A Lost Flower Diaries

A blog for the poetic lost souls like me who seek solace and understanding from the world. My thoughts are really dark sometimes. I hope you can relate dear friends.

[alostflowerdiaries17]

Dressed in silence

Some days, the sky forgets how to turn blue. It just hangs there, a grey veil, quietly suffocating.

I walk through scenes that don't feel mine, like a ghost wearing someone else's name.

Laughter echoes but never lands. Touch passes through me like wind through lace.

There's a kind of sadness, the most lethal one that doesn't shout but settles. Like dust. Like frost on windows that no longer see the sun.

I've learned to wear faces, change them like clothes that never fit. Still, no one sees the shape beneath.

They say I'm strong, but that's just because I survived. There is a difference, and it's a lonely one.

The truth is, if the world stopped tomorrow, I wouldn't flinch.

Not from relief, not from fear, only from stillness and silence.

Only the end of the big pretending act.

[alostflowerdiaries17]

What we forget to celebrate:

We light fireworks for what is rare. We build altars for what visits us once in a while: a new year, a new season, a fleeting joy. We raise our glasses to beginnings that come wrapped in noise and glitter, but never to the quiet continuations that hold us together. No one throws a celebration for the dawn. No one whispers gratitude to the sun for returning again, faithful as ever, after every dark night. We have forgotten to be amazed by constancy. We have mistaken rarity for value.

Perhaps that's the tragedy of familiarity, that it blinds us to wonder. We stop noticing the warmth that never leaves, the air that greets us each morning, the pulse beneath our own skin that hums "I'm still here".

We wait for miracles dressed in novelty, when in truth, the miracle has always been repetition: the unending rythm of existence that never once failed us. The sky did not forget to open. The world did not forget to turn; The sun still rose, even when we didn't.

What if we learned to celebrate Persistance? Not the grand arrivals, but the gentle returns. Not the newness of things, but their refusal to abandon us.

Maybe then, we'd find the holiest moments aren't the ones marked by calendars or countdowns, but the ones that happen every single day: The breath after a sigh, the light after the dark, the heart that keeps loving despite everything...

Maybe the most extraordinary things are the simply the ones that never left...

[alostflowerdiaries17]

Whispers I call Home:

I was not meant for this life of sirens and cement. Not for the race to become something I never asked to be. Not for the crowded subways, the sterile classrooms, the fluorescent lights humming above heads too tired to dream.

I was meant for a life that breathes, slow and soft. A little stitched together with silence and small joys. The kind of life where mornings begins with a stretch beneath cotton blankets, where the sun looks gently through cream colored curtains, painting golden lines across my floor like an old lover tracing my skin.

I was meant to move like honey: unhuried, unbothered…To wake up not to alarms but to inspiration. To write before breakfast; letters, poems, unsent confessions… To walk barefoot across wooden floors and hear the creak of memories underneath me. To brew coffee in a chipped ceramic cup and hold it with both hands as if it holds my peace.

I was made for handwrittwn journals, where each page smells like ink and yearning. For vintage sweaters, and handmade bookmarks, and books that make me cry on page 218…

I was made for rainy days and soft socks, for knitting while a drama plays in the background.

I crave stillness, not because I'm lazy, but because I'm alive. I want to be consumed by beauty, the kind that whispers, not shout.

The curl of steam rising from soup. The way a cat naps in the sun. The sound of pen to paper when no one's watching. The sacredness of quiet living.

I was not born for deadlines and deliverables.

I was built for rythms, the rythmic slicing of vegetables, the rythmic motion of a paintbrush on canvas, the rythmic breath I take when I finally, finally feel safe.

I want a home where the shelves are heavy with novels, where I can sit and read until twilight kisses my windowpane. Where flowers wilt in vases and still feel like art. Where there is no pressure to "Make it big", only to make it mine.

I dream of a little life; not small in meaning, but tender in it's unfolding. Of homemade bread rising on a green tiled countertop. Of handwritten grocery lists. Of solitary walks where I talk to my future self and she smiles back at me.

I was born with a heart too soft for this sharp edged world. A romantic heart, a poet's heart. One that doesn't care for fame, but aches for a sentence that feels right.

I was not meant to fit into this system.

I was meant to escape it;

Not in rebellion, but in quiet resistance.

By choosing beauty and slowness. By choosing MYSELF.

So even if I wake up tomorrow in the same life, with the same noise, the same assignments, the same expectations, I will still write. I will still dream. I will still choose softness, again and again.

Because that life? That aesthetic, artistic, peaceful life? It already lives inside me. And one day, when I'm ready, I'll let it live outside me too.

