Flâneur

𝙍𝙞𝙩𝙯; 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘦𝘶𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢. 𝘌𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘩, 𝘯𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘢, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩. 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. ♐ ꜱᴜɴ・♋ ᴍᴏᴏɴ・♈ ʀɪꜱɪɴɢ A digital nomad. A desperate writer. A songwriter of emotional avalanches. A freelance modern-day feminist with a sharp tongue & a sharper pen. A nonconformist, semi-principled rule-breaker. An animal welfare advocate with more empathy than patience. I blog what makes me feel. I reblog what makes me seen. And I rant, unapologetically, like it’s a spiritual cleanse. This is my chaos shrine, where I ramble through the madness that makes this life mine. #𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹𝘀𝗯𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 🏹 ༝༚༝༚

[imacrazydicta]

Soft Splinter

I did not come looking for a fight. That is what still gets me. I came in soft. Careful. Trying to say one hard thing without tearing the room apart.

I told you what was hurting me. I told you I did not appreciate you pretending. Not pretending to care. Pretending I should be okay. Pretending your answer was something I could just swallow without feeling it scrape on the way down.

Three to five years.

Like I was supposed to hear that and feel safe. Like I was supposed to hear that and not feel my whole body go cold.

And then you got defensive.

That is the part that stayed with me. Not just what you said. How fast the room changed. How quickly your voice rose. How something that started with honesty ended with you yelling.

In the room. In the car. Outside my house, in public.

Like my fear had become an offence. Like my honesty had done something to you. Like I was the problem for not being able to digest what was never okay to begin with.

And then you dropped my bag outside and drove off without even saying goodbye.

That was the moment.

Not because it was the loudest. Because it was so fucking clear.

I came to you gently and still got handled roughly. I came to you soft and still walked away feeling like something in me had caught on the sharp edge of you.

Not a stab. Not a wound dramatic enough for anyone else to respect. Just a small, mean injury lodged under the skin.

That is what I cannot shake.

Not because it destroyed me. Because it did not. Because I am still here. Still standing. Still speaking.

But something in me turned watchful after that. Something that used to come easy no longer does.

That is what people do not understand about certain kinds of damage. It is not always the big wreck that changes you. Sometimes it is one night. One answer. One public humiliation. One drive-off. One bag dropped at the door like the whole thing had become too inconvenient to carry properly.

A soft splinter.

And those can be the biggest bastards to pull out.

[imacrazydicta]

I Stayed in the Blur

I told myself to wait it out. To give it time. To let the truth rise on its own, like steam lifting off glass, as if standing still long enough, everything would finally sharpen.

That was bullshit.

Nothing was sharpening. I was just getting better at living with confusion. Better at swallowing questions. Better at sitting inside half-love and trying not to choke on it.

And maybe that is why it wrecked me the way it did. Not because you were monstrous. Not because you slammed a door in my face. Not because you looked me dead in the eye and said no.

Honestly, that would have been cleaner.

But you were never cruel enough to make it simple. You were soft in all the places that kept me there. Warm enough to confuse me. Close enough to make me hope. Vague enough to ruin me.

That is the part people do not talk about. Sometimes the worst thing is not rejection. It is being kept in a space where your body can feel love but your soul never gets to rest inside it.

You touched me like I mattered. Spoke to me like I was rare. Made me feel seen right up until the moment I needed to be chosen.

Then suddenly everything blurred again.

And that blur became a room. I can still see it. Late night. Low lamp. Air heavy. That strange quiet after too much talking, when the room goes still but your chest does not. You beside me, saying things that sounded almost like certainty, almost like commitment, almost like love I could actually stand on without falling through it.

Almost.

God, that word is evil.

Almost is how women stay too long. Almost is how you talk yourself out of your own instincts. Almost is how you make starvation sound romantic. Almost is how you sit there, heart beating too hard, waiting for one plain fucking sentence that never comes.

