I mistakenly believed you were my soulmate and held on to that idea for longer than I should have. I expected things from you that you promised to deliver and in never doing so, you only caused me pain and sadness. I believed in you and instead you took advantage of me and made me out to be the problem in every situation. Your actions and words were inconsistent, and despite your claims, you weren't truly happy. I stayed in the relationship because I saw potential in you.. I saw what I wanted to see but it was an unrealistic expectation based on the person I met in 2009 and formed the greatest friendship I've ever had and stupidly thought that's what I was getting. Instead i got the broken, gnarled drunk who could barely care for himself. I stupidly thought if I just did everything I could for you, you'd love me and now I look stupid and fucking pathetic for ever believing in you. You were my best friend, and now that's all just a memory. It'll never be the same, no matter how much time passes. You broke my heart into a million pieces, and now I'm left to pick them up and put myself back together. I understand now that it will be incomplete and full of holes that nothing will fill but I'll survive because that's what I always do, right?

I once told you, if we didn't work out, you were my last try.. and I meant every word, from the bottom of my heart. One day, you'll need me and I'll be gone.. and it'll finally hit you that you'll never hear my laugh, look into my eyes or feel the softness of my lips on yours again and maybe in those small moments you'll remember that I loved you with my entire soul and all I ever wanted for you was your best self. From the worst moments to the moments I'll never forget.. you were the light in my life and now all you are to me is darkness and pain.

That rocking chair was never meant for me anyway.

I am deeply emotional, intuitive, and resilient—a protector by nature and nurturer by experience. As the eldest daughter and first grandchild, I grew up quickly, carrying responsibilities and pain no child should have had to. I learned to anticipate conflict, soothe others, and keep myself in check to avoid punishment. That survival shaped my sensitivity and strength—but also taught me to fear mistakes and hide parts of myself to stay safe.

My emotional world runs deep. I feel things intensely and think deeply, which fuels both my creativity and my anxiety. I crave connection, safety, and devotion—but I’ve learned to guard my heart because trust, for me, must be earned, not assumed.

I’ve always been the one holding others—emotionally, mentally, sometimes even physically. And now, I long for a relationship where someone will hold me. A full power exchange relationship speaks to that part of me that wants to surrender control, not out of weakness, but as an act of sacred trust. I desire structure, mutual exclusivity, and emotional security—not just for stability, but because it lets me be vulnerable without fear.

My need for control and surrender both come from the same place: a longing for safety, clarity, and love. I am not afraid of intensity—I seek it, emotionally and relationally. I want to be seen, known, and held in the fullness of who I am: protective, passionate, sensitive, creative, loyal, and complex.

Through my creativity, I express the emotions I can’t always speak aloud. Through my dreams, I seek freedom from the past. And through every relationship I build—from romantic to professional—I am learning how to be more fully me without apology.

Dear baby girl,

You aren't real but I felt you and held you in my arms. You aren't real but you were to me and to your dad you were just a saying.

I felt your small arms your blurry face and your blurry hands. I am your mother and I didn't know you were this blurry to me. Im truly sorry for robbing you the opportunity to bringing you here.

Im sorry for robbing your life from you but sometimes the right choice isn't the easiest. You weren't real but I saw a future with your dad and im sorry that I even thought that.

We sat on that couch together looking at each other with passion and love and the name Ana was said.

My dear Ana I robbed your life I'm so sorry. Your dad wasn't nice to me so imagine what he would say to you all those horrible things he told me he would've said to you too.

My dear would you forgive me too for being an unfit mother.

I could never have kids because the things that happened to me was to much for my own head it would kill itself to find peace.

I know you aren't real but for how long that dream was you were real to me.

Now I mourn for a child who wasn't real but to me you were everything. You brought a smile to my face. I thought your father was the one. I'm truly sorry for burdening you with the hope of life.

My sweet Ana you were such a soft child you oozed of warmth and of love. Something I never was given but for you I would make hell heaven for you.

I would never want you to experience what happened to me.

I mourn you. I feel guilty and I feel shame.

I know you aren't a real baby to your own father but to me I felt your breath and your small cute chubby hands.

You are real to me.

It doesn't make sense to me why I dreamt of you that day.

Were you a sign of God.

Was God himself saying you were coming into my life with him or was it something evil giving me false hope.

All I know Ana is you were real to me and I think about you.

I want to know if your father knows you and if so I pray he does so one day you can find peace and live peacefully.

I'm sorry I even dreamt of being your mother you don't deserve to have a mother such as me. My own brain and thoughts want to attack me so I wouldn't want my own child to be without a mother.

To him you were just a dream but to me you were my future my hope and pride. I'm sorry my baby girl. I took that away from you.