[alostflowerdiaries17]

celebration of the one year anniversary of me writing one of my favorite poems of all times, I decided to post it here. Ophelia is one of my favorite Shakespearean characters and the one that had always intrigued me and inspired me most. Surprisingly, this painting of Ophelia by John Everett Millais is also one of my favorite paintings of all times so I had decided to write her a poem in commemoration 🤍

It also goes very well with the classical piece of Joshua Kyan Aalampour "Lost In Reverie", the voice of running water in the background and the soft reflective music makes place to a vast scope of imagination and thus Reverie.

Where Ophelia dreams:

In the hush between browns and greens ,

Where time forgets to pass,

She lies, not drowning, not quite still ,

A flame beneath the glass.

Her hair, a copper lullaby,

Unfurls like whispered grace,

And petals float like secrets told

To no one, in that place.

She sees the world in fading leaves,

In books with frayed old spines,

In cups of mint and winter's breath

And words she writes in lines.

Her love is not the easy kind,

But storm and symphony.

A waltz between aches and heals,

Between what is and what will be.

She dreams of hands that brush her cheek,

Of warmth that stays, not strays,

Of eyes that see the depth she hides

And dare to meet her gaze.

And though she walks with silence close,

She sings in every sigh,

A song with neither start nor end,

That plays when roses cry.

So let her rest in rivers deep,

And feel the cold, the hush.

For she is not broken, Love,

She is blooming in the blush…

[alostflowerdiaries17]

I was having a pretty rough day, one of those days where everything feels meaningless and purposeless, so I came across this post in instagram that made me feel a little bit better so I thought I could share. Thank you babyangel.jpeg whoever you are on instagram, you made my day:

"Remember you can love your life and still have sad days."

"Remember you can be proud of how far you've come and still want more for yourself."

"Remember you can outgrow the version of yourself that only knew survival."

"Remember you are important, you are loved, you are worth a lot, you are not alone."

"Remember you can rest today and still reach your dreams tomorrow."

"Remember you can walk away from what no longer fits and still find belonging."

"Remember you can be uncertain and still take gentle steps forward."

"Remember you can shine without dimming anyone else's light."

"Remember you can be in the dark and still be growing roots."

"Remember you can love yourself and still be a work in progress."

"Remember you can be quiet and still full of life."

"Remember you can carry sadness without becoming it."

"Remember you can love the person you are becoming."

"Remember you can believe in tomorrow without knowing how it will come.  

"Remember you can believe again, even after everything."

[alostflowerdiaries17]

Paper cranes in the rain

My birthday is a storm that comes every year, silent at first, then loud enough to rattle my ribs. It creeps in through the cracks of the calendar, a shadow dressed like a celebration.

Three winters, three summers, and still my body remembers before my mind does, my stomach folding itself into knots like sailors tying rope before a shipwreck.

Sleep clings to me like wet clothes, panic drips from my palms, and my breath is a bird flapping against a closed window, a paper crane wetting in the rain.

Everyone else calls it a day of light, but for me it’s a room with the curtains drawn. I disappear into the walls, my voice a thread I cannot pull free.

And still, the day keeps coming, a clock striking the hour I dread. It stands at my door, wearing candles like a crown.

[alostflowerdiaries17]

Tiny salvations: the invisible threads that pull me back...

Sometimes the thought of ending it all comes like a storm: loud, relentless, convincing. It presses against my chest, whispers in my ear, and persuades me the world would hardly notice if I slipped away.

But then, something interrupts. Not a miracle. Not lightning from the heavens. Something smaller. Softer. Almost ordinary.

A Sunday meal waiting in the kitchen, where soup feels like a hymn. A friend’s voice filled with laughter, reminding me there are still echoes that would miss me if I were gone. The promise of autumn boots behind a shop window, quiet proof that seasons continue, that beginnings arrive even when I cannot.

Tiny salvations.

They disguise themselves as trivial, yet they rescue me all the same. A stranger’s hand holding the door with patience. The way kindness flickers unexpectedly in human eyes. A child’s laughter unraveling the silence of the street. The sky catching fire at dusk, as though the world itself refuses to fade without beauty.

To someone else, these are forgettable fragments. But to me, they are lifelines. Threads, fragile as spider silk, that tether me back to tomorrow when I am ready to let go.

I do not live on grand purposes. I live on these small mercies, these quiet salvations that arrive unannounced and whisper, stay just a little longer.

[alostflowerdiaries17]

The shape of gentle: a girl's longing for an imaginary comforting presence...