I did not need poetry from you. I did not need some grand speech. I needed the simplest thing in the world. I love you. I choose you. I am serious about you. You are not standing here alone trying to build certainty out of scraps.

But that is not what I got.

What I got was praise. Worth. Potential. Importance. Value. Asset.

An asset.

What a brutal fucking word to hand a woman when she is quietly falling apart in front of you.

As if I needed to be appraised. As if being useful to your life was supposed to comfort me while I lay there feeling time scrape against my ribs. As if I should be grateful that you could see my worth while still failing to love me in the one way that actually mattered.

And that is the thing— my body knew before my mouth did. My body always knows first.

It knew in the silence after your tender words when they did not settle right. It knew in the way my stomach dropped every time you said something sweet but left the back door open. It knew in the way I cried and could not even explain it properly, because technically nothing had happened.

That was the worst part.

Nothing had happened. And still I felt grief move in like furniture.

I started mourning things that had not even died properly. A future. A version of myself. The years I could feel passing. The children I want. The home I wanted. The safety of being able to relax inside love instead of studying it like it might turn on me if I blinked wrong.

Do you know what that does to a woman?

To want real things in real time, while standing beside a man who keeps speaking in fog?

It makes her feel dramatic for having a pulse. It makes her feel guilty for noticing that her life is finite. It makes her feel hysterical for wanting marriage, for wanting children, for wanting something steady instead of being asked to survive on emotional breadcrumbs and timing excuses.

And when you finally pushed me to say what was bothering me, to say it plainly, to stop holding it in and just tell you— I did.

And what did I get back?

That maybe in three years. Maybe five. Maybe then you would be ready.

Three to five years.

Like I was supposed to hear that and feel safe. Like I was supposed to hear that and not feel my whole body go cold. Like a woman telling you she is afraid of wasting time, afraid of losing years she cannot get back, afraid of building a life on vagueness, is meant to calm down because a man says maybe in three to five years.

What kind of answer is that?

And then to be called insecure for not finding comfort in it.

As if I was the irrational one. As if I was failing to understand you. As if you understood my concern at all.

No.

You were asking me to stand still in burning time and call it trust. To ignore the fact that my life is not abstract. My body is not abstract. My future is not abstract. I do not get to live like time is some lazy, endless thing.

That is not insecurity. That is reality.

And I endured it. God, I endured it.

I swallowed it. Carried it. Sat in it. Outlasted conversations that left me emptier than they found me.

I did what women in love do when they are trying not to lose the one thing keeping them warm. I translated pain into patience. Confusion into complexity. Silence into hope.

That is how staying happens.

Not in one big dramatic moment. It happens in small private humiliations. In the pause before you ask the question you already know will not get answered straight. In the way you swallow your own needs because today does not feel like the right day. In the way you tell yourself, Maybe next week. Maybe after this. Maybe when he is less stressed. Maybe when he is ready.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

As if God himself was going to rip open the ceiling and spell it out for me because you would not.

And while all of that was already eating me alive, there was also the other shit. The women. Still there. Still all over your social media like ghosts you refused to bury.

And I never even brought it up properly. Not because I did not see it. Not because it did not bother me. But because I knew exactly what would happen if I started there. I knew it would turn into the same mess, the same deflection, the same kind of explosion where suddenly I am the problem for reacting to something that should have been handled before I ever had to say a word.

Because let us be serious. If a man respects you and respects the relationship he claims to be in, he cleans that shit up himself.

That is common sense. That is respect. That is maturity. That is what a healthy relationship looks like.

You do not enter something serious while still dragging old bodies through the hallway. You do not keep women you used to sleep with hovering around your pages like dusty trophies. You do not use your company profile to follow personal accounts of women you have history with like some horny fucking idiot cosplaying as a businessman.

What the hell is that even supposed to do? How exactly does that help the business? How does following women from a business account make you look serious, decent, stable, respectable?

It does not. It makes you look stupid. It makes you look sloppy. It makes you look like a man still chasing ghosts while pretending to build a future.

