hyi

writer

[perfectquote]

“But sometimes you make a choice in that moment and you know in your heart it’s going to change everything.”

— Unknown

[azrielsshadows42]

There are two types of writers:

1. 'It's fiction, it doesn't need to make sense!'

2. 'I didn't account for the rotation of the planet and how that affects the constalations while my characters stargazed at different times of year, I have failed as a writer, and this entire thing is trash'

[scarletslippers]

The line between ‘I’m not writing it, I’m just imagining it’ and ‘I need to write this to get it out of my head’ is so thin sometimes and so thick other times.

[batsandboba]

when i say “girl” randomly as an interjection i’m speaking to the omnipresent all knowing being of Girl. asking her for mercy. taking girl’s name in vain

[hyikien]

girl

[ughsahira]

Oh to be sleepy and crawl into bed with someone who's warm and safe and you know will take care of you in all the right ways, who'll hold you and tell you that its all gonna be okay.

[hyikien]

They say people change. They preach it like a gospel, a comforting balm for the wounded. Time heals, they drone on, and people learn. They grow. They evolve. And I, desperate for any sliver of solace, grab onto that mantra like a drowning woman to a splintered plank. I want to believe it. I need to believe it. Because if you haven’t changed, then what was it all for? The tears, the sleepless nights, the agonizing picking apart of memories, trying to find the seam where it all went wrong? If you haven’t changed, then the ghost of the person I loved, the person who swore the stars were just reflections of my eyes, the person who built his world around my laughter – if he’s still buried under whatever callous layers you’ve built since, then what was any of it real?

I find myself grappling with the paradox of hope and despair, of wanting and fearing the very same thing.

I hope you have changed, I tell myself, because the version of you I loved, the one who held my heart in his hands and promised the moon, that version of you should stay just mine. I want to believe that the you I knew, the one who made me feel invincible, is a secret I can keep, a treasure hidden deep within the vaults of my soul. But the fear gnaws at me, a relentless predator, reminding me that if you have changed, if you have grown, evolved, become something new, then that version of you, the one who was mine, will be lost to time, a phantom of a past that can never be mine.

Yet, at the same time, I hope you haven’t changed. I hope that somewhere, in the depths of your being, the essence of who you were remains, untouched by the hands of time. Because if you haven’t changed, if you are still the same person who once made my world bright, then no one else will get to love the version of you I wished I had. No one else will get to experience the warmth of your smile, the depth of your eyes, the way you made me feel like I was the only person in the world.

Maybe I'm selfish, I concede. You could call me anything, but that possessive grief, this is undeniably for me.

It stems from a place of both profound connection and profound pain. It's the realization that the unique symphony of emotions orchestrated by you, for me, was a one-time performance. A masterpiece composed specifically for my soul. And the idea that someone else might experience that same, breathtaking composition… It feels like a violation.

It's not about control, not in the traditional sense. It's about preserving the sanctity of a feeling. It's about acknowledging that the way you made me feel – the dizzying highs, the comforting lows, the quiet understanding that resonated between us – was a singularity. It was a world built for two, and I, the reluctant astronaut left behind, am determined to keep its atmosphere intact.

Perhaps it's fueled by a fear of dilution. The fear that the more you share that capacity for tenderness, the less impactful my memory of it will be. That the echo of our connection will fade against the noise of new affections. It's the unsettling premonition that the unique blueprint of our love, the intricate lines that define our specific universe, will be copied and pasted, losing its power in the process.

So, call me selfish. But understand that it's about safeguarding the memory of a love that, in its purest form, exists only within the fortress of my own heart. It's a fortress built brick by brick with shared laughter, silent tears, and the quiet conviction that something truly special had been created. And some things, I believe, are too precious to risk scattering to the winds.

So, I sit here, surrounded by the token of what once was, and I wonder. How does one reconcile the hope that you have changed with the fear that you haven’t? How does one find peace in the paradox of wanting and fearing the very same thing?