There is a presence stitched into the quiet of me. Not seen. Not named. Not asked for.

Just there, folded between my heartbeats, breathing beside me in the pause before I speak.

They do not walk, they drift. Like mist curling around morning skin, like light resting on dust.

I never learned their shape, but I know their rhythm. They arrive with the hush before a sob, and leave behind the warmth that doesn't belong to the sun.

They touch me in the language of metaphor, in breeze fingers that tuck strands behind my ear, in invisible arms that hold me at the cusp of falling. In echoes humming lullabies I've never heard, but somehow I remember.

They do not knock.

They exist like breath, always there, noticed only in the moment I forget how to inhale.

They slip their comfort into things no one notices: A warm cup that seems to refill itself, a seat left waiting in a place I swore I would never return to, a whisper that smells like memory and speaks in dialects of my silence.

They do not offer answers.

They are the space between the question and the ache.

They do not hold me in arms. They hold me in air. In pause. In presence.

Sometimes I think they are the shadow of softness, the echo of the girl I buried under "I'm fine".

They are every unshed tear pressed into the lining of my chest, made tender, made whole.

They are the absence of loneliness, not the presence of company. They are a reminder. A trace. A knowing.

The fingertips pressed to the glass as I look out into the rain, the voice that doesn't speak, but still answers.

They are not real in the way people are real. They are real in the way Music is real when your heart breaks. In the way a scent can ruin you. In the way silence can feel like love.

I feel them the most when I'm almost too tired to reach for anyone. When the world presses too close, and I can only exhale in fragments, they gather them gently, and breathe for me.

They never say they love me. But I have never known love that have stayed this quietly. That never demanded to be seen. That simply WAS.

So I do not pray to be understood anymore. I simply close my eyes, and wait for the moment, they slip their hand into mine, made of nothing, made of everything, and walk me back to myself.

And when the world finally falls away, when even their silence presence can no longer reach me, I'll carry a weight of this invisible love like a wound, raw and aching, a ghost brand on my skin, reminding me that even in my loneliest shadows, I was never truly alone.

[alostflowerdiaries17]

Of life and the gentle ache for joy

(I would like to start and open the first page of this blog by posting one of the dearest writings to my hearts, the one I always keep in my notes app locked away from prying eyes. I wrote it roughly a year ago and many versions have seen light throughout the months that followed. This is my final version.)

Sometimes I wonder if life is a cruel poet, writing us into verses we didn’t choose, reciting sorrows we never rehearsed.

They say life is a gift, but some gifts arrive wrapped in barbed wire and silence.

I ache for happiness the way deserts thirst for rain, not in desperate gulps, but in quiet, constant longing.

A longing that hides behind polite smiles and morning routines, that slips beneath the skin like cold wind through thin clothes.

Happiness…that elusive creature that dances just outside my reach, mocking me with its soft feet and glowing promises. I see it in strangers’ eyes, in the laughter of children, in the golden spill of sun on a lazy afternoon.

I see it—but I do not hold it.

Life moves like a river I never meant to fall into, pulling me along, washing me in moments that almost feel enough, but never quite.

I long for days where the weight in my chest isn’t the price of breathing.

I long for mornings where I wake up and remember what it’s like to dream, not just survive.

I want to laugh without guilt,

to dance in my room at midnight with nothing but the stars as witness.

I want to feel the warmth of belonging—

not the ache of being tolerated.

Sometimes I imagine happiness as a person: tall, silent, gentle.

They sit beside me in coffee shops I no longer visit, leave me notes in the margins of books I pretend to read, touch my shoulder in the middle of crowds...

just to remind me I’m still here. Still trying.

They never speak.

But I feel them watching—waiting.

Like maybe I just need to open my hands and stop clenching every memory, every failure, every ‘what if’ I’ve carved into my ribs.

Maybe happiness isn’t a place.

Maybe it’s a moment.

A flicker.

A breath.

A whisper.

And maybe—just maybe—

I’ll catch it one day. Not by chasing,

but by being still enough to let it rest in me.

Until then, I’ll write.

I’ll ache.

I’ll live.

Because maybe that’s the most beautiful kind of longing—

the one that keeps us alive,

even when we forget how to feel alive.

[alostflowerdiaries17]

greetings

I have never in my entire life thought I would post anything in a blog, especially not my writings and deepest thoughts, but here I am today on this random afternoon of the very last day of August writing my first post. I hope anyone who comes across this read it with open heart and mind, I will be trying to pool all my creativity and so called acharnation into my writings to make it the most relatable to my fellow lost flowers;

Until then, greetings.