And that disgusted me too.

Not because of jealousy— no, this is bigger than jealousy. It is about respect. It is about common sense. It is about the fact that no decent man in a committed relationship should need to be told to stop keeping skeletons in his closet and calling it nothing.

Nothing.

Men love that word. Nothing. Harmless. No big deal. You are overthinking.

No. It is not nothing. It tells me everything.

It tells me you still need an audience. It tells me you still care who is watching. It tells me some part of you still wants old women, old ghosts, old fucks, to see what you have now, see who you became, see the business, see the success, and realise they fumbled you.

Jesus Christ.

What kind of grown man still moves like that?

And worse— what kind of woman stays and marries a man like that thinking it will magically become respect later?

It will not. Stupidity does not age into maturity just because you put a ring on it.

And just because I did not drag it into the light does not mean it was not there. It was there every time I saw it. Every time I noticed. Every time I chose silence because I was already carrying too much and did not have the strength to haul another obvious truth into the room for you.

That is part of the blur too.

Not just what was said, but what I had to keep swallowing because I knew I would be the one forced to carry the emotional labour of it if I dared to name it.

So yes, I stayed in the blur. I stayed while knowing. Not fully. Not cleanly. But enough.

Enough to feel it in my throat. Enough to know that every time you spoke of the future without actually making me feel safe inside it, something in me went cold. Enough to know that love can be real and still not be enough to live on.

That is the part people romanticise. The suffering. The devotion. The staying. Like there is something noble about slowly disappearing beside someone.

There is not.

There is nothing beautiful about watching your own life dim while calling it loyalty. There is nothing romantic about being half-held. There is nothing admirable about becoming understanding to the point of self-erasure.

I got tired. Tired of being mature. Tired of being patient. Tired of making cages look meaningful. Tired of acting like my needs were excessive just because they arrived without apology.

I was not asking for too much. That lie can fuck off too.

I was asking for clarity. For steadiness. For truth without a trapdoor under it. For tenderness that did not disappear the second it had to become real. For love that did not make me feel like I had to earn the right to relax inside it.

I was asking not to wake up beside love and still feel alone.

That loneliness is hard to explain to people who have never lived it. It is not loud loneliness. It is quieter than that.

It is lying beside someone and feeling your chest go heavy because you know you can reach for them and still not reach the place you actually need to be met.

It is hearing kind words and still feeling hunger. It is being comforted without ever becoming safe. It is being wanted without ever being fully claimed.

That kind of loneliness changes you.

It made me doubt things I should never have doubted. Made me explain truths already said. Made me defend my memory, my intentions, my goddamn self, as if honesty needs a lawyer once trust has already left the room.

My story never changed. Not once. That still burns me.

I knew what happened. I knew what I said. I knew what I meant. And still there were moments when the way I was looked at made me feel like I was on trial for the crime of loving too directly.

Do you know how humiliating that is?

To love with open hands and still be treated like there must be something hidden in them.

To give help like breathing. To show up because that is just who you are. To love like it is the most natural thing in the world. And still be met with caution. Doubt. Interpretation. Distance dressed up as thoughtfulness.

That does something violent to the inside of a person.

And still, I did not hate you. That is the joke. That is why it hurt like rot instead of impact. Slow. Quiet. A private starving.

Because if you had looked at me once, just once, and said it plainly— I love you. I choose you. I am serious about you. I am done leaving back doors open. I am done carrying ghosts into this with us— I would have built a life from rubble with my bare hands and called it luck.

That is how willing I was. That is how much love I had.

And that is exactly why I could not stay there forever.

Because there comes a point when staying stops being romantic and starts becoming self-abandonment. Starts looking less like loyalty and more like theft. Like watching your own future get shaved down into something smaller and then thanking fate for the scraps left on the floor.

That is what finally disgusted me.

Not loving you. Not wanting you. But seeing what it was costing me and realising I was the one still helping carry the knife.