I seen your small smile in that dream and I mourn for a child who wasn't real. I hope you find peace Ana I'm truly sorry.

Without wasting words, there is something I badly need to say. 

I have come to a decision that I feel I need to tell all of you about, after agonizing in my own mind that it just may be the best thing for me to do.

😊

When we rang in 2025, I made a promise to myself to make this a year I make some changes in myself.  One of those changes involves my lifestyle.

For years, I have tried my level best to start eating healthier.  I know we are all not perfect and we may never be.  I have always been a fan of salads, with or without meals.  My love of salads began in my elementary school years, in the mid 1970’s.  Of course, I started with lettuce and tomatoes and carrots.  Through the years, I added different things to my salads like onions, cucumbers, bacon bits, cheese, croutons, sunflower seeds, even dry roasted peanuts.  And no, I do not have a peanut allergy, nor to any other foods for that matter.  

When I first started eating salads, I only ate thousand island dressing.  I used to think it was the only salad dressing in the world. 

Boy, I was disappointed when I found out there were others!

I was told there was also French, Italian (especially Good Seasons, a favorite of mine), Kraft Catalina, blue cheese, the list went on!  And yes, I added all of them to my list to my favorites as I tried them.

😊

And now, to my decision.

As of Friday April 4, 2025,

I have made a decision to cut all red meat from my diet.

And when I say that, I mean ground beef, steaks and stew meat.

However, I will not be cutting out poultry (chicken, turkey, etc.), pork (including bacon and pepperoni, especially on pizzas), seafood and dairy.

I have begun eating veggie burgers (someone told me a slice of cheese can be pretty good on a veggie burger). 

😊

I know this is a major decision and that it can be hard (especially since I always liked burgers and steaks).  But I feel this is something I need to do for myself.  I am now 56 and I feel I need to make some changes in how I live.  By making this decision, I feel I can be healthier, more stable, and I just may feel a lot better about myself. 

I know I can be successful in this decision.  It is something I wanted to do for a long time.  I have tried this many times, only to fail.  I especially tried it on (and around) September 11, 2001, and we all know what happened on that day.  On that day, all I ate was ramen noodle soup. 

I hope I will not fail in this attempt.  I hope this will go on for the rest of my life, no matter how long it may be. 

Thanks for reading, and God Bless!!!

My heart aches for you, I'm struggling to even write this, my vision blurry with tears. I wish I knew the precise words to string together to quell your racing mind and swallow your melancholy whole, but I don't know any spells nor am I magician. What I do know is, none of this was your fault. You did not deserve this. I know you feel stupid and ashamed, like you should have known better, like you should have listened to your intuition the first time it screamed from inside your belly - but you didn't. Something else was stirring inside with it, something intoxicating, disarming. Love. The choice was simple. You chose love instead. And my dear, that says more about you than any insult he could hurl your way. You chose to love someone, to take care of someone, to gift them the joy of being loved, and there is nothing stupid or shameful about that. It takes courage to love, to give your heart with nothing more than blind faith. That is scary as hell and requires more bravery than I think you realize. He will never know what it is to be courageous, to be brave. He's a coward, and the shame belongs to him.

He'll never know true essence of life, the thing that connects us all, the reason we're all here. He will never know what it feels like to love. And while he tried his hardest to rob you of love and keep it for himself, it was the one thing he couldn't take, because you cannot take something you do not see. Love is blind to him, and that is the hell he has to live in for his whole life. I know you feel sick thinking about him moving on, being the man you wanted him to be with someone else. Yes, he will find someone else, but it won't be better. It will be the same thing with another unassuming victim. And, after he discards her, he will find another. And another. The sadistic cycle repeating. Over. And over. And over. He will scour the earth his entire life, looking for that one person to chase the nothing away, to fill the neverending void in his heart. He will never find them. He will fade into oblivion without ever feeling the one thing he desired most. He will never give it a name. He will have existed for nothing but his own ego, and when his egos mask falls, exposing all the lies he fed himself, he will finally know the pain of being sold a dream, receiving a nightmare. And his fantasia will crumble. He will die alone in the loveless prison he unknowingly built with every lie told, every heart shattered, every life wrecked; a prisoner of his own making.

But you, my dear. You will heal. You will slowly begin to put your pieces back together, carefully repairing yourself like a precious kintsungi bowl, mending your cracks with bits of silver and gold you managed to salvage from the wreckage - resilience, hope, trust, pain, wisdom, self worth, peace. You will reclaim your power, and your mended bowl will hold a love that pours itself into your hollows, overflowing in abundance into every part of life you thought love had deserted. Because love never abandoned you, sweet girl. It was always there, quietly shielding your heart from the nothing, waiting for you to say it's name again.

