In the grand scheme of things, none of this really mattered.
We kissed in the sunlight, and the world didn’t end the sun kept spinning like it always does.
Someone died, and we buried them, but we still held onto our plans for the next day.

I hope you never have to question your worth in someone’s life again.

“No, Speaker Johnson — the No Kings rally on October 18 is not a hate America rally. In fact, it’s quite the contrary: It’s a love America rally.” #NoKings

Almost monalisa.

Every word I put down is a fragment of a moment I couldn’t hold in my chest anymore. A memory. A bruise. A breath I never got to take. And instead of burying it deep where no one can find it, I lay it bare stitched into sentences, tucked between punctuation like prayers.

I found myself between silence and ink.
Not in noise, not in answers
but in the quiet that begged me to write,
and the ink that refused to lie.

Silence held the ache.
Ink set it free.

Every word I spilled
was a piece of me
remembering who I was
before the world got too loud.

You rest. You remind yourself that even the strongest break. That even machines get hot.

And you?
You’re human.
You feel deeply.
You break sometimes.
But you keep waking up.

Not because it’s easy. Not because it makes sense.
But because somehow, despite everything, life keeps going.
And so do you.

Distance and loneliness feel like kin raised under the same roof, fed by the same long silences. We rarely speak about how sacred closeness is, but I’m starting to believe it’s where all the real magic begins.

Forty percent less reading, a hundred percent more ignorance. The empire didn’t fall from invasion it’s dying from illiteracy disguised as content consumption.

You’re the kind of soul who feels everything too much who shakes while turning keys, replays awkward silences from years ago, and still somehow finds the grace to turn those moments into art. You don’t hide the mess. You paint with it.