Before the clipping of wings

Once, I felt the stunning, stunning, kaleidoscopic
World
was made of doorways to glittering realms—
a thousand skies
waiting for my astonished feet to enter.

The future sang
in wild colours I didn’t know the names for—
a language of rivers splitting open,
of moons rehearsing their silver scripts behind clouds.

Then came the shrinking—
the narrowing corridors of days,
the blue-edged hours
that bent under the weight of time
like flowers strangled by frost.

My heart became a room
with locked windows,
dust gathering in the corners
where sunlight used to kneel.
The future—a startled bird
I dared not wake.

Because whether I choose the quiet field
or the whirlwind-life,
the clipping of wings folds the sky in on both—
and it aches.

and yet—somewhere under this ribcage,
a throb of fierce music remains,
a tide climbing the ladders of my spine.

I want the old hunger back,
I want, I want, I want
the dangerous dreaming,
the beauty of fearlessness
that burned in my marrow
before the clipping of the wings—
whose triggering memory I have worn like iron.

I want to be light again,
to fling the windows of heaven wide,
my idea of heaven,
to let the earth feel my pulse until it trembles
to walk straight into the wind,
scatter every feather of fear
until even the dark forgets my name.

to lift my face like a dare
towards whatever storm waits—

I want to be, at last,
the one who walks
with re-attached wings.

Rethinking Fulfillment

We treat satisfaction like a finish line — permanent, polished, waiting for us if we hustle hard enough and heal “right”. And yet, what if that’s the wrong map? What if satisfaction isn’t a destination at all — rather, a weather pattern: passing through, beautiful when it visits, impossible to domesticate?

What if the baseline isn’t seamless fulfillment?

Psychoanalysts called it jouissance: those bright, disorienting flashes of more-than-pleasure that visit and vanish. We get moments, not permanence. Yet we keep trying to retrofit life into a continuous high: more goals, more apps, more “optimised mornings”, more distractions polished to look like purpose. We stack our calendars like sandbags against an inner tide we don’t want to feel.

And then something tears through the fabric. The diagnosis. The layoff. The quiet Tuesday you crumble for no obvious reason. The void you’ve been outrunning steps into the doorway, and the light goes strange. It feels like descent — like a cold, locked crypt — but it’s also a threshold. The ache isn’t evidence that you’re failing at life. It’s evidence that you’re alive.

We’re not built for perpetual plenitude. Every wisdom tradition has said this in its own dialect: dukkha, exile, the wound that opens the heart. Jung mapped it as shadow and descent. Lacan called it lack. Mystics describe a dark night where the old scaffolding collapses so something truer can breathe. Different names, same contour: there’s a gap at the core of things. We suffer when we try to plaster over it. We grow when we learn to relate to it.

So here’s the unsettling invitation: stop trying to seal the crack. Sit beside it. Let the draft move through you without rushing to fix the windows. Notice how much of your life is designed to outrun this exact feeling – the tabs, the tasks, the tiny screens that promise relief but deliver numbness. Notice the bargains you make with yourself: “When I get there, I’ll finally feel whole”. There is no there. There is only here, and the momentary sweetness that visits like birds at dusk.

This isn’t a call to resignation; it’s a call to intimacy. To meet the void is to meet yourself without costume. It’s to put down the role of the one-who-has-it-together and become the one-who-is-honest. It’s to trade the anesthesia of certainty for the medicine of contact. Paradoxically, that’s where steadiness lives — inside the willingness to feel the wobble.

Look around: when we refuse the ache, we outsource it. We build cultures that run on distraction, economies that monetise our longing, feeds that flood the cavity with glitter until we forget it’s there. The collective chaos is the echo of a shared refusal. We think we’re avoiding darkness; we’re manufacturing it at scale.

What shifts when we stop? When we let the void speak in plain language?

Sometimes it says: Rest. Sometimes: Tell the truth. Sometimes: Cry. Sometimes it says nothing at all, and you learn to sit with silence without turning it into a problem to solve. You breathe in the unfinishedness and, somehow, it stops feeling like a threat and starts feeling like a horizon.

Practically, this looks smaller than your ego wants. It’s making hot chocolate and tasting it. It’s putting your phone in another room and letting loneliness introduce itself by its real name: longing. It’s prayer without performance. It’s a page in a journal that doesn’t have to be profound. It’s a walk where you practice being a body, not a brand. It’s telling a friend, “I don’t need advice; I need witness.” It’s letting satisfaction be an unexpected guest, not a lease you’re trying to secure.