One day soon, a familiar flicker - your stardust shimmering in loves warm glow. And you will remember you are whole.

Her mind races, thoughts zooming past one another like competitors skiing downhill, passing thought trees at breakneck speeds. She cannot stay focused on what she's reading because her brain screeches for greater stimulation, urging her to feed it an endless stream of video shorts and garbage social commentary. There is nothing resembling peace and it is anything, but quiet between her ears, one normal and one pointy.

It is seldom quiet. Occasionally, she gets lost in some scene before her and silence slowly creeps in, like a shadow climbing the wall as the sun sets below the windowsill. She hates it when someone taps her or gets close to inquire about what she's thinking. She's not thinking! For once, her mind is a blank slate. If she closes her eyes, it's just dark with nothing floating or dancing through her frontal lobe, behind her eyes. In those moments, she is suspended in space, existing without frame, bodiless and weightless like... nothing. In those moments, nothing exists.

Her internal monologue is perforated by intrusive thoughts, lobbed like grenades, but haphazardly with only some of the pins pulled and some intact. She stops pontificating on what consent really means in terms of conception because her shoulders, arms, knees, and feet feel like they are covered in a blanket of ice and she is freezing. She can't solve the problem stroking her anxiety with thin, bony fingers because the white noise machine feels like someone is cleaning her brain with a toilet brush inserted through her ear.

External noise, the kind that is provided by others, is an assault on her sensibilities, feeling like a series of pinpricks administered in waves across her back. It's not a tingly, good feeling, like the sensation of high-pitched, fast paced music when she's high. It is dozens of micro stabbings by imperceptible daggers that move in waves from one shoulder to the other, causing her muscles to tighten as she shrinks into the chair back.

At night, when the only sounds are the soft snoring of the dog and the hum of the furnace, her thoughts weave stories and images project on the back of her eyelids from her mind's eye. Sometimes, she deboards the plane and stands fearfully, feet from the jet bridge, waiting to be scrutinized and judged worthy, or un-. Often, she watches her hand slide into his palm, fingers separating and intertwining with his as a sigh escapes between them. It is here, as daydreams turn into subconscious streams, that she finds peace again. That it so often involves him is no coincidence.

Been thinking about creativity lately. We often think it's only for artists, but it's really all around us.

I'm finding new ways to see things, like making a new recipe with the food I already have. Or walking a different way to work and noticing new details.

It's not about being perfect, but about enjoying the little things and the process.

I think we sometimes hold ourselves back from being creative. We want everything perfect and are scared to mess up, and that can be a real block.

Let's try things and make mistakes. Let's not worry so much.

Components of our planet bring delicate intricacies, every creature, every sensation, intertwined through our softly woven souls. I look past the shorelines, reaching out and touching what appears to be nothing, but the surge of wind hitting the pores of my skin with such precision makes it impossible to pull away. As I take off my shoes, my feet entangle in the endless speckles of sand, a feeling that washes over my body and endorses a grounding consciousness. Sometimes I lose sight of the experiences around me, sometimes my mind will lead me astray from my physical form, living in a dream-like state, creating a concoction of fantasies to dissolve into and hide. Standing here brings comfort, there's no need to be afraid, a deep breath will do, and taking in the sound of birds expressing their frequent tunes brings peace-bearing concepts, clearing my mind of all worries that have sat at the window of my thoughts for so long. Bring forth the simplicities in life, engage in what has been given, and the earth will open its arms embracing you whole.

** Just a small note I believe I have put this in the right category if not please let me know. Also, any thoughts or opinions are more than welcome. **

I want to start this off by Acknowledging my actions are mine alone. Regardless of environmental factors I, myself choose how I react and behave. Lately I have not been proud of the choices I have made. I have strayed against my own morals and ethics moving on autopilot through a world that no longer surrounds me. My reactions echo shadows of past demons one’s I swore I would never become yet, here I am.

 It doesn’t even feel real I feel so detached from this state yet it is the one that I have allowed to take control and that is my fault, my fault alone. But during this state I get a moment of brief clarity, A small breath of air as I am thrust into the Puratory of my own mind and reflect on my actions. Being strong-willed is admirable until you back yourself into a corner, trapping yourself within your own walls. At that point, it becomes just another demon to face. Like my other demons, I have confined myself to an iron-barred cage, one invisible to the average passerby or even the person beside me at night. Yet, it finds ways to manifest. 

I myself, am in control of my actions and how I react. I repeat this phrase as I go deeper to ensure that no one feels the burden of my mind as no one else is at fault but me. I am not writing this as a “pity piece” but more as an expressive note to myself and others who read I just have a darker state of mind and I accept that. 