I am not ashamed that I wanted more. I wanted marriage. I wanted children. I wanted a home that did not feel borrowed. I wanted peace. I wanted to stop standing in some emotional corridor holding flowers for a life that would not open the fucking door.

There is nothing embarrassing about that. The embarrassing part is how long I kept trying to make almost feel like enough.

Because it was never enough. My body knew it. My grief knew it. My anger knew it. Even my silence knew it.

I was never hard to love. That was never the problem.

The problem was that I was easy to keep in the blur. Easy to soothe. Easy to delay. Easy to warm just enough that I would stay standing there instead of walking out with whatever was left of me.

But I know better now.

Now I know that being loved in fragments can break a person more cleanly than being abandoned. Because abandonment ends. Blur lingers. Blur makes you doubt your own hunger. Blur makes you feel ungrateful for noticing you are starving.

And I was starving.

Not for attention. Not for compliments. Not for praise. For truth. For plainness. For that simple human steadiness that lets a woman unclench inside her own life.

I stayed because I loved you. That is true.

But I also stayed because I kept hoping the room would finally sharpen, the glass would clear, the smoke would lift, and I would see that I had not imagined the shape of us.

Instead, I learned something uglier.

Some people can hold your heart with real warmth in their hands and still never hold it like they mean to keep it.

That is what happened. That is why it hurt. That is why I started leaving inside myself long before I ever leave out loud.

Because I could feel it. Day by day. Moment by moment. The way I was disappearing slowly just to make more room for you.

And that is not love. Not the kind that keeps a woman alive.

That is blur.

And I stayed in it for far too fucking long.

[imacrazydicta]

Soil & Silence

“If God’s the game that you’re playing Well, we must get more acquainted Because it has to be so lonely To be the only one who’s holy It’s just my humble opinion But it’s one that I believe in You don’t deserve a point of view If the only thing you see is you”

〰〰〰 I came with warmth, I came with grace, I met your silence face to face. I gave you light, I gave you ground, while you let shadows wrap us ’round.

I poured my care into this soil, but love can’t grow beneath the spoil. You say you want to see where this might go, but hold me back with things you won’t let go.

You speak in thorns, but bloom in lies, then wonder why the garden dies. You look at me like I’m to blame, but you forget—we named this flame.

You whispered doubt, then watched me break, then fed the roots with what you fake. You can’t destroy it in the dark, and still expect I feed the spark.

I can’t keep tending to a lie, pretending we still qualify. As something honest, something whole, when I’m the only one on patrol.

So no, I won’t keep watering pain, while you bring storms but dodge the rain. You say you care, but blur the lines, this isn’t growth. It’s slow decline. 〰〰〰

I’ve been patient, but now I see you clearly. You don’t get to judge me while hiding your own sins. You’re not God. You’re just pretending. And I won’t keep watering something you’ve been poisoning behind my back.

[imacrazydicta]

The Ciphered Veil

Do not approach with mortal eyes, my words are inked in veiled disguise. A sigil scrawled in smoke and bone, a spell half-whispered, half-unknown.

If you would know me—draw your mark, spill your blood to light the dark. Show me scars that coil like snakes, only the broken cross my gates.

Do not demand, for keys won’t turn, the lock itself must choose to burn. Ask the question carved in flame, the riddle clothed, without a name.

Do not skim the shallow stream, my truth lies buried in the dream. Anchor steady, pierce the tide, or vanish where the shadows hide.

I am the cipher, serpent-bound, a mirror turned, without a sound. My tongue is venom, sweet, profane, I am the lock, I am the chain.

To “solve” me is to lose your breath, to love me is to dance with death. Not made for reason, nor for claim, but felt—a fire without a name.

[imacrazydicta]

Only Embers Survive Me

If I’m the fire, and men are moths, let them burn—I’ll count the loss. They chase the glow, they beg for heat, but can’t survive what makes me me.