And when the next tear comes — as it will — you’ll recognise the terrain. You’ll know that the crypt has a back door, that the darkness is not empty but full of seeds. You’ll remember that you don’t climb out by force; you grow out by contact. The more you befriend the gap, the less power it has to terrify you. Not because it disappears, but because you do not abandon yourself inside it.

Maybe this is the quiet revolution: to stop demanding wholeness behave like a product, and start letting it behave like a rhythm. To become someone who can hold sweetness without gripping and hold sorrow without drowning. To build a life that isn’t a fortress against pain but a hearth that can host it.

You don’t have to wake the whole world up. You don’t have to prove you’ve “healed”. You don’t have to turn your ache into content. You just have to strike one small match in the dark room of your own life and look honestly at what’s there. The flame won’t seal the crack. It will make it visible. And in that light, you might find a needle and thread.

Not to stitch the world shut — but to stitch yourself to it. To the gap, to the gust, to the gorgeous, fleeting weather of being here.

Gratitude Journal Entry No 3

Today I’m grateful for the quiet recalibrations — the subtle ways life keeps bringing me back to myself.

I’m grateful for the stories I no longer tell about myself. The ones that said I had to earn rest, or be conventionally productive, proactive or constantly performing in order to be worthy. I’m learning to meet my own needs without an apology attached. Boundaries are starting to feel less like fences and more like front doors.

I’m grateful for the body’s loyalty. Even when my mind argues, my body tells the truth — tightness when something is off, warmth when it’s right. I’m learning to listen sooner, to stop negotiating with signals that are already clear.

I’m grateful for the parts of me that used to feel inconvenient: the sensitive one who notices everything, the cautious one who double-checks, the fiery one who speaks up. They’re not problems to fix; they’re internal teammates with different jobs. They’ve become my compass. When I honour them, I move in alignment; when I silence them, I drift.

I’m grateful for work that asks for my heart and my brain. For words that show up when I’m truly present. For projects that teach me patience. For the reminder that progress is often a quiet accumulation of small, honest efforts.

I’m grateful for detours. Plans that didn’t unfold have redirected me towards what fits. The invitation I didn’t receive, the door that stayed closed, the path that forked — each one was a quiet act of care I didn’t recognise at the time. It’s easier now to release what isn’t a match without making it a story about my value.

I’m grateful for the work that lets me alchemise experience into service — taking what hurt and shaping it into language, tools, and presence that might ease someone else’s pain or mind. Meaning doesn’t erase pain, but it does give it a direction.

I’m grateful for ordinary comforts that feel like anchors: sunlight on tiles, cold drink after a walk in the heat, a playlist that hits the exact frequency my nervous system needed. These are my daily stitches — how I mend the day while it’s still in my hands.

I’m grateful for the future I can’t see yet. Not because I know what’s coming, but because I’m learning to trust who I’ll be when it arrives. I don’t need every answer to take the next kind step.

Healing: A Gentle Unfolding

I’ve walked through the terrain of healing, and if there’s one thing I’ve come to understand, it’s this: healing isn’t linear. It may come in recognisable stages, but it doesn’t follow a timeline. It loops back on itself, unfolds unevenly, and often catches you off guard.

It moves in layers. Cycles. Spirals. It stalls and it surges — often revisiting the same path from a new depth.

It can feel like progress one day, and total regression the next. But what I’ve learned is that every part of the process — every step forward, every stumble, every still moment — is part of the return.

The return to yourself.

Even when it feels like everything has fallen apart, what people are really in is a sacred unfolding. A slow, aching, deeply intelligent movement towards healing. They are falling into alignment.

Healing doesn’t come all at once.

It reveals itself in waves, in seasons, in ambiguous moments.

It comes in that morning you wake up and realise you’re not bracing for the day ahead.

In the sudden softness of your breath when someone holds your hand without you pulling away.

In the moment you let the tears come — not out of despair, but relief.

And it doesn’t begin with joy. It begins with honesty.

The first stage of healing, for many, is rupture.

That moment something breaks — a relationship, a belief, your nervous system. Sometimes, it’s loud. Other times, it’s the quiet hum of “I can’t keep doing this anymore.”