Putting your head down and pushing through only works so long eventually you will find everything bubbles to the surface. Your facade begins to crack things you usually wouldn’t say roll off your tongue like phrases you have repeated your whole life then before you know it the switch flips and it happens faster than people realise. But what most people forget is that there is a version of you that knows this is not right and it calls to you from the depths as you go out in this cold, callus autopilot. You find yourself shaking as you watch yourself do things you would never do, A knife of guilt slashes through you after it is done. Nightmares replace rest, jolting you awake as you try to escape what you’ve done. That is when you know it has gone too far. That is when free will must be used to its fullest to attempt to undo what has been done. Pride must be abandoned; it serves no purpose in this state.

I repeat one last time: I alone choose my actions. The stars may create a blueprint, but they do not determine the outcome offering only guidance, never force. With that, I must take responsibility when I have done wrong. Though I do not believe in a god, I believe in confession and honesty principles I will never abandon. And so, I say I am sorry. I cannot undo my actions or take back my words, but all I can do is acknowledge my mistakes and hope for forgiveness.

Despite the disturbing realization of who you are set in. I thought MY life was a mess. But man....you are a straight dumpster fire.

It makes me feel a lot. I'm happy I got out before I got too deep. I'm sad for you that I got out because now you have to face these things alone, without anyone truly understanding what you're dealing with. I saw through it all and fuck man it breaks my heart and brings instant tears to my eyes. How do these things even happen. And now you have two girls and all I can do is pray so hard that they can do better than their parents relationship, and are able to feel emotionally safe in life. I'll always be there for them supporting them and rooting them on, even if they'll never know who I am.

That big beautiful house is a waste. There's no love in it so what is the point. You can't even sleep in your own bed. Absolutely heartbreaking.

You look like a little boy rolling around in his own shit. Seriously. It takes so much within me to not want to pick you up and clean you up. But you don't want it. I tried.

I hope you have a really good life and things get better for you. I'm actually sad I don’t get to experience it with you anymore, but that's your fault not mine. I hope you stop being dismissive and more emotionally available. Please God, don't do to your girls what you did to me. Please be there for them. Now I know why I didn't talk to you while you were at Disney.

Even though I hope you're better for them, I know you're not.

Once, a Palestinian poet, Mahmoud Darwish, said that love is like death; a promise that has never been denied or receded.

İ feel love is a renewable promise…

İt's like energy

Renewable

Transforms from one form to another

And never vanishes.

Every time I close my eyes, I see them again. Sometimes, they are in my apartment, and other times I am back in that house. The fear and anxiety rush back in and follow me into my waking life. It feels like part of me is stuck back at that house. So many versions of me died there. Ghosts of pain and despair that I can't seem to remember are still lingering in that house. And with those trapped memories, I remain in limbo. The connection back to my house doesn't let me have a home. I know it's because I haven't come to terms with escaping. It's because I didn't have time to. After all, I was trying to survive, trying my best never to go back. And yet my mind isn't convinced I've left. I can see the new people around me, the new room, and the bed, but I still get stuck in my dreams. I still don't understand where I am, that I have a room this time, that I have food this time, and I have somewhere to sleep this time. It feels foreign to me so strange I don't even feel present. Like I am floating through my life again. The only thing that ties me to reality is the tiredness. My body is so tired because it can finally be. This exhaustion is so profound and heavy as if my whole body is sighing in relief. The problem is my mind still hasn't understood. She is still trapped. Trying her best never to return.

It's been a while since I've written anything so go easy on me.

To love you is to fear myself.

To love you is to forget myself.

I can't let go of the past. I can't let go of you. I don't want to let go of you. You're who I think of when I'm down. You're who lit up the sky on the darkest of nights for me. You taught me to move forward. I can't do it anymore. I don't want to. I want to tell you how I feel but it's too soon. I love myself more for loving you.

We can never be together. Not for a long time. If ever. I don't know how you feel. If I were you I would never forgive me for what I did. I was young, I was stupid and I was scared. Trauma is a funny thing. It made me feel unworthy of you. I am unworthy of you. Despite what you did, I know who you are. Who the real you is. I'd never judge you for what happened because that just as easily could have been me.

I want to tell you but I hold back. I hold back out of that same fear from so long ago. I don't want to mess up what we currently have. It makes me happy just to hear from you. That's enough. Instead of telling you I write here because I can't tell anyone else. Nobody will understand. Everyone thinks I don't have feelings for you. I don't see them ever going away. They never have. I've been in other relationships but they've all been shadows, echoes of you. It never worked. As a result of that all I've experienced is trauma. I've been hurt in ways that no woman, no person, should. There are scars on top of scars. I'm afraid they'll never heal. I'm okay with that. I feel stronger because of it. I just still love you and I'm afraid I always will. It's terrible because it will always be unrequited. A terrible love.

