Such a minor mistake,
Being blond,
Shining the sun,
Misting the moon,
It's not okay, but it's okay,
Missing a few sequence,
Mainly to eliminate divinity...!
#thought #mistake #sequence

Not a bargain, not a name.
Respects never just a prize to claim,
Not, a debt, nor a mark that's made,
Respect is never just a prize to trade.

"It’s just a moment, a truth—an awareness that we together made"

A weight we see in another’s stance,
Even if they never ask for the chance.
It’s the weight of a soul that stands,
Even when no one holds out their hands.
It’s the weight of a soul that stands alone,
That's Unasked, Unclaimed, yet fully known.

Not just for those who rise to be seen,
But for those who exist—silent, unseen.
Not just for those who rise and shine,
But for the ones who stand—by choice, by time.
#thought

✦The Rewriting

She had expected the story to stop at some point.
But it didn’t.
It only multiplied.

With every turn of the page,
she saw the world reshape itself.
The walls that once surrounded her—
the ones she knew by heart—
shifted in her peripheral vision,
as though they were not walls at all,
but thoughts held in place by gravity.

She read on.
And she realized—
she was no longer in the room
she thought she was in.
The book was now the room.
The words were walls,
furniture,
the air between them.

“The choices you make write the door.
You are no longer entering.
You are creating it.”

It was almost like breathing,
this new act of creation.
Each sentence she read
dissolved into the next,
and with it, she felt herself
becoming something else—
someone else.

The edges of her own name
blurred,
became vague
as if it had been written
with water.

“This is not the end,”
he whispered from the pages,
his voice a ripple in the air.
“You have always been here,
but you’ve never seen this place until now.”

She closed her eyes
and felt the world continue to write itself.
The journal was no longer just ink.
It was a map—
and every choice she made
shifted the coordinates.
When she opened her eyes again,
the room had become a mirror.
A thousand versions of herself
watched from behind the glass.

She was both the writer
and the story.
She was both the beginning and the end.
And the only question left:
Was she writing this world—or living in it?
#thought

✦The Elsewhere Draft: For Her.

The first word was hers.
The second was his.
And with the third,
she was no longer sure
who was writing whom.

She read it out loud,
letting the unfamiliarity twist her tongue
like it belonged to a time before.
Before she even knew his story.
Before she knew hers.

It didn’t stop.
The page turned,
but the ink never dried.
Each sentence dissolved
into the next,
erasing what came before.

It was both hers and not hers—
a story that had been written for her
but wasn’t yet hers to claim.

She turned the page again.
And with it,
she felt the room shift.
Not in space—
but in time.

The walls seemed to recede,
and yet—
they weren’t gone.
They were simply rearranged.

And there he was.
Not in the room—
not in the way she remembered—
but in The Story script,
his voice faint but undeniable.

She shut the book.
No longer afraid.
But no longer certain.
The story had already moved
beyond where she had expected it to go.

She wasn’t just reading anymore.
She wasn’t just revising.
She was rewriting the space between them.

"I wrote you in because you were never meant to be an observer."
#thought

✦The Revision Begins

The house didn’t creak anymore.
It listened.

Every floorboard,
every doorknob,
every window pane—
they held their breath
as she read the sentence again.

She whispered it aloud.
And somewhere,
something changed.

The mirror in the hallway blurred.
Not fogged—blurred.
Like someone had smudged the image
with an eraser meant for dreams.

She stared into it.
Not at herself—
but at the edges.

Behind her,
the hallway stretched longer
than the house should allow.
Three more doors
than she remembered.

One of them
was open.

She took the journal with her.
Not for comfort.
But because it pulsed now—
as if the pages
were breathing.

Each step toward the door
felt like a footnote
she was only beginning to understand

On the other side:
a study that had never existed.
Books she’d never read
but somehow recognized.
A cup of tea, still steaming.

And on the desk—
The Story script.

Its title:
Elsewhere Draft: For Her.

She opened to the first page.

The words were hers.
But she had never written them.
#thought

✦The Moon’s Whisper:

You were born in the breath after sunset—
In the hush I cradle beneath silver veils.
Not in the full bloom of night, nor in fading light,
But in the seam I guard,
Where his warmth could not linger.

You are the shimmer I reflect in tide and tear,
The quiet I hear when stars lean near.
He calls like thunder—
I listen in stillness—
Yet we always pass,
Each orbit missing by a breath.

The Duskchime sings in your silence,
A rhythm I feel in your gaze.
You are the thread of maybe,
The echo of what was almost.

If I could rise faster,
Perhaps your light would stay.
If he could pause longer,
Perhaps you would not fade.