They want the light, not what it costs, they want the flame, not what gets lost. They touch the edge, then call it pain, but never learn, so they burn again.

You want to merge? Then come with flame, don’t come soft—don’t play the game. Don’t worship me and then retreat, burn with me, or face defeat.

Bring your blaze and hold your ground, don’t kiss the fire just for sound. I’m not a spark you get for free, I’m wildfire. Burn with me.

[imacrazydicta]

The Ghost I Chose

The first time we met, déjà vu hit hard, Like a scene I’d rehearsed, a soul’s calling card. Familiar as blood, but laced with my pain, The echo of family I tried to escape in vain.

It felt like the cycle I swore I’d outrun, But I let it continue, thought maybe you’re the one. A flash of the future—me old at your side, Caring for you though you’re bigger in size.

Love made me settle, though unease would stay, A whisper of struggle that haunted each day. Yet I chose the familiar, the ache I once knew, Because comfort can kill, but it feels like truth.

Then came the lines of white, the bottles, the nights, The friends and the anger, the endless fights. The hatred for your mother, the wish to just die, A soul with no anchor, just smoke in the sky.

You moved for me, Winnipeg walls closed in, Lazy at times, but you tried through the din. While I worked and I bled just to keep us afloat, You sank in the silence, no fire in your throat.

In the end it was you who let go, who ran, But I let you do it, that was always the plan. Abandonment stung, yet I’d long seen the sign, The end was your fault, but the choice was still mine.

And strangest of all, when the dust finally cleared, I mourned your sweet mother, the bond I held dear. Like all of my exes, their mothers stayed true, While the sons only showed me what trauma can do.

So you were déjà vu—pain dressed as fate, A familiar ghost I chose to embrace. I wanted it lasting, but knew it would fall, And mourning your mother was hardest of all.

[imacrazydicta]

09’24: The Quiet Exit

Over time, I’ve begun to reflect deeply on the state of my relationship, and a troubling realisation has emerged: I no longer understand why we’re still together. Before leaving Toronto, I asked him for a reason to stay, but he couldn’t offer one. Now, whenever tensions rise and we argue, I find myself asking the same question—why are we still here, struggling through this? His response is never constructive. Instead, it is marked by hurtful language and a tone filled with disdain. The contempt has become impossible to ignore, and it clouds whatever bond we once shared.

One of the most difficult aspects has been his ongoing connection with a friend who has been a source of emotional harm in the past. Despite knowing how uncomfortable this makes me, he continues to maintain that relationship behind my back. When I confront him about it, the conversation is deflected. Somehow, I become the problem—painted as insecure, irrational, or unstable. It leaves me questioning not only his loyalty but my own worth. If he truly views me this way, I wonder why he won’t simply walk away.

These past few weeks have been especially challenging. I’ve had countless sleepless nights, and when the emotional weight becomes too much, I’ve resorted to hiding my tears. There is no comfort to be found in our home; instead, my vulnerability seems to provoke his ridicule. Most recently, as I was packing my things, I thought to myself that I wouldn’t mind handling all the responsibilities around the apartment if it were in a different context—perhaps as part of a professional role. But when I tried to share this feeling, his response was not only dismissive but blatantly disrespectful, and it was at that moment I realised just how far we’ve drifted.

I had hoped that moving here would offer a fresh start for us, a chance to leave behind past toxicities and rebuild together. But instead, it feels as though the past has come with us, and his attachment to it seems unshakable. No matter how much I try to support him, his loyalty remains elsewhere. He chooses to confide in his toxic friend, especially when we argue, which leaves me feeling both humiliated and alone in this relationship. His unwillingness to change or even acknowledge how these dynamics hurt me is deeply discouraging.

Even friends who once believed in us have reached their limits. One close friend, who has always been supportive, now sees him as selfish, immature, and unwilling to take responsibility. The sentiment stings because it mirrors what I’ve been feeling but was perhaps too afