It happens in a blink,
a breath,
a room,
a word you swear
you’ve already heard.
Not just heard,
lived.

You freeze.
The world tilts sideways.
Your body is present
but your soul is looking backward,
grasping at a memory
that was never yours to begin with.

You’ve never been in this place.
And yet,
you remember the light
falling exactly like this.
The way someone laughs.
The way your heart pauses,
like it’s waiting
for something you forgot to forget.

It feels like
a whisper from another life,
a crack in the timeline,
a glitch in the loop.
A version of you
that once stood
right here,
saying the same thing,
feeling this exact ache
in your chest.

Maybe time folds.
Maybe memory leaks.
Maybe the universe repeats itself
in soft echoes,
hoping we’ll notice
how connected it all really is.

Or maybe
it’s the soul remembering
what the mind can’t explain—
a dream we walked through
before this life began.
A quiet nudge
that we’ve been here
before.

Even if we haven’t.

They ask me, “how are you?”
And I open my mouth but all that comes out is,
“I don’t know”

It’s not a lie.
It’s not the truth either.
It’s the fog I live in,
The static in my chest where answer used to live.

How do you explain that you feel everything and nothing a true same time?
That your heart is full and hollow in the same breath?
Sometimes I do know.
I know I’m sad.
I know I’m tired.
I know I feel like I’m slowly slipping and no one notices.

But if I say that,
They’ll worry and I can’t carry that too.
So I say “I don’t know”
Because maybe if I don’t say it out loud,
It wont be real.
Because maybe if I pretend not to feel,
I’ll stop feeling so much.

I say it with a shrug,
With a half-smile,
Like it’s nothing.
But inside, it’s everything.
Everything I can’t say,
Everything I’ve buried.

And when you nod an move on,
I almost wish
You’d ask again.

I tell my dad I can’t go back,
Moms place breaks me down.
Fights that echo,
Words that cut too deep,
A storm that never ends.

I’m tired,
Mentally, emotionally drained by the same old  battles that never find an end.

But when I ask him to stay longer, to just give me a little more time where I can breath,
But it’s too much to ask.
He shrugs, says,
“I can’t do much, I’m trying me best, but me and her. We need time too.”
And just like that I’m stuck between a home that feels like a cage and another that won’t open its doors wide enough.

Moms apartment isn’t home,
It’s walls too small,
A  room I have to share,
A silence filled with tension.
Dad’s place still holds my memories, my quiet corners, my space to be me.
But even there, I’m not free to stay as long as I need.

I hate going back to her.

But I’m not allowed to stay here.
And in this in-between,
I’m losing pieces of myself that no one notices

because it’s easier to pass me along
That to hold me close.

We come from the same earth,
Breaths borrowed from the same sky,
We all have the same beginning and ending.
We share this world,
Laugh when others laugh,
Smile when others do.

A nod,
A smile,
A simple gesture that can tilt a day from dark to light.

In crowded streets,
Musicians play,
Pulling strangers close.

We are all connected to each other in a loop that never ends.
We are not different.
We breath the same air.
Walk the same earth
Live in the same world.
So why draw lines,
Call each other illegal in a world we all share?
Why built walls when we could built bridges?
Why fight for power,
When together we hold strength to lift,
To heal,
To rise?

Stronger together, right?
But we don’t see that
Even though
Together,
We are one.

There are things
that make your heart race
for no logical reason.
A sound,
a story,
a brushstroke,
a sky full of stars.
And when you speak of it,
your voice lifts,
your eyes light
like morning windows.

That’s passion.

And not everyone gets it.
They might laugh,
or tilt their head,
not seeing the way it blooms in you  
the way it feels like
home and thunder
all at once.

But that’s okay.
It’s not theirs to hold.
It’s yours.

Because passion doesn’t ask permission.
It burns in you quietly
or wildly.
but always,
it’s honest.

It’s the thing that keeps you alive
when the world goes dim.
The thing that pulls you back to yourself
when you start to drift.
The thing you’d do
even if no one clapped.
Even if no one looked.

So let yourself burn
for what you love.
There’s nothing wrong
with the fire.
only with a world
that fears the heat.

We draw lines in the sand,
On maps,
On walks,
On hearts.
Lines that tell us who belongs,
And who doenst.
Lines that turn neighbours into strangers,
Friends into foes.

We call them borders,
Boundaries,
Nations,
Rules.
As if paper and paint could hold back rivers,
Winds,
Or the puls of a living world.

But the earth doesn’t care.
A bird crosses them without through,
The ocean swallows them whole.
Only we insist on dividing what is meant to flow.
And still,
We fight,
Still we guard our invincible fences,
Forgetting that humanity is not a grid of lines but a shared breath,
A common pulse,
A single home.

