The first question I ever ask anyone I'm trying to get to know
Is
"How do you feel about rain?"
And then
"If it starts pouring outside, will you take out your umbrella?"

Because their response to these questions
Can say a lot more about them
Then what their favorite food is
Or their favorite color

It's not even the words that they use to answer the question sometimes
But the tone of their voice
The excitement, or lack of
When they answer

Do they feel deeply?
When they love something, do they avoid it?
Are they with mother nature?
Do they dare to question what society has deemed unfit?
Are they upset when the sky gets angry?

“When life seems tough, nature heals.”

There’s a voice in my head
haunting me—
pulling at the seams of my reservation.

In this forest, it calls—
soft and distant,
waiting for me to walk deeper into the hush.
In this white dress, the grass blades cut my ankles,
vines wrap around the autumn trees,
luring me farther in.

It calls whenever it wants,
wherever it wants—
patiently waiting to hold me in its grasp.

I stand beneath a towering tree,
feet bleeding into the earth,
the sky swallowed in rust and gold.

Looking far and wide,
only the vastness of forest meets my eyes.
Even as I run,
there’s only a sea of fallen leaves.

I feel the wind against my skin.
The back of my neck tingles
from a touch I cannot see.
It doesn’t hold me physically—
but I feel its grasp,
spirit-deep.

Whatever it is,
it wants to be found by me.

So I keep running—
not to escape,
but to chase the feeling of fleeing.
Letting the wind lift my hair from my face
as the sun’s light begins to fade.

Still, the forest keeps calling.
Whatever I have left—
let it be swept away by the autumn wind.


- N.V. 🥀

You, I and we all
Sleep every night with a hope
To wake up next day

Some nights I just stare
at the ceiling
like it’s got answers
I ain’t ready for.
My chest don’t rise right,
my thoughts don’t land clean,
but I’m still here
still waking up.
And that’s gotta count
for something.

I carry too much silence
in a world
that only listens
when you scream.
But I’m not built for drama.
I’m built for storms.
For staying standing
when everything else breaks.

People left.
People lied.
People looked me in the eyes
and promised forever
with fingers crossed.
And yeah,
that used to **** me.

But now I let go
without warning.
No second chances.
No half-closed doors.
Just me,
the weight,
and whatever peace
I can wrestle from the night.

This ink ain’t for show.
It’s my scripture.
My history.
My survival in symbols.
The jester on my skin—
that’s the laugh I wear
when pain starts talking too loud.

I’m not bitter.
Just aware.
Just done
with hoping people
will be who I needed
when I needed them.

I’ve made peace with the mess.
I talk to the mirror
without flinching now.
I know who I am.
And more importantly
I know who I’m not.

I’ve bent,
I’ve broken,
but I never folded.
And I won’t start now.

Time doesn’t knock.
it slips in quietly,
moves the furniture of our lives
without asking.

One moment you’re laughing
in a summer you thought would never end,
and then
you’re standing in a room
that feels smaller somehow,
wondering
where all the hours went.

Time is a thief
with soft hands.
It steals slowly,
but takes everything.

It doesn’t stop for joy,
or grief,
or love that begs to last.
It simply moves forward,
never once
looking back.

We try to hold it.
in photos,
in memories,
in words spoken like spells
to make a moment stay.

But nothing stays.

Time reshapes us,
rewrites us,
reminds us that even mountains
were once dust.

And yet
within its passing,
there’s meaning.

A heartbeat is precious
because it’s borrowed.
A smile matters
because it ends.

So love now.
Forgive now.
Say the thing
you keep saving for later.

Because time waits
for no one.
But it listens
to those who truly live.