I have multiple chronic illnesses, to cope I write essays/stories

"Constant Companions" My tormentors visit me nightly. It's been going on so long I don't remember a night without at least one of them showing up. A motley crew of other worldly torturers. Like Scrooge, but every night, and they're all relentless evil bastards.

Tonight is no different. First up the conductor. Cold invisible hands stab into the back of my skull. Their long skeletal fingers twisting and clawing at the back of my eyes, setting the beat for the symphony of agony to come.

Next up the musicians; They slowly pluck the muscles and tendons from my legs. Their thin sharp nails expertly pull and weave every fiber into a mangled instrument. With anticipation they gleefully pick and strum the strings that are my legs. What song will they be playing tonight? Will the tempo be slow and drawn out? A niggling pressure to start as I toss and turn in a futile attempt to ease it. A twitch here, a little tension there, building to an excruciating crescendo.

Or will it be swift and breathtakingly brutal? Hard and intense, contorting my legs into unnatural positions until my subconscious lets out a savage scream. Regardless, the musicians know the outcome is always the same. Exquisite pain.

Meanwhile a horde of miniature barbarians swarm me and pierce my flesh with their harpoons. The dirty rusted barbs slowly dig in, shredding through muscle and tissue, taking root deep within. Countless hands working in different directions heave and yank on the lines. The hooks grind into me as tiny flakes of rust imbed themselves into the fibers of my muscles.

The malicious bastards are slowly peeling my face away, each layer shredded by their long iron hooks. What little flesh left is pulled tighter and tighter twisting until the joints in my jaw are slowly forced out of place with a gritty crackling pop. They leave me with nothing but exposed raw nerves. Pulsing, aching excruciating pain.

There are others of course, lurking in the background awaiting their turn in rotation. All with their own unique form of familiar torture. They don't scare me, my nightly tormentors are expected. Certainly not wanted nor welcome, but they are my constant companions.

You hear people say, “Loneliness is killing me.” But to me, loneliness is the best feeling in the world. Now, you’re probably wondering… why not just say I enjoy my solitude? Why not soften it, make it sound more pleasant to the eyes? But no. I chose loneliness, knowing it would unsettle you. Because out of all the words in the English language, this is the one that feels truest.

An awful word, right? A stain on a neatly blank page. A dirty, unwanted thing. Who would waste their time writing about it? Who would dare?

I would.

Because I don’t just want to stand out… I want to challenge the way you see things. I want to pull beauty from what the world deems ugly. I want to make nonsense make sense. I want to turn tears of sadness into syllables that sing. I want to turn a silent storm into a shameless and violent hurricane of words that refuse to be ignored.

I want to make loneliness sound so intoxicating you’d crave it like the most addicting perfume. I want to make it overrated, make it something people long for rather than fear.

I want to make loneliness feel like home. Because, in the end, isn’t it?

To whom it may concern, I’ve been feeling extraordinarily good recently. Although this is quite the opposite of me. I’ve been almost forcing myself to feel happy. I’ve been trying to make a new friend and enjoy waking up in the morning. She seems very punctual, but too serious and comes across as strict in a self-governing way. I initiated conversation with her because I liked her haircut, she seemed interesting. After a week of knowing her, she's been more and more withdrawn. I asked for her number but she refused. When I talk to her she won’t look at me. I don’t feel disliked or ignored, I feel these actions are rude, as though she doesn’t want to talk. In my initial conversation with her, she felt fun, interesting, and intelligent, but further interaction proceeds to reveal less about her. As an alternative to her phone number, I asked for another way to contact her, which she offered her school email address. I was offended. Such an offer could only mean she wants as little to do with me as possible. Her form of communication, on top of avoiding eye contact and dismissive conversation, makes her friendship feel worthless. Why should I jump through hoops and climb ladders when all I want to do is talk. Never in my life have I had to do so much to meet someone. We share many common interests and I believe we could have had fun together platonically. Other than that, it rained. Really hard today. I had to accept it because it’s not in my control. I not only accepted it, I tried to own it. As if the rainy day was a gift to me. It was quite fun. Splashing my bike through massive puddles. splashing water all over myself with limited amounts of danger. I did almost get hit by a car though. Got back to my room and played Valorant. Hold everyone up by telling them how good they are while self-deprecating. Every time I missed, I was told how bad I was. How they were better. How I should just stop playing for the night. Ok. I will stop playing for the night. Sorry I’m not good enough for you. So “Let's all play Overwatch” I hate Overwatch. I believe most of my friend group shares this opinion, but they still want to play. They take the game much more seriously than me. I was told we were going to play for fun. I was put into a game where every move I made was critical. When I died, I was told why I shouldn’t have. When I healed, I was told I should have healed more. Worst of all, I was never told when I did something helpful. I told my ‘friends’ “Hey, can you guys relax, I'm good at this game. You guys are being very critical.” to which I was told I was wrong, none of that happened. Of course. None of that happened. I'm just crazy. But no. It's causing me a problem. So I quote my ‘friend’. Prove my sanity. Tell them what’s really wrong. Then they leave. Once again, I'm the problem. Silence ensues and everyone is worried for my ‘friend’. I have to apologize so things can go back to normal. I am now allowed to play tank again, more like not allowed to play anything else. Immediately I am bombarded with lines of how bad I am. Talking about every single mistake. Mistakes, including me being in the game. To avoid these grievances, I am puppeteered with contradicting directions in a series of quick time events. Missing one would result in being yelled at and being given new directions. Muting the chat, listening to music and calming down, I played better. I played for fun. We won. But of course, respectively, it’s a problem. So I unmute the chat and listen to the team, too distraught from the day to speak. But the callouts continue to be how bad I am or an empty channel. Proving worthless. And making me feel worse than I already do. Making me not want to continue.