Then many enter a state of shock. You might be filled with a thousand emotions all at once: disbelief, pain, rage, confusion. The ground feels shaky. The body instinctively retreats into itself. Let it. Meet the vulnerability with presence, otherwise…

Then comes the resistance.
This is the part we don’t talk about enough. The pushback. The “maybe I’m fine.” The instinct to numb, distract, avoid. It’s not weakness. It’s protection. The body’s way of saying, “I’m scared.”

Then comes the numbness. The protective freeze. The disbelief. You go through the motions. You’re functional, but far from whole.

Then comes the awareness…A flicker of knowing that something doesn’t feel right. That the ache you’ve been carrying wasn’t always there. That the exhaustion isn’t just from a bad week, but a buildup of years. Recognition… A dawning sense that something important is surfacing. That the story you’ve lived with isn’t the whole story. And with recognition comes acceptance — not the kind that makes everything okay, but the kind that says, “this is mine, and I can face it now.”

What follows is grief — deep, confusing grief. Grief for the things that happened, yes. But also for the time you lost pretending you were okay. For the versions of you that never got to bloom.

After that, often, comes anger. Rage, even. The fire. The “why didn’t anyone protect me?” The “how dare they?”

Anger is not the enemy. It is sacred information.

It protects your boundaries before you know how to. It says: “I deserved better.”

It comes in waves, or sometimes all at once. And while it’s not easy, this is the part where things begin to shift. The dam cracks. Emotion moves.

After the fire, sometimes there is emptiness. A hollow quiet where the old self used to be. This is not a failure — it’s the shedding. The space left behind when you let go of what doesn’t work for you.

And finally, slowly, there is softening.

Not forgiveness, necessarily. Not forgetting.

But space.

You place gentle distance between the wound and your identity.

You begin to see yourself not as what happened to you — but as the one who survived it, felt it, held it, and lived. As the awareness behind.

That’s when integration begins.

You start living again. Differently. More slowly. More consciously. More bravely.
You try new ways of being. You stumble, relearn, adapt. And it’s hard. But it’s worth it.
You practice micro-choices that add up: Breathing deeper. Saying no. Staying when it’s safe. Leaving when it’s not. Replacing old reflexes with new rituals.

The nervous system settles. It learns safety. Joy peeks its head around the corner. Not the loud kind, but the quiet joy of being present in your life. Of tasting food. Watching films. Catching a captivating scent. Appreciating nature. Of laughing without effort.

And then comes release.
A deep exhale.
Not because everything is fixed — but because you no longer have to hold it all so tightly.
You recognise that this moment, just as it is, holds you. And that’s enough.

Eventually, transformation comes.
Rather than as a grand event, it comes as the subtle, gradual, daily choosing of something new.
You rearrange your life in a way that honours who you’re becoming.
You build your world around your truth.
There’s no need to hurry. Even the smallest steps can lead to profound shifts.

You start choosing.

This journey is not linear. You may circle back, feel like you’re unraveling again, question whether you’ve made any progress at all.

But each time, the return is different. Quicker. Wiser. Kinder.

Healing is a relationship, not a destination. A relationship you nurture over time. One that asks for your presence more than your perfection.

I used to think healing was about fixing myself. Now I know it’s about finding myself again.

The parts I abandoned to survive. The softness I tucked away.

Healing is a series of moments where you choose to come back to yourself, again and again, with love.

And when that love is mirrored by the right people — by safety, by attunement, by presence — something incredible happens…

Your nervous system is shown, again and again, a different story. Through the repeated experience of safety, love, and presence — enough times for your body to finally believe: it’s over now.
And you begin to believe you’re worthy of healing.
And you are.
Always.

Healing doesn’t mean we forget what hurt us. It means we hold it with more care. We bring it to the light.

We meet it with kindness.

Wherever you are in this process, know this:

You’re not late.
You’re not failing.
You’re healing.

Beneath the Ritual of Suppression

Memory has teeth, a hush,
A chamber built of breathing wallpaper,
Peeling, alive. I enter it daily.

I step through, barefoot,
into a corridor lined with mirrors,
with versions of me as reflections:
a girl in pearls and incense smoke,
a woman swallowing her name,
a mouth sewn shut with ribbon.

A silver-flecked box beneath my tongue,
its hinges rusted shut with prayers.
No one sees. The wound wears pearls;

I dressed it in silk,
set candles beside the wreckage,
and called it sacred.
I spoke only affirmations,
like spells, sweet words
I fed the universe like seeds,

my throat full of snowdrops and ghosts:

Please grow me a life
that doesn’t shiver in its sleep.

