Their names and
Story are lost
To time but
They clearly meant
The world to someone

Waves in handmade glass
in old peeling wooden panes —
Ripples on the pond.

Lost in feelings like a child who has lost their mother’s hand in a clothing store. What can I cling to as life begins to wear me down? I feel out of place in this room, surrounded by a sea of people who adorn themselves in ways that garner admiration from others. My neck is slick with sweat; my eyes heavy with tears, burdened by the smoke swirling in my chest like a traveller stuck in customs.

The ultimate destination is, of course, my head, where thinking of myself in a future tense is so heavy on my brain. My lips start to tense, speaking of the past with a few old friends – I’ve aged too well, that those grappling with the youthful insecurities I once faced believe we’re age mates.

Still what’s looking for a mate: a joint occupant; though my joints ache a bit too much. A soulmate in the wake of these days, but what good is finding one if you don’t really have a soul. So lost in myself.

Time: with its relentless grasp tightening around me, like the
unyielding force of gravity — anchors me in place. I aspire to
embrace aging with grace. I sense the encroachment of greys;
those emerging silver strands blend into the horizon of new days.

Isn’t life so strange; contradiction: we know of it like a friend, even
while it can turn adversarial until the end. Shifting seamlessly
between ally and adversary, these moments of joy and sorrow;
exalting in its beauty even as it envelops us in its enigmatic embrace?

So profound in depth and meaning, a symphony of paradoxes
harmonizing into the melody of our journey. I only aspire to embrace
aging with grace, oh what a shame — we move forward, embracing
the uncertainty with grace, as time continues its ceaseless march.
A steadfast friend from the break of day, an adversary until the sun
sets.

In the glow of screens,
we gathered,
Farmville requests from aunts,
a world of laughter,
simple joys shared like sunlight,
photos blooming like flowers,
each snapshot a moment held close.
But shadows crept in,
voices grew louder,
arguments ignited in the digital crowd,
once a haven for stories and cheer,
now a battleground,
where fear and anger drown out connection.
Oh, to step back,
to mute the noise,
to cherish the small moments,
to find joy in simplicity.
Can we learn to listen?
To hold our space with care?
To share our truths without fear of judgment?
Imagine a world where we pause,
where empathy reigns and understanding flows.
Let’s reclaim the joy of a simple post,
the warmth of shared memories,
the bonds that matter most.
If we could remember how to talk again—
to share our lives without the weight of expectation,
to celebrate each other’s stories as our own.
Maybe then we can find our way back,
to laughter and support,
to kindness woven through our words.
And maybe one day,
we will step into that light again—
not as warriors in an endless fight,
but as friends seeking connection,
hearts open to the beauty of being together.

Sometimes I feel for my dog's heartbeat
because I know, at nine and a half years,
she hasn't got long left.

Sometimes I think about how I will react
when a death happpens.
Will I cry? Will I scream?
And then I feel guilty for imagining such a thing.

Sometimes I wonder how my friends
would react for me.
Would they shed tears?
Maybe not.
At this point, they'd probably
shrug and say they didn't know.

I love being 22.
I found myself between the deepest of shadows and the brightest of days.
The smell of jasmine as I float through you like a breeze,
Entranced by my elusive and ever waiting presence.
I love being 22.
The taste of salt between my teeth, the feeling of tears stinging my face,
22 to be exact.