x05

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This duality fascinates me. There is peace in water, some sort of suspension. When you’re submerged everything softens. The world outside feels far far away, and with it the expectations, the noise, and the constant demand to be someone. There is something almost lustral in it.. as if the sea is not only holding you but quietly absolving you, rinsing the static of the world from your edges. Underwater, you are breath becoming life, becoming wonderment.

But the body is wired for survival. Even in stillness there is instinct: A little voice in your head telling you to ascend. To escape.

Admittedly, I haven’t drowned yet (why has the allure of letting myself drift into muted silence always been so strong?) However, on my first deep immersion I wasn’t properly guided through, couldn’t properly depressurize, and the brutal, sudden, and blinding pain in my ears gave me a sharp reminder that depth is not purely poetic. It was fight or flight and, regretfully, I fought. Should have gone up but I endured and embraced the pain. For two full days afterwards I heard the world as though I was still underwater: detached, distant, suspended in a strange in-between. Two days fearing I had injured my ears and believe me, as an admittedly reluctant music composer, that was hell.

The primordial cradle taught me that day two different truths: The seduction of surrender and the necessity of resistance. Release is not weakness; and pressure, when held on too long, demands an outlet. Guess what? The body always finds one – whether in the instinct to rise, in a gasp for air, or in tears that finally bathe your face.

There is a moment before letting go, however long, when everything feels contained, almost manageable. You can nearly convince yourself you don’t need to yield. But beneath that composure, a truth keeps shifting out of your self-told lies. And when it finally gives way, it isn’t collapse. It is honesty. A softening. A return to equilibrium.

Like surfacing.

The water may sting your eyes, the pressure may ache your soul. But afterwards there is clarity.

Depth is not inherently dangerous. Surrender and survival are not opposites, they are partners. Sometimes the fight is necessary, and sometimes the release is as well.

Nevertheless, it is worth it.

Every time I surface nowadays, I understand a little more: healing isn’t about never sinking. It’s about trusting that you will rise — even if you must fight for it.

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Thank you spending some time down here with me, I appreciate it heartily.

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A myriad of worlds ache and suffer and wither, screaming into a void from whence light barely manages to reach out of. Their voices form an imperfect harmony with no rhythm nor rhyme - they wail for their fall into inexistence. One by one, all together.

Until a single lucky seed makes its way out of that womb.

They watch, they wait, expectantly. And they dream. They dream not of the day they can be born and eventually be permitted to properly die, but of the chance of simply… being.

hush little ones, hush, your time will come

you are here now, always with me, always within me

But where does the pain come from? Is it because I fear for them if they escape this prison of self? Is it their silent cries as they suffocate? Or is it my own fear of falling into emptiness once more?

Were that I could spew them all out at once and give them form. Bring them forth to be admired and despised and simply discarded, maybe precisely in that order.

But for right now this little one is enough

May it inspire the giants

May it find its way out of this page.