But the ripple moves. It always does.
Through time. Through space. Through me.

I tried to frost the wound in light.
I hung dreamcatchers like talismans,
whispered mantras into tea.
I spun silk out of lavender oil
and rose quartz,
lined the ribcage of my life
with glittering distractions.
I painted over the cracks
with angel wings and moon phases.
I made altars out of dissociation
and called it healing.

But silence echoes.
Even in temples.
Even in rooms where everything smells holy.
The unspoken grows legs,
wanders through the years,
flicking switches I didn’t wire.
It calls to me in mirrors:
“I am you.”

20 Beautiful & Oddly Specific Reasons to Enjoy Life

The delicate and peaceful sound of my cat drinking water, like raindrops tapping the surface of a still pond.
The papery sigh of a novel closing after a long emotional journey.
Catching the scent of old paper and instantly being transported to a library I’ve never actually been to.
Rereading a book and stumbling across a highlighted passage like a message from a past version of myself.
When a line in a film or book mirrors my inner monologue so precisely, as if the screenwriter or author borrowed my soul for a moment. Also, when the first sentence of a book or line of a film feels like the start of a new life.
Catching my reflection and thinking, “Who is she?!” but in a good, main-character way.
When my playlist shuffle feels personally and eerily curated by the universe.
When a song I forgot I loved starts playing in a random place.
When sunlight filters through curtains like a scene from a French New Wave film.
Watching the shadows of leaves perform a ballet on walls.
The eerie comfort of fog swallowing the landscape, softening the edges of reality.
Putting my ear to a seashell and pretending it’s whispering ancient stories just to me.
Overhearing a random snippet of a conversation that makes absolutely no sense but still cracks me up.
Talking to animals like they completely understand the emotional weight of my words.
The delicate rhythm of footsteps echoing down an empty corridor, like life composing its own score.
Witnessing two pigeons having what seems to be a very serious argument.
Catching a falling leaf mid-air and making a wish, even if I don’t necessarily believe in them.
When the shape of a cloud resembles something mythological like a sleeping Minotaur, a weeping Muse.
The strange nostalgia of walking into a room I’ve never seen before but swear I’ve dreamed of.
Realising I’ve designed entire cities in my dreams that I revisit as if they’re archived in a forgotten corner of the real world.

Fantasy of The Source

In this gossamer realm —
phantasmagoric,
unfathomably distant
yet intimately close —

where stars are breaths,
and light
a living, breathing skin,
time gathers like spilled mercury
on the edge of forever;

ethereal creatures —
with bodies translucent
and minds boundlessly unfolding,
speak in pulses
of radiant light,
conversations that shimmer
through cosmic veils,
tangling in spectral dances.

— can you imagine?
a life where whispers float
on stardust,
where thoughts
flicker
in the nebulae-web,
crystalline, numinous,
weaving through each other,
and unweaving,
like phantoms,
ephemeral yet infinite.

here,
time hums,
a symphony of moments
that never begin
nor end
but simply
are
in a waltz of glimmering nows.

these silver beings,
so incandescent,
move in choreographed grace,
mirages of motion,
speaking in the geometry
of constellations,
their seraphic hands
sketching the arcane,
drawing spirals in the void.

— oh, to be
one of them:
untethered by the gravity
of our earthly anchor,
by pain, or neuroses,
or the dread that festers
in the fear of unbeing,
the torment of the unknown —

dancing in the celestial,
bathed in nebulous light,
a spectrum of
ethereal,
resplendent,
otherworldly
beauty.

glimmering echoes
of ancient light whisper
to each other across dimensions
like a spill of crystals
on velvet cosmos:
I am, you are —
luminous souls
composing
the score of an eternal symphony.

Kriyā and the Art of Alignment: Writing from the Self

There’s a passage in The Artist’s Way that has stayed with me, one where Julia Cameron introduces the concept of Kriyā, a Sanskrit term meaning “action”, but which she expands to describe a kind of spiritual crisis — a deeper, almost visceral reaction we have when something in our life is misaligned. It’s the pain that hits right after we force ourselves to endure something we shouldn’t. The exhaustion that follows overcommitment. The anxiety that builds when we ignore our creative instincts. The psychosomatic warning system that lets us know when we are forcing ourselves into a life that doesn’t fit. A kriyā is the body saying, “Enough.” It’s a warning from the self we’ve ignored for too long.