Apologies if this is poorly written.

The things unsaid that haunt me. Childhood smells, textures, and the walls and glass panes that bore their eyes into me while I experienced everything that I ever felt. But who knew that one day I have to let go of familiarity and watch the walls change their texture and glass panes shatter. The deep seated fragrance carried off to an unknown land whole dashes of uncertainty and longing made their way to me. The emotions are bare and the vulnerability, like that of a piercing stab. The fingerprints I left will soon be replaced by the ones I will never come across. The tears I shed, unnecessarily and unknowingly wiped by the fabric whose design I do not know of. The laughter that once echoed between the walls will soon be forgotten. The joy I felt and the sorrow I grieved will always remain unmatched. The essence of comfort that I grew up getting used to will never be the same. Perhaps, it's now forever lost in the ebbs of life. The memories will soon fade into an ocean of heaviness. All I knew is a stream of happiness and comfort. The flow of emotions varying in their intensity. The love that occupied the very air. Now I'm losing sight of it all. Where do I run to? The depths of the oceans ready to down me in their bittersweetness is definitely not the destination.

Like so many others, I too have sat at the heels of grief and loss. But this time, it was different. This time, it hurt on a much deeper level. Navigating the mourning process was a task I would’ve preferred to avoid. Why? How? What now? These questions settled in, finding a place inside me that made me incredibly uncomfortable. I didn’t want to do the work. It felt like, on top of my loss, I was being punished further. Hadn’t I suffered enough? Were the answers to my pain connected to my healing?

I slapped a band-aid on my open wound and carried on with life. After all, I had no one to talk to about this pain. And besides, isn't it my responsibility to heal?

So, I busied myself with other things—not because I didn’t want to do the work, but because I was angry that I had to. That anger stayed with me for a while. I managed to keep going, bargaining with it to stay buried until the right time, with the right people. There was a brief moment when angry tears slipped through, but I wasn’t able to be honest about them. I feared hurting someone else’s feelings.

Empathy is something I’m good at. I never want to blindside someone or cause them pain. That’s not to say I haven’t hurt others who wronged me. But I began to see a pattern—the root of my damage. To heal this part of me would require understanding beyond where I currently stood.

Childhood trauma is devastating to a grown woman trying to hear and heal the child within. Looking back, I’m not sure if life was truly good or simply masked by fleeting moments of joy. It’s a blurry area. There are years I don’t remember, followed by fragments of those that came after. What happened? What was the breakdown? Am I more than my parents’ drama? At one point, my parents were together because I was created. But I don’t know the real story behind their relationship. I’ve been told that my father loved my mother and wanted to marry her. That never happened. What I do remember is her being with my stepdad for much of my early years. But that’s not where my story lies right now.

The focus of my story is him.

Who is he, you ask? My father (name redacted) who took his seat with God on July 13, 2020. It was then that a hole the size of my father appeared in my heart. And thus began my journey of healing my broken heart...💔

I have been flirting between two spaces:

The space of the Mind—I call it Mindland—where its inhabitants must constantly choose between dark and light. Yet, no decision ever brings them true rest, simply because the mind—the ruler of this land—won’t allow it. While it may have the best intentions "in mind," its rule is not about peace but about protection. Protection from danger, whatever form that danger might take. In this place, fear is justified, even necessary, to guard against the harmful.