What if we erased them?
What if we stopped pretending that lines could make sense of life,
And finally remember that de belong to each other first?

Every time you reach back for a memory,
You think you’re replaying a tape.
But it isn’t a tape it’s wet clay in your hands,
Reshaped the moment you touch it.
Your first kiss,
The fight that broke you,
The day you swore you’d never forget.

They’re all ghosts you’ve rewritten,
Paintings smeared by each glance.
What you’ve told yourself so many times you’ve forgotten the original script.
You can no longer tell where the real ends and the lie begins.

The past you swear by,
The moments you’d die to defend,
They may never have happened the way you remember.

Memory is not a photograph.
It’s a rumour your brain repeats until even you believe it.

If your own memories are lies we can’t untangle,
Then what,
If anything,
Is truly real?

Even the brightest things are born in shadow.
A star does not glow without the night to hold it.

Do why do we curse the dark as if it is only enemy?
It is the canvas,
the contrast,
the reason we see the light at all.

Your struggles,
The nights you think swallow you whole are not proof of weakness,
But proof that you too are becoming something that can burn through the void.

Even the stars,
Those endless fires,
Need darkness
To be seen.
And so do you.

I tell myself I’m fine because I’m moving.
I wake up,
I shower,
I show up to school with the right words,
The practiced smile.
I laugh hard enough to pass the test.
But the truth is quieter.

I dissociate in the shower,
Watch the water slip from my hands like time I can’t touch.
I sit on the edge of my bed after waking up,
Staring at the floor as if it might tell me how to keep going.

I scroll at night,
Thumb aching,
Mind empty,
Searching for nothing but distraction from everything.

It’s not laziness.
It’s not disinterest.
This half-alive state where I can still perform but every step costs more than I have.

That’s why I’m exhausted.
That’s why I can be so social at school yet let every message rot unanswered once I’m home.

I am not cold.
I am not careless.
I am frozen moving just enough to look alive.
While inside,
I am standing still.

The moon has no light if it’s own,
Yet we look up in awe,
As if it were burning.

It does not speak,
Yet it has heard more confessions than any priest,
More secrets than any diary.

We stare at its scars those ancient craters,
Those wounds from stones long forgotten.
And still call it beautiful.
Proof perhaps,
That even broken surfaces can shine.
It shines by borrowing,
By reflecting,
By being a mirror to the sun.

You do not need to burn to be seen.  
You do not need to be the source to matter.

And maybe,
The greatest lesson it gives us is that darkness is not the opposite of light,
It is the canvas for it.
Without the night,
The moon would vanish.
Without struggle, we would never learn that even borrowed light can change the world.

A reminder carved into the sky
That even in our emptiness,
We can still glow.

The world is full of places that once held voiced,
Now only dust.
Windows stare empty,
Glass long shattered,
Yet you can almost hear the echo of laughter,
The hum of a life that used to exist there.

Chairs still wait at tables for meals never served.
Curtains hang like ghosts.
Breathing with the wind.
Paint peels like forgotten skin,
Walls hold secrets they will never tell.

Abandoned places are not empty.
They are heavy weighted with memories,
With footsteps that linger,
With stories cut short.

We call them ruins,
But they are more like mirrors
reminding us that nothing we built
lasts forever.
And everything we leave behind
becomes a monument
to how quickly we vanish.

You wish for what cannot be,
For doors that will never open,
For hands that will never hold yours.
You trace the edges of a dream that slips like water through your fingers,
And every heartbeat stretches into a quiet ache you cannot name.

Hope blooms in your chest like a fragile flower in winter soil.
Beautiful,
Stubborn,
And destined to wither.

Every “what if” is a small knife,
Twisting just enough to remind you that reality does not bend for longing.
And yet you reach,
Again and again,
As if the hurt were proof of life itself,
Forgetting that some stars cannot be caught,
Some rivers cannot be turned.

Wishing for the impossible does not make you brave.
It leaves you raw,
Tender to the world,
Bleeding quietly
For something
That was never yours to hold.

The devil couldn’t reach me,
so he whispered through the cracks
of people I loved.
He wore their faces,
borrowed their voices,
and spoke in tones
I couldn’t ignore.

The devil couldn’t reach me,
so he placed battles in my mind,
made me question my worth,
turned silence into knives,
turned mirrors into enemies.

The devil couldn’t reach me,
so he sat patiently,
knowing I’d carve my own wounds,
knowing I’d fight myself harder
than he ever could.

evil doesn’t always arrive
with fire and horns.
Sometimes it arrives
as the shadow of your own thoughts,
and smiles
because you never notice
you’re the one holding the blade.