She describes how, when we ignore our truth — whether by working a job that stifles us, overcommitting to obligations that drain us, or even rescuing people who should be rescuing themselves — our body protests. We get sick, anxious, lethargic. Our emotions flare up, and our energy vanishes. Cameron’s Kriyā, in this sense, goes beyond simply taking action; it requires recognising when the actions we are taking are working against us.

Through morning pages and self-reflection, we begin to see where we are out of sync. At first, this clarity feels like loss.

“I can’t keep ignoring my health or sacrificing my time for this job.“ Or “I have outgrown this job.”
“This relationship isn’t working.”
“I don’t enjoy this anymore.”

Realising these things can be painful. We often resist. We want to keep the illusion that everything is fine. We don’t want to change — we want things to change for us. But as Cameron points out, once we eliminate ambiguity from our lives — when we become clearer about who we are, what we want, and what we stand for — we also lose illusion. And while losing illusion can feel like a loss, it is also a gift. We gain something invaluable: the truth.

And yet, truth doesn’t arrive gently. It disrupts. It can bring tears and frustration. Cameron compares this process to a spiritual seizure, an upheaval that shakes us until we let go of what no longer serves us. This is where art and self-expression come in — not as an escape, but as a way to process and understand this shift.

One of Cameron’s most striking ideas is that as we clarify who we are, our creative voice becomes coherent. When we are fragmented — when we suppress parts of ourselves to fit into jobs, relationships, or roles that don’t align with us — our creative work reflects that fragmentation. It feels scattered, disconnected. It lacks a centre. But as we strip away the false selves, as we clear out the clutter — physical, emotional, psychological — our writing, our art, begins to feel like it comes from the same person. A pattern emerges.

She calls it the snowflake pattern of the soul — a unique, intricate identity that takes shape once we shed false layers. The more we remove what is not ours, the more distinct our pattern becomes. And when we create from that place, our work has coherence, continuity. Our writing, our art, no longer feels like it was made by multiple conflicting selves but by one true self.

Also, writing (or any creative work) involves tuning into what is already within us, rather than inventing something outside of ourselves. And that means confronting our real emotions, our real desires, and our real experiences. This is why Cameron insists that creativity is not based on fantasy — it is rooted in reality. Art happens in the moment of encounter: when we meet our truth, we meet ourselves. And only by meeting ourselves can we create something original.

She seems to emphasise the following points:

1. Listen to the kriyās. Pay attention to where life feels wrong, where you are forcing things. Let yourself feel the loss of illusion.
2. Write from clarity. As you refine your self-understanding, your art will refine itself too. Your writing will begin to feel like it flows from one true voice, not a chorus of conflicting selves.

Beyond its myriad interpretations and purposes, art is about becoming someone. Becoming the person who can create freely, without distortion. And in that becoming, as we align with who we truly are, our voice, our art, the snowflake pattern of our soul will finally emerge — whole, authentic, and coherent.

According to Cameron, writing (or any creative act) therefore requires a stable sense of self. We need to know, at least on some level, who is speaking in order for our voice to emerge authentically on the page. If we are constantly shifting to accommodate external expectations, our work will feel scattered, fragmented, and uncertain — reflecting the uncertainty within us. To write from the self, we must first reclaim it. We must listen to our Kriyā, recognise where we are out of sync, and make adjustments — not just in our creative work, but in our daily lives. The more we align our actions with our deeper truth, the more naturally our words will flow.

That said, I don’t fully agree with the idea that writing requires a singular, stable self. Writers like Whitman, Virginia Woolf, and David Hume remind us that identity is not a fixed entity but a shifting constellation of thoughts, perceptions, and impressions. Whitman famously declared, “I contain multitudes” while Woolf wrote, “I am rooted, but I flow”, suggesting that while parts of us are fluid, ever-shifting, there is also a deeper, more unshakable core — something immutable that makes us who we are. Hume, on the other hand, challenges even this notion of a stable self, asking, “When you enter most intimately into what you call yourself, what do you find?” His answer: a collection of perceptions in perpetual motion, never truly fixed.

In my case, the fluidity in my writing does not stem from accommodating external expectations; rather, it emerges from exploring the fluidity of the self itself. Creativity allows me to move between different facets of my identity, to express contradictions, to embrace the shifting and evolving nature of being. Even to dream myself into another existence. Rather than seeing this as fragmentation, I see it as expansion — writing as a way of capturing the many selves that exist within me, rather than fixing them into one.

At the same time, there is work to be done in letting go of how my writing will be received. It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking about how something might be interpreted, whether it will make sense to others, or whether it aligns with an external narrative. But ultimately, what matters most is this is how it feels to me. Writing from that space — without worrying about how it will be perceived — feels like the truest way to honour both the clarity and the fluidity of self-expression.

Creative Affirmations for Artists

Creativity is a force that flows through us when we allow ourselves to be open, playful, and courageous, aka in touch with our inner artist, sense of wonder, and childlike curiosity — aspects that help us engage with the world without fear or self-judgment. Creativity requires daily nurturing, much like maintaining physical health. My gym journey has a mind-nourishing voice-over lately as during my cardio sessions, I listen to “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron on Audible. As I move, Cameron’s words sink in deeper, almost like they are rewiring my brain along with my body. Now, every gym session is a moment where I reconnect with my artistic self, pushing through creative blocks just as I push through physical limits.

This ritual, this merging of movement and mindset has deepened my understanding of Cameron’s core message: creative expression is more than an act, it’s a spiritual practice — one that requires faith, trust, and self-compassion. Affirmations can help rewire our thoughts, break through resistance, and cultivate a mindset that nurtures our artistic soul.

Cameron also warns that when we begin using affirmations, our inner critic — what she calls “The Censor” — may push back with negative or contrasting beliefs. This resistance is natural, but it is not the truth. Repeating these affirmations daily helps reprogram our thoughts, shifting us from doubt to creative confidence. Over time, with consistency and faith, these positive beliefs will become second nature, allowing our creativity to flourish without fear. Affirmations are just one of the many tools Cameron highlights for nurturing creativity, helping it flourish alongside practices like morning pages (a daily exercise of writing three pages of longhand, stream-of-consciousness thoughts to clear mental clutter and spark creativity) and artist dates (weekly solo trips to explore something that enchants or interests you, aimed at nurturing your inner artist).

Whether you are a painter, writer, musician, or any kind of creative spirit, these affirmations are designed to remind you of your artistic worth, dissolve self-doubt, and invite inspiration into your life. Let them serve as daily reminders that your creativity is sacred, valuable, and always evolving. Here are mine:

Creativity flows through me with ease and grace.
I trust the process of creation and allow inspiration to guide me.
My creativity is infinite, abundant, and ever-expanding.
I honour my artistic voice and trust its unique expression.
My creative gifts are valuable and worthy of being shared.
I release fear and perfectionism and embrace joyful creation.
Every act of creation brings me closer to my true self.
I am free to make mistakes, experiment, and grow.
My creative journey unfolds in divine timing.
I am connected to an endless wellspring of inspiration.
My work has meaning and purpose, even when I cannot yet see it.
I create with love, passion, and authenticity.
My creativity is a source of healing and transformation.
I am worthy of making art simply because I love it.
The universe supports my creative path in unexpected ways.
I trust that inspiration will come when I need it.
I am constantly learning, evolving, and refining my creative gifts.
My inner artist is nurtured, protected, and encouraged.
I welcome creativity into my life every single day.
My artistic vision is a gift to the world.

Creativity flourishes when we approach it with an open heart and a sense of playfulness. If doubt, fear, or perfectionism creeps in, return to your affirmations as a reminder that your artistic path is valid and meaningful. Your art matters. Your voice matters. Keep creating, keep exploring, and trust that your creativity is always leading you somewhere beautiful.

Act of Worship

We are here hunting haunting paradigm shifts
while our exquisitely glistening unreality spills
softly into the night in a secret shrine somewhere;
seraphic dreams (holy, profane, & tender) merge
yet meanings are not alike, they have multitudes,
nuances, that are tied to dreams, tastes, & neuroses
even when we strive for transparency,
while we cling to a fairy‑tale sense of identity
amid turbulent scenes, a delicate, fleeting glance
reveals a much needed allegory of sweetness, of
shadows redecorated by light beams, strategically.
I’d like to fathom you as more than a projected inner ghost or
an angel-minded muse or a presence enclosed
in a cage of their own making or a synthesised archetype,
I know you are real, but at times, for my own sake, I forget.

DIANA MARIN

CREATIVE WRITER & SOCIAL MEDIA SPECIALIST

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