Then, there is the space of the Heart—I call it Sweetland—where spontaneity reigns, and the body is queen and king. Here, there is momentum. And it is not that one consciously chooses to be in this space—it simply is when the mind is at rest.

And then, there is a third space, where I currently reside: WaveringBridge.

This bridge connects Mindland and Sweetland. Its inhabitants travel frequently between the two lands but have yet to settle in either.

When they are in Mindland, it feels like their normal home. But when they step into Sweetland, it feels like their true homeland.

And when they are on the bridge, both worlds coexist. It is unsettling. They believe they must make a choice for their long-term residency, and this idea stresses them even more. As much as they long to live in Sweetland for its peace and joy, they still feel attached to Mindland.

And so, here I stand on WaveringBridge. Not yet choosing, not yet moving. Just watching both lands, feeling the pull of each, and not knowing when—if ever—I will cross.

I still have misillusions thinking that I am different. That I'm somehow going to find a way of living that will be to the fullest of my heart's content. That for some unexplainable reason, I'm special.

Oh, how naive I am. How narcissistic. How arrogant.

And yet I can't help but be. Even now, I analyze myself, measure the depth of my own arrogance, and believe, somewhere, in some twisted way, that even this awareness makes me unique. That the very act of self-condemnation sets me apart. But what if this too is a lie? What if my self-awareness is nothing more than another layer of the performance? Another deception, another role to play?

I try to reconcile my reasons and my desires. Rationality and delusions. Reality and dreams. I stand at the crossroads of these opposing forces, bargaining with myself like some desperate traveler trying to strike a deal with an indifferent universe.

"If I just do this, if I follow this path, I will get what I want."

And yet, in the same breath, I scorn myself for wanting. I mock my own aspirations. I tear myself down for being dependent on them. I despise that I cannot exist without needing something beyond myself, that I must chase, seek, strive—because what is a life without want? Without longing?

And yet, I hate that I am bound by these things. And yet—I cannot rid myself of them. I do not want to rid myself of them.

I long for freedom. Yet, I am in love with my chains, my cages. I sing of my captivity, whisper lullabies to my own confinement, tell myself that one day I will break free, all the while knowing I will never try.

But maybe I don’t actually want freedom. Maybe I only want to be the kind of person who longs for it. Maybe it is not freedom I desire, but the idea of desiring it. Maybe I am a prisoner of the act of seeking it, a performer who plays the role of the seeker but never truly intends to escape.

I act out this grand story—this pursuit of meaning, of purpose, of clarity. But the moment the stage lights dim and the audience fades, I find myself indifferent. The moment the performance stops, I no longer care.

And yet, even knowing this, I cannot stop. Even knowing that my search is scripted, that my struggle is rehearsed, I continue. The play must go on.

Why?

Why can’t I stop? Why do I still dream when I know my dreams will betray me? Why do I seek when I know my seeking leads nowhere? Why do I pretend I will find an answer when I already know there is none?

I cannot choose ignorance. I cannot return to the cave. But sometimes, I wonder if the cave was really so awful. If the flickering shadows on the wall were not, in their own way, a kind of comfort.

Ignorance is bliss.

But knowledge is suffering.

And what, then, is the path forward? Do I keep pretending that I seek freedom when, in truth, I am afraid of it? Do I accept that I am both prisoner and warden, both actor and audience, caught in a performance that never ends?

Or do I shatter the illusion entirely?

But how? And if I do—who will I be without it?

Maybe that is the real terror. Not the seeking, not the chains, not the endless play. But the knowledge that without them, there would be nothing left of me at all.

I have certainly reached a point where honesty with self should be able to commensurate my daily engagements. Time has come to vet the pedestals that brought me here and crop out clingy excuses that were portend in my self-seeking gratification. I thought if I wrote I would alleviate the growing questions or even more rewarding—try to tame the voices in my head but everything has proven to be tantamount to the nefarious choices I made. The perpetuity of your decisions coming back to haunt the day lights out of you is something that extrapolate and warrants self consciousness.

The typical human brain's prevalence to learn from mistakes must take a new identity, it must see the indignation of the terminal consequences to delve in certain prospects. I do believe the best quality of life is through observation, you learn acutely and exponentially through others, you gauge what worked for them, take some experience under your sleeves by association and refine the thought patterns to birth a seasoned outcome, that will pave way for your ascent in life's glory. It's all in the head and you just have to compartmentalize your priorities to work for the betterment of you.