But you are a flicker—
Moving just beyond my reach,
Between goodbye and beginning,
The one I can only dream to meet.
#thought

These silent breeze,
Give the spring to freeze...
Whatever the cost,
But once again,
Take me in childhood, who lost...
"Man"
#significance #childhood #spring

Take, if you must,
my warmth, my light,
burn me slow,
or burn me bright.

Let your hunger
have its way,
but leave a flicker—
let me stay.

Is that fair to me?
To glow, to burn, to break—
while you warm your hands
at the embers of my ache?

Take my fire,
let it dance for you,
but know—this flame
was never yours to use.

Burn me,
to your heart’s content,
but do not name the ashes
your own lament.

Let me smolder,
but leave me whole—
don’t strip me down
to my shroud’s cold fold.
#thought

✦ Virelai’s Solitude:
I am neither shadow nor light—
I am the space between—
A soft echo of the sun's last cry,
A gentle whisper in the moon's first breath.

Do the stars see me as I see them?
Flickering between worlds,
Hoping to be more than a blink in time,
More than an afterthought in the heavens’ grand design.

I wait—always wait.
As the sun calls to me with its fire,
And the moon beckons with its quiet song,
But I am too early, too late—
Never the moment they need.

What would it mean, to be whole?
To stand in the place where time no longer divides,
Where the sun's fierce gaze and the moon's cool touch
Meet without hesitation,
Without sorrow?

But I am Virelai,
The space they do not occupy,
The silence they cannot fill.
#thought

✦The Sun’s Lament:

You were born between hush and turning—
A note I could not strike, a breath I could not reach.
Not in the blaze of my dawn, nor the fall of my dusk,
But in the hollow where my fire dimmed,
And the moon held you close.

You are the shadow I brushed with my final light,
The pulse I felt but could not follow.
I speak, fierce and restless—
While she waits in silence—
And still, we miss each other,
Still, we do not align.

In your chest, the rhythm lives—
The Duskchime—but I cannot hear it alone.
The Song of the Lost Ones,
Caught between my blaze and her glow.

If I could burn softer,
Maybe you'd step closer.
If she could rise sooner,
Maybe we'd find you whole.

But you're scattered—
A half-light I chase across sky and sea,
Between day and night,
Always just beyond reach—
The one I could not hold.
#thought

These winds of memories,
Having lived, through some fairies ...
My world belongs to "you"
But the world has comes * out…
"Man"
#Thought #world #life #you&me

✦The Sentence

It was late—
the kind of late that feels like forgetting.
Everyone else had gone.
Only she remained,
fingers hovering just above the open journal,
as if touching it would confirm
he was truly gone.

She didn’t mean to find it.
She wasn’t even sure she had.

But under the light,
when the shadows slipped just right,
a sentence revealed itself—
not in ink,
but in pressure.

Indented. Whispered into the page.
Words carved, not written.

She stared at it
long enough for the room to notice.
It felt like a riddle,
but one meant for someone else.
Someone who knew how to read endings
before they happened.


---

Outside, the wind changed.
Inside, nothing did.
Not visibly.
But she felt it:
a seam opening.

Reality, like a page,
had margins.
And he—
he had always been writing
between the lines.
#thought

✦Between the Lines

The next morning,
she returned before the others.
The journal was where she left it—
but something felt different.

No wind had blown it open.
No hands had turned the page.
But another indentation was there—fainter,
as if pressed in a dream.

She ran her fingers gently across it,
letting the words rise in her mind
like breath on glass.

She whispered the line aloud
as if it might summon him—
not as a ghost,
but as a revision.
An edit not yet finalized.

That night she dreamed of him.
But he was not how she remembered—
he spoke in footnotes,
walked through places that didn’t exist
in the world she knew.

She woke with ink on her palm.
No pen near.
No one else in the house.

The journal remained closed.
But now, she didn’t dare open it.
Not yet.

Because part of her believed
he was still writing—
not from the grave,
but from the margins of whatever reality
had failed to contain him.
#thought

✦ Virelai's Lament:
I was born between hush and turning—
A song unsung, a breath unbreathed,
Not in the warmth of dawn, nor the cool touch of dusk,
But in the hollow where time wavers,
Where the sun falters and the moon waits.

I am the shadow in the sun’s last kiss,
The pulse in the moon’s first sigh.
I hear their words, tangled in longing—
The Sun, fierce and restless,
The Moon, gentle and waiting,
Yet we never meet,
Never align.

In my chest, the rhythm beats—
The Duskchime—but I cannot play it alone.
The Song of the Lost Ones,
Caught between light and night.

If I could whisper louder,
Maybe the sun would listen,
Maybe the moon would bend their paths,
And time would soften its cruel edges.