In the end, all I can do is hold on to the the memories that still burn bright, and hope that somewhere, in the vast expanse of time and space, the version of you I loved remains, just mine, and that no one else will ever get to love the version of you I wished I had.

-- hyikien on insta!

[calmmyfears]

hi, if you are struggling with not knowing who to be or what to do with your life this year just like me. i want you to know that it'll be alright, we will figure it out along the way. breathe deep and take my hand, we are going places you've never imagined. the world is waiting for us and we will get there in our own time, slow but steady. one foot in front of the other with kindness and patience in our hearts. we're not lost, we're on our way. 🤍

[feelingsoftheday]

i find it attractive when someone is straight forward with their intentions so you don’t have to wonder if they fwu like that or not

[hyikien]

what is it to feel the weight of destiny upon skin?

In the hush of Sunday mornings, beneath the arching spires of hope, I sought solace in the sacred. The church, with its hallowed halls and whispering prayers, was my refuge, a world bathed in light and certainty. But shadows danced with the flickering candles—a restless flicker, a silent insurgency in the heart of my faith.

What is it about the warmth of hands, the brush of shoulders, that ignites an inferno beneath my skin? I feel the burn, a caustic reminder each time our eyes meet. In the stillness of hymns, amidst a congregation that finds comfort in absolution, I am set ablaze, consumed in the labyrinth of what ifs. My heart trembles; it fights against the pulsing taboo that coils around every heartbeat.

“Why can’t you just see it for what it is?” they ask, oblivious to the way love sends signals that tear through piety like paper—fragile, urgent, needed. “It’s wrong, you know.” They don’t see the sharp edges of their certainty slicing into my tender heart. Each word knifes through the air, a verdict echoing against the stained glass that promises salvation.

“I feel lost,” I want to scream, but instead, it drips from my lips like a confession. “I’m lost amongst the verses that promise heaven while drowning me in hell.” My sanctuary transforms into a prison where every prayer becomes a silent plea for understanding, for belonging, for a kind of love that bends but doesn’t break.

And in the cacophony of misaligned destinies, my skin begins to rot under the weight of expectations. “You have to choose,” they say, as if choice weren’t a knife that cuts both ways, as if love didn’t exist in shades of grey. “Love is pure,” they preach, cloaking judgement in the guise of righteousness, yet they fail to see I’m bound to something that is not theirs to define.

In the dark corners of my heart, guilt festers. “You should pray more,” whispers the voice that haunts me, reminding me that sin is not just an act, but an existence. The bitter taste of shame mingles with the sacred wine, leaving a sour aftertaste on my tongue. “You must confess,” they urge, their conviction a casket for the truth I bury deeper within, afraid of its resurrection.

And yet, each Sunday, I return, bound by invisible chains to a ritual that no longer cradles my soul. The pulpit stands tall, an altar to traditions that drown the flickering flames of desire with extinguisher after extinguisher. “Keep your heart in check,” they warn, as though they could ever hold the weight of my aching truth—that the love I discovered in the silence of those shared moments is as real as the crimson hymnal, as intoxicating as life itself.

But the warmth of those stolen glances is often overrun by the chill of reality, a relentless frost that seeks to extinguish the flickering fire within me. "You know it's a sin," a voice whispers in the recess of my mind, haunting my every breath, every thought, questioning my worth, my place. As my heart races, I wonder if I am merely a ghost in my own body, wandering through life with a shameful secret tucked away in the fabric of my being.

“What if love is the sin we’re all led to believe is wrong?” I whisper to the emptiness, my voice trembling. “What if I can’t carry this weight anymore?” I stand at the crossroads of faith and desire, unsure which path leads to a salvation that feels like truth and which leads to a damnation filled with regret. The very essence of who I am hangs precariously on the edge, dangling between the desire to belong and the yearning to be free.

