Doing it Wrong

let me fall if I must, the one I will become will catch me.

[thoughtkick]

“Someone you haven’t even met yet is wondering what it’d be like to know someone like you.”

— Iain Thomas

[1-dit]

There are thoughts so heavy they punish you simply for having them.

- Fyodor Dostoevsky

[1-dit]

[1-dit]

[1-dit]

The Act

Why does it feel so uncomfortable

just sitting here?

Like something is off,

not loud enough to point at,

but present enough

to not ignore.

A quiet kind of alienation,

where everything around me

feels like an act.

And not a new one,

something rehearsed,

something people have learned

to perform well.

And me—I don’t know

where I stand in it.

Do I keep going—play along,

say the right things,

become a part

of something

that doesn’t feel real?

Or do I withdraw-slowly,

quietly,

before I lose

whatever part of me

still notices this?

Because there’s something

more unsettling than the act—

it’s giving,

and still feeling

like you were never more

than a tool in it.

And I don’t know

what’s worse,

pretending along with it,

or realising it

and staying anyway.

-1-dit

[1-dit]

There are thousands of worlds in all of us. Gorgeous, terrible, wild, contradictory, imaginative fascinating worlds. To know someone deeply is to know a universe contained in skin.

[1-dit]

[1-dit]

What It Is to Be Liked

Between you and me—

it’s you.

You walk into a room and the air shifts,

quietly, without announcement.

People lean in closer,

time rearranges itself around you,

as if being near you

is its own small reward.

I stand just outside that circle

and wonder—

if I step in,

if I become one of those who give without being asked,

would I be crossing a line

I don’t even know how to see?

Isn’t it lovely to be liked—

by friends, by colleagues, by the whole bright world?

Is it the quiet current you carry,

the way your presence

turns ordinary moments into something chosen,

or is it simply

how light seems to find you first?

Do you notice it—

this attention that gathers around you—

or has it become something

you no longer question?

Is there someone out there

whose attention you seek?

And does it matter to you

who notices you most?

When kindness finds you—

easily, repeatedly—

do you feel the weight of it,

or do you simply accept it

as something

that belongs to you?

Time is the only thing

you spend with care.

You decide who is worth the minutes,

who is worth the hours.

You never asked to be liked,

and yet,

you choose—quietly—

who gets to remain.

What does all this attention become?

Does it make you softer,

more aware of yourself,

or does it settle into you

like a quiet kind of power?

And when it fades—

even for a moment—

does the silence feel like rest,

or like something missing?

Something you didn’t realise

you had grown used to?

I am still learning

the difference

between standing near something luminous

and trying to belong to it

without losing myself.

-1-dit

[1-dit]

"Treat yourself like you would someone you're responsible for helping "

-JBP

[1-dit]

[1-dit]

[1-dit]

In your freedom, I lost mine

Now you have your freedom,

the kind

I once believed

you already had with me.

Strange,

how I mistook

a glimpse

for the whole.

You were never entirely there,

only in fragments,

only in parts

you thought

I could hold.

And I—

I arrived

without division,

whole,

and unguarded.

I know there is a version of you

that laughs louder,

stays longer,

belongs more easily.

I thought

I had met that person.

Maybe

I never did.

We search for places

that reflect us back

the way we wish to be seen.

Perhaps

I was not

that place for you.

Now there is distance—

soft,

deliberate,

almost kind.

And somewhere in it,

I realise

I was not losing you,

I was losing

the freedom

I thought we shared.

Because while I stood

open,

you were always

on your way

somewhere else. ✨

-1-dit

[1-dit]

[1-dit]

I'm Fading

Now that your thoughts

don’t seem to find me

as often—

do I slowly fade

from your life?

Would my absence

mean anything to you?

Would you even pause—

even for a second—

or would I pass

like just another name

you used to know?

And what would it mean

for me?

Do I miss you—

or do I miss

the version of me

I became with you?

And when you’re gone,

does that version fade too—

or do I become

someone new?

Tell me—

would you miss me?

Would my name

ever make you smile,

or has it already

softened

into something

replaceable?

Was I ever real to you—

or just a moment

that passed its time?

Was I someone you saw—

or just something

that was there

when it suited you?

I keep asking myself

what I really was.

Because what I was,

I was for me—

and yet,

that “me”

only existed

because of you.

So tell me this—

who is it

that truly loses?

You—

losing a presence

that came and went

without much weight?

Or me—

losing you,

losing the version of myself

I only knew with you?

And if, someday,

you ask me to stay—

would I still be

the same person

who once would have?

or has that version

already faded?

Maybe the answer

was always there—

just not for me

to keep. ✨

-1-dit

[1-dit]

"What a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness."

Leo Tolstoy

[1-dit]

Love is never wasted, for its value does not rest upon reciprocity.

CS Lewis

[1-dit]

BE THE LIGHT

There is a kind of magic that does not announce itself.

It does not arrive with noise or spectacle.

It lives quietly inside you

in the way you breathe,

in the way you feel the air shift around you,

in the way your heart hums a song

no one else can hear.

Sometimes, in the middle of everything

between what is and what could have been

you pause.

And in that pause,

you notice the light.

Not the kind that blinds,

but the kind that surrounds.

Soft. Persistent.

Almost as if life itself

is trying to remind you

that it is still here,

still moving through you.

And yet,

woven into that same breath,

is the quiet presence of death.

Not as an end,

but as a boundary

a gentle reminder

that nothing you hold

was ever meant to stay forever.

Maybe that is where the magic lies.

Not in permanence,

but in the fleeting.

In the air you inhale

and let go.

In the moments that pass

before you can name them.

In the song that fades

even as it is being sung.

We spend so much time

trying to leave behind a legacy

something solid,

something remembered.

But perhaps legacy

is not carved in stone.

Perhaps it lives in the unseen

in the way you made someone feel,

in the light you carried,

in the quiet magic

you left behind

in places

you never returned to.

And when all of this is over,

when life loosens its hold

and the song finally ends,

what will remain

is not the noise you made

but the silence you softened,

the air you warmed,

the light you chose

to become. ✨

-1-dit