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You open your eyes only to realize theyâre still closed beneath the soft weight of the mask which you wear to block out the sun as it threatens to seep into the dream that youâre still unsure is a dream at all and not the interior of a crystalline cave you swear youâve been to before. And the cave is not a cave at all but a vague opening in what you can only assume is a solid structure of hardened salt based on the way it pulls at your skin as it dries and stings the tiny fissures you didnât even know that you had until now. Against the quiet lapping of nearly-still water at your feet and the echoing replies of the cave walls that surround you, you hear a voice that is not a voice at all but an awareness of your own thoughts (on the wind whose source is yet unknown to you, that is not a wind at all but the blood rushing past your eardrum) and it is telling youâbegging youânot to look back
Mar 28, 2025
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Iâve spent the whole morning looking for a lost key that would open all the doors. It was like waking up small cuts in the throat, like searching for the past and remembering the pain. Another thing crossed off the list, but was it worth coming back home? Will it help to bang your head against the doors?
What we do is shameful, itâs shameful to neglect what we have around
Walking back home, I unplugged myself and looked up at the sky. It was 8:34 PM and there were a few stars. I realized the trap - dispersion. I donât know how long itâs been since I last looked up at the sky - usually, we gaze blankly down, the deepest point of a screen.
Jan 29, 2025
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there is something figuratively beautiful about the things we know and donât know, the sublime and mundane
and when you visit the beach, do you ever think about if the animals who live in the embrace of the depths remember the beauty of the ocean?
where the salt envelops every single one of us,Â
accepting us as kin
letting her wind tousle our raw, visceral edgesÂ
and pepper them with her sea-foamed kissesÂ
which tell me that itâs okay to pretend
and okay to tell the ocean all of myself
the ocean reaches out to me, hands cloaked in the sharp coolness of water and something else- something i donât understand
as I poke around in a tide pool, like a vendor at a bustling market, observing the wares that the ocean has to offer
and i turn around and ask her, do the barnacles see themselves? do anemones understand their own beauty, fragile and ephemeral?Â
i donât think they do.Â
but the ocean doesnât have any words for me, instead shutting my mouth with a shhhhÂ
as her sandy dress rustles down the shore, laced with white foam and gossamer trails of ripples
and wordlessly, tells me to lookÂ
and i do.Â
until the sun hurriedly retreats from the wispy radiance of the moon, enrobed in puffy clouds
and it's just the three of us.
the moon tugs at the oceanâs hand, dancing to their own secret rhythm,Â
letting me see them in their love.
personally, i think itâs beautiful \\ and i wish i had something like it
and the ocean laughs. nothing jeering or ridiculing, simply an acknowledgement that i understand.
everything around me falls,Â
like petals cast off from a chrysanthemum.
and then, we were wordlessÂ
like the ocean had never spoken in the first place.Â
i want to descend into the depths of the ocean one day,
to be hugged once more and never again.
not because i am tired of being alive,
but frankly within me exists too much zeal to live.
uncontrollable surges of wow i am alive in flesh, blood through my veins, and thoughts in my head
become more addictive than any form of fentanyl, cocaine, heroinÂ
and better than any gateway into a better lifeÂ
or a better existence, transcending normality
and the moment itâs just me in my head, without the viscous energy of being alive
suddenly drains me like a leaking bucket,
decrepit and dry.
i want to burn like a torch, setting my world alight into embers,
into flames,Â
into an inferno.Â
Sunrise:: being alight || with a halo of only thoughts and dreams || and the divinity of something new
3d ago
The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning
as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.
He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,
how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.
Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,
except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,
you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.
Jul 1, 2024
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Mar 26, 2025
âBone broth thisâ âLiquid IV thatâ ok well consider: pocari sweat đ¤đ§ the thinking manâs electrolyte beverage. no idea whatâs in this shit but tastes great and makes me feel slightly less like shit. Great for if ur like me and find drinking water for survival/regular organ function âboringâ and âlacking whimsyâ
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