So, what is it to live in the chasm of conflicting truths, to navigate a destiny that feels predestined to break? As the incense lingers and the prayers rise, how do you choose between love and the promise of everlasting life?

-- @hyikien on insta!

[hyikien]

Why is it that we readily accept the ache of loss when a life is extinguished, when a body is laid to rest, yet struggle so fiercely with the slow, agonizing burn of a living absence? I've never understood it, this easy categorization of grief. It's as if the world, in its infinite wisdom, deems some sorrows more valid than others, some tears more worthy of shedding. But I can tell you, from the depths of my aching heart, that the pain of losing someone who is still breathing, still walking this earth, is a different kind of hell. It's a quiet torture, a constant erosion of the soul.

I never liked grief. I hated the taste of it, the way it clings to the back of your throat, a bitter, metallic tang that makes every swallow a struggle. I loathe how it twists and warps the familiar, how it paints people in shades of grey and shadows where once there was vibrant colour. Most of all, I hate the powerlessness it brings, the feeling of being a spectator to a tragedy I can't prevent, a storm I cannot weather for them. People grieve for the departed, for the ones who have left this world behind, and while I acknowledge that pain, understand its depth, it's the grief for the living that claws at me, suffocates me.

He's here, physically present. I see him, I hear his voice, I feel the warmth of his skin if I reach out. But it's like looking through a warped mirror, seeing a reflection that’s familiar yet somehow alien. The distance between us, invisible yet impenetrable, grows with each passing day. It's a cruel irony; to be so close yet so impossibly far. It's a constant awareness that the person I love, the person I once knew so intimately, is slipping away, fragmenting like a shattered glass sculpture, leaving behind only the memory of the sharp, beautiful edges.

I’m grieving for him, for the parts of him that are vanishing, for the laughter lines that are fading, replaced by a stillness I find unsettling. I’m grieving for the shared moments, the inside jokes, the unspoken understanding that once existed between us, now buried under layers of something… different. I understand his journey, the reasons behind the changes, the invisible wounds that have reshaped his world. I absorb it all, feel the weight of it pressing down on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. And it hurts. It hurts so much.

Seeing him change, seeing the light in his eyes dim, the vibrant energy replaced by a quiet solitude, breaks me in a way I never thought possible. My heart aches for him, for the pain he carries, the battles he wages within himself. I've tried to be a shield, a soft landing place in the midst of the storm, but the truth is, I am helpless. As much as I yearn to ease his burden, to mend the cracks that have appeared in his soul, I can only stand by, a silent observer in my own personal tragedy.

And it's in these moments, when I'm sitting across from him, when his gaze grazes mine, that the deepest pang of grief strikes. It's the grief of knowing that while he's physically present, a part of him, a significant part, is no longer accessible to me. It's like watching the tide slowly recede, leaving behind shells and secrets on the once-familiar shore. I'm drowning in the silence, the unspoken words, the chasm that yawns between us.

The truth is, I don't know how to navigate this grief. I don't have a manual, a guidebook that tells me how to grieve for someone who is still living, still breathing, still capable of smiling and laughing, even if those smiles and laughs feel distant and hollow. It feels like an impossible paradox, a contradiction in terms. How can I grieve for someone who is still here? How can I reconcile the love I feel with the growing sense of loss?

-- @hyikien on insta! ♡

[hyikien]

--- i sleep so i can see you 'cause i hate to wait so long - sailor

Has it ever felt like a memory, a whisper from a forgotten dream, suddenly surfaces in the present, so vivid and potent it leaves you breathless? That’s how it was. How it felt. The rain lashed against the library windows, a melancholic symphony accompanying the quiet hum of turning pages. It was a Tuesday, just like any other Tuesday for the past three years. I, the quiet observer of this grand tapestry of literature, had settled into my usual corner, bathed in the soft glow of the reading lamps. It was a routine, almost a ritual, this daily pilgrimage to this haven of stories. And then, she walked in.

It was the first time we’d ever talked to each other, and yet she seemed oddly familiar. Her curls, a cascade of dark chocolate, framed a face that held a gentle, knowing smile. Her eyes, a deep, rich brown, held a warmth that both comforted and intrigued. She moved with a grace that was both earthy and ethereal, like a willow swaying in a gentle summer breeze. The way she moved, so fluent, so effortlessly elegant, reminded me of a hidden melody, only I knew the tune. She seemed oddly, fair. Not fair like a sunset in Autumn, but fair like the sunrise. Not like the first drop of winter, but like the last.

I watched her, mesmerized, as she selected a book from the towering shelves. Every detail about her, from the way her nose crinkled when she smiled, making her eyes seem to shrink into crescent moons, to the way her fingers, long and slender, danced across the worn spines of the books, captivated me. It was as if time itself stood still, the rhythmic patter of the rain outside fading into a silent hum. My heart, a restless bird trapped in a gilded cage, fluttered in my chest, a strange mix of hope and trepidation.

She found a table near the window, the rain a curtain of water separating her from the outside world. I, pulled by an invisible force, found myself gravitating towards her. A space opened up at her table, and for a moment, I hesitated. I, who had always found solace in the quiet corners of this library, was suddenly compelled to break my routine, to step into the unknown.

And then I spoke. It was a simple question, a tentative hello, but the words felt like a lifetime in the making.

As we settled into the rhythm of conversation, the words flowing effortlessly between us, a familiar comfort settled over me. Her laughter, like the tinkling of wind chimes, filled the space, chasing away the lingering shadows of loneliness I'd carried for centuries. It felt as if we were old friends, soulmates reuniting after a long separation.

"Have we met before?" she asked, her brow slightly furrowed, a hint of confusion in her voice.

The question, simple as it was, sent a shiver down my spine. The weight of countless lifetimes, of centuries spent yearning for this moment, settled upon me. How could I explain this undeniable connection, this inexplicable sense of recognition?

"We in fact have not, miss," I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil within.

The centuries pressed in on me, the echoes of a past life, a forbidden love, a love that was deemed unholy in a time of intolerance and fear. I'd watched the world turn, felt the slow passage of time, seen empires rise and fall, felt the sting of loss and the bitter taste of separation. And with each passing year, each fading face, I longed for her - for her smile, her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke.

I lived, I breathed, I endured, all for this moment, for this improbable encounter that felt like a divinely orchestrated reunion. It’s a curse, this immortality, this eternal life, this endless cycle of birth and death. To watch those I love fade away, only to meet them again in a different form, in a different life – a constant reminder of the fragility of existence. My life, a never-ending tapestry of sorrow and fleeting joy, woven with threads of endless longing and hope. It is the price I pay for an eternal love that was once forbidden, a love that I can never, ever forget.

And here she was, before me, perfect and real. The woman who I'd yearned for across lifetimes. She who was forbidden, she who was impossible, she who was mine, now. It was the culmination of countless years of yearning, a bittersweet symphony of hope and sorrow.

The desire to hold her, to never let go, to finally escape this endless cycle of lives for a moment of peace, a moment of eternity, welled up within me. To die with her, to truly be with her until the very end, to finally be able to say, "till death do we part," and mean it, to really mean it. That is the dream I hold close.

The rain continued to fall outside, a constant reminder of the ever-flowing river of time. But within the walls of that library, bathed in the soft glow of the reading lamps, time stood still, suspended in a moment of shared connection, a moment of hope, a moment truly made of a lifetime of waiting.

-- @hyikien on insta! ♡

[hyikien]

"If you had a daughter, what would you name her?"

The question, simple yet profound, hangs in the air. My immediate response, a quiet, firm, "I won't bear a child," echoes through the space between us.

"Yet, if you could?" The gentle persistence in their voice encourages me to delve into a realm I've often kept locked away.