But I am scattered,
A half-light—
Wandering across faces,
Between moments,
Looking for the other half of my breath.
#thought

✦The Page That Waits

The blank page sat like a mirror,
not reflecting, but remembering.
It did not accuse.
It simply waited.

He used to say
“A page never forgets what it was meant to hold.”
As if intention alone
could haunt paper.

Now they stared at it
like it might explain everything.
Why he left the window cracked,
why the keys were still in the dish,
why none of them
had noticed the silence growing teeth.

There had been signs,
maybe.
But signs are only clear
in hindsight—
when the story
has already been written.

They did not speak of guilt,
not openly.
But it lived in their glances,
in how carefully they stepped around his chair—
like it might still be warm.
#thought

✦A Myth in Three Voices

“Some are born in fire, some in glow—
But a few are born where time folds slow.”

✦ Prologue
In the space between dusk and night,
between fire’s retreat and silver’s rise,
there exists a being born not of one,
but of both.

Neither fully light, nor wholly shadow,
Virelai is the Betweenborn—
a flicker at the edge of touch,
a breath the cosmos forgot to hold.

This is the lament, the whisper,
and the answer of three souls
who move but never meet—
bound by longing,
divided by time.
#thought

The walls had always been there.
Plain. Solid. Reliable.
But now, as you stepped back into the room,
you saw them differently—
not as boundaries, but as settings.
Frames for a scene still unfolding.

The fissure led to an underground cavern.
Walls glittered with crystalline growths,
pulsing—faint, alive—
casting shifting patterns of light.

You reached out.
Fingers brushed a surface, smooth yet singing.

Then—a day.

It began on the crystalline plains.
A fissure, overlooked.
The others moved on, but you felt it—
a vibration, low and calling,
like a whisper in the bones.

Against protocol, you descended,
armed with only tools and resolve.

And then, as if hearing your hesitation,
the wall beside you shifted—
not physically, but perceptually.
It blurred,
its edges softening like the margin of a dream.

Through it, you glimpsed another room.
Not the one you stood in,
but a place just beyond.
A space where light moved differently,
where shadows weren’t tied to objects,
where the air felt written.

Mysteries do not yield to distant eyes.
They must be felt, stepped into, lived.
Mysteries do not yield to distant eyes.
They are known by touch, by step, by breath.
#thought

✦Virelai’s Answer:

I heard you both—
In the hush that wrapped the world,
In the turning that spun my silence into song.
You, flame and fury,
You, glow and grace—
I am made of your almost.

You called me whole,
But I am the seam,
The longing stitched into your passing.
I carry the weight of your near, your never,
The ache of what might have aligned.

I do not burn, nor shine—
I flicker.
A rhythm unplayed,
A bridge suspended between your touch.

But still, I remain,
And still, I wait—
In hush,
In turning,
In hope
that one day,
when time bends gently,
you will speak in the same breath—
and I will finally become
what I was always meant to be.
#thought

✦The Hollow Room

The room had not changed.
Not since before.
The chair still faced the window,
where morning light spilled across the floor
in measured silence.

His coat remained on the hook,
arms empty.
The clock ticked,
but no one had wound it.

They said grief was heavy,
but this—
this was a kind of weightless haunting.
A space untouched, yet entirely altered,
as if absence had rewritten the walls
when no one was looking.

They walked in like strangers
to a memory they had helped build.
Each item—a relic.
Each breath—a trespass.

Someone touched the coat.
It swayed.
And in that small motion,
time flinched.
#thought

When the body works hard and breath comes shallow,
it speaks of struggle, effort, a drive that narrows.
A pulse that quickens to push through the strain,
a sign of life, a battle, a gain.

But when someone say your words sound shallow,
it cuts, stings like a sudden shadow –
because words should breathe deep, pull from the core?
not just skim the surface, but speak of more?

Shallow cuddles, skin-close and thin,
hardly seem the way into derail
a reckoning long due,
where my words shouldn't clash,
unraveling the threadbare seams
we've held between us.

In the pause, breath touches breath,
and the words, once sharp and waiting,
dissolve into the warmth of skin –
soft, simple, silent.

So I've draws shallow breaths, tight and thin,
like threads that bind the breaking within.
Sweat traces maps down a weathered face,
each line a journey, a quiet embrace.

The weight I bears in every stride,
heavier than air, yet light inside.
For in the labor, I finds my claim,
a whispered truth, a rising flame.

Because the shallow breath, though brief and small,
holds the pulse of the fight, the rise, the fall.
It marks the moments I did not yield,
and that's why it comes – my harvest, my field.
#thought