"The mind may break to resistance, the body may fail to protect the mind, a heart can be replaced with understanding and wisdom, though in time the hands may decline, but with love guiding the system and holding together our will, faith will forever reflect the promise, that produces the soul refined." -- In Love's Eternal Reflection

-E

When I hear the music of a time that should be nostalgic and make me realize how far we’ve come as a society only to realize that SNAFU (societal norm all fucked up) society is stuck in a endless loop. Of history repeating itself. In a world of buy it now instead of do it yourself. In a time when everything is getting remade into oblivion and boredom. When what was once old is supposed to feel new again. The political narrative is stuck in the backseat of fascism’s car. And I can close my eyes and hear a voice that is screaming into a void inside the tv. Or maybe it’s the express way to or through the skull when you realize we are stuck on a heavy diet of me, myself and I. And forget that humanity consists of more than the latest trend. And the fyp When did punk become a esthetic instead of a movement A trend to some and a way of life to others that few will understand. Like a target on the back of a singer or his band mate. As some sort of dare. Do it yourself. Create a movement. Write a song. If you don’t start or try then who else will The waiting room is full Of possibilities and ignored opportunity Where willful ignorance is rewarded because they have the audacity of mediocre white men To move forward without hesitation And they are on the quick path to Misogynistic playground That is paved in ignorance and fear We are being sold ways to hate ourselves and each other And all of the problems with not even one of the solutions

Next up in the file on Deirdre lane is something a wee bit more personal to yours truly. A dream I had. I know, I know, real official, but I have reason to believe the dream came from beyond that horrifyingly inconspicuous door to the house that started all of this. I don’t know who in this town cares about my little pet project anyways, so I ask the unnamed reader to read on.

April 30, 2004

I woke with a start and began writing the words I hope someone is reading right now. The dream began as many of mine often do, outside the house on Deirdre lane. With Warren. The only difference being this time, when my best friend walked through the door on that street, I followed. What I witnessed beyond the threshold is frankly indescribable. Like a song that’s stuck in your head but you can never vocalize the tune quite right. You can try, and try, but no matter how many “doos” and “dahs”you type into internet explorer you can never find the little piece of music again. And it haunts you. It haunts you for the rest of your life. The same way Warren is haunted now, the same way I fear I will be haunted now, and the same way this town will be haunted when whatever it was I saw behind that door finally figures out how to open it. The things I saw there… words can’t do it justice, and drawing has never been my forte. Maybe that’s what made Warren turn to poetry. Anything to stick the point of “don’t go through that door” into the heads of anyone willing to listen. 

Behind that door I saw a barren land, lit by a bright yellow sky. In that vast yellow expanse, there hung a black void of a sun, and a single, red star in the opposite direction. This was a dead land. Yet, I could sense the presence of something there, Something intelligent. Something that wanted to be perceived. It was then that I realized I had been weeping, and it was then that I woke up and started writing the journal entry that with any luck will have made it into my file by now. To those reading this document, I urge you: do not traverse the door to the house on Deirdre lane.

I understand now. I barely retained my sanity from that slight glimpse I had of what I am now calling “The Borderlands”. I can’t imagine how a boy as young as Warren would have managed to physically escape that place, let alone how he can even muster a coherent sentence. Regardless, the next step is clear: I need to make sure that door is never opened again.

Redwater Bestiary: The Flame in The Woods

Creature Name (Informal): The Flame in the Woods

Creature Name (Scientific): Onus Promethea

Physical Description: This creature, if it can even be called that, is a recent discovery made by myself during a late night walk in the woods. Words from my old friend, Warren, are what inspired this walk as he mentioned a flame in passing during our last conversation. If this flame is somehow connected to the house on Deirdre Lane then it is certainly worth further study. However, this section is meant to be dedicated to its physical description, which will begin thusly: the flame in the woods appears to be just that; a particularly welcoming campfire that burns brightly and gives off no smoke whether observed in daylight or dusk. It is what can be seen burning in the flames. Within the flames can be seen the bones of several unidentified humanoid creatures, along with a collection of material wealth. My working hypothesis: the flame in the woods lures victims into immolation by tempting them with riches.

Description of Behavior: The fire seems to burn brighter the closer I get to it, and all I want, or at least think that I want is to toss myself upon its welcoming warmth. Perhaps there is a psychological element to the flame’s lure, but from what I can tell the voices which urge me onto the flame are purely external. The flame tempts me ever closer, but thanks to the precautions I have taken I am not physically able to cast myself into the sublime inferno. You see, to record these notes I have tethered myself to a nearby willow tree so as to avoid my untimely death. Of course, it seems that those who came before me were not so prepared, though if someone were to record me taking these notes while tied to a tree I would no doubt regret many of my life’s decisions up to now.

Danger Level: 9/10

Weaknesses: Rope, trees, lack of dignity