It's not a simple matter of choice. There's a history, a lineage of burdens that weighs heavy on my heart – a generational echo of struggles I've inherited and am still untangling. The fear is a constant companion, a whisper that questions if I could offer anything different, anything better. The thought of bringing a child into this world, especially a daughter, when I'm still grappling with my own fragmented pieces, is daunting. What if she were to mirror the shadows I carry? What if she too were to become a vessel for this inheritance of pain?

But then, a different current surges within me. If I could... if the impossible were to become possible, I would give her the universe. I know, in the depths of my being, that my love, when ignited, is a wildfire. It burns with a fierce protectiveness and a tenderness that borders on the sacred. For her, I would paint the sky with constellations of her own, whisper lullabies of stardust, and shower her with petals of every flower that ever bloomed.

She would have her own roots, anchoring her to the earth, and her own time to bloom, unburdened by the expectations of others. I would nurture her growth, but never force her into a mold. My hand, that once bore the painful imprint of forced direction, would be gentle, a soft brush against her tender scalp, a whisper of love that would caress her soul. Her head would know only the touch of adoration, her heart untouched by the weight of 'shoulds' and 'musts'.

I would never let her believe she was a project, a flawed vessel to be fixed. She would be a human, intricate and vibrant, pulsating with a heart that understands the language of love. I may not have known love in its purest form myself, but she would. Because she would be love, a beacon of it, a testament to its endless capacity.

“So, if you could give your daughter a name, what would it be?"

"I never thought of having one."

- @hyikien on ig!

[iirememberthinking]

Dear whoever is reading this: I wish you a life full of warmth and happiness and love. I hope you’re okay. And if you aren’t now, you will be.

[nondelphic]

“you’re a writer, can you explain your process?” yes. first, i panic. then i procrastinate. then, in a fit of productivity at 3 a.m., i create chaos.

[prophetic-writer]

"How do you write such realistic dialogue-" I TALK TO MYSELF. I TALK TO MYSELF AND I PRETEND I AM THE ONE SAYING THE LINE. LIKE SANITY IS SLOWLY SLIPPING FROM BETWEEN MY FINGERS WITH EVERY MEASLY WORD THEY TYPE OUT. THAT IS HOW.

[hyikien]

What does it mean to be tethered to someone, to a feeling, to a memory, even when the world screams for you to let go? I don’t know, I’m still trying to figure it out. Maybe it’s the way the streets we used to walk on still feel like home, even when I’m miles away. Maybe it’s the ghost of your laugh that echoes in my mind when I'm struggling to find a reason to smile.

Sometimes, I wonder if this is what they mean by a curse. Being bound to something that’s both beautiful and agonizing, like a melody that’s so sweet it hurts. It’s a truth that bites, a feeling that refuses to be silenced.

I remember the time I told you I’d travel the world, just to see if there was anything that could make me forget you. I thought the mountains would whisper your name, the crashing waves would carry your voice, and the stars would sparkle with your memories. But, they were silent. Only the echo of your absence reverberated in my soul.

I was tired. I was burdened by the weight of this love, this relentless yearning. I tried to run, to push you out of my mind, to drown you in the noise of the world. But, you were the only constant, the only quiet whisper amidst the cacophony. I couldn’t escape you. And maybe, I didn’t want to.

There are days when I wake up and the sun feels like a punch in the gut, reminding me of how far I am from you. I hear old songs that make me want to scream, wishing I could rewind time, wishing I could just see you once more. But I know, I’ll never be able to.

But still, even when the world feels like a cruel joke, even when I’m drowning in the sting of what could have been, I always find myself coming back to you. It’s a journey that I repeat again and again, a cycle I can’t seem to break. Each time, I tell myself, “This is the last time.” But, inevitably, I find myself back in the thought of your presence.

It’s not just the memories that pull me back, it’s the promise. A promise that I made to myself, a promise that I cling to even when the world shouts at me to give up.

The world doesn't understand. It tries to shove me into a box, label me as delusional, as clinging to the past. But they don’t get it. It's not about possession, it's about a truth, a feeling that I can't deny, a love that transcends the boundaries of time and choice.

- @hyikien on insta:)

[hyikien]

I wish I could love you in a way everything was all you, again.

There's a peculiar kind of ache that comes with loving someone in a way that's less than whole, a love that's been chipped away at, leaving only the sharp, jagged edges. It's the kind of love that cuts into you every time you breathe, a reminder that the air you inhale is the same air that once danced around them, tantalizingly close yet immeasurably far.

I used to dream of loving in vast, boundless measures, where the universe itself seemed too small a stage for the magnitude of my affection. I wished to love in a way that made everything else insignificant, where the mere thought of you would eclipse the sun, the stars, and the galaxies beyond. I wished to love you in a way that was all-consuming, where sacrificing the world for your sake would be as effortless as the sun's rise each morning. But wishes, as they say, are the currency of the foolhardy, and I, it seems, had invested heavily in a market of heartache.

Now, my love for you has been distilled into something painfully pure. It's a love that hurts, a love that's become its own entity, gnawing away at my insides, leaving me raw and exposed. Do you ever feel the weight of a love that's too heavy to carry, yet too precious to put down? It's like holding onto a shard of glass, knowing it will cut you, but you can't let go because it's the last piece of something beautiful that once was.

I find myself wondering, is it worse to have loved and lost, or to have loved and be left with the echoes of what could have been? To see you in the crowd, the light catching your hair just so, and feel the world tilt on its axis, only to remember that the axis now spins on a point of pain. How do you reconcile the image of someone who was once your everything with the reality that they are now just a silhouette against the backdrop of your life?

There's a cruel irony in the way love can transform. It starts as a gentle flame, warm and inviting, only to rage into an inferno that consumes everything in its path, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. And here I am, sifting through the remnants, searching for a spark that might reignite the fire, knowing full well it would only burn me again.

I've asked myself a thousand times if I would go back and do it all over again, knowing the heartache that awaited me. Would I still choose to love you with every fiber of my being, or would I take the coward's way out and shield myself from the inevitable fall? The truth is, I would choose you, every single time. Because even though this love hurts, it's a testament to the depth of what we had. It's a reminder that I am capable of a love so profound, so intense, that not even the pain of its loss can diminish its worth.

But what does it say about me, that I would willingly embrace this suffering? Is it strength or foolishness that keeps me tethered to a love that no longer exists outside the confines of my own heart? I grapple with these questions, turning them over and over, like stones worn smooth by the relentless tide of my longing.

The reality is, I can't love you the way I used to. That love belonged to a different time, a different version of us. Now, I love you in the quiet moments, in the spaces between breaths, in the whispered dreams of what we might have been. I love you in the past tense, with a love that's a ghost of what it once was, haunting me with memories that refuse to fade.

I wish I could say that this love has made me stronger, that it's given me the courage to face the world with a defiant heart. But the truth is, it's left me battered and bruised, nursing wounds that may never fully heal. And yet, despite the pain, despite the scars, I wouldn't trade this love for anything in the world. Because it's mine, in all its agonizing glory.

So here I am, penning my heartache into existence, hoping that somehow, these words will reach you, that they will echo through the void and touch the edges of your soul. I'm not asking for a second chance; I'm not even asking for absolution. All I'm asking is for you to understand the breadth and depth of a love that refuses to die, even as it slowly kills me from the inside out.

In the end, this is my confession, my testimony to a love that was all-encompassing, a love that was you, again and again. A love that, despite the hurt, I would sacrifice the world for, over and over, without a moment's hesitation. Because, in the twisted labyrinth of my being, you will always be the minotaur at its center, fierce and untamed, a beast I will never stop trying to tame, even if it means losing myself in the process.

-ayi, @hyikien on insta :)

[eibhlean]

I didn't write this, but it feels like the words were ripped from my soul. Beautiful and heartbreaking.

[hyikien]

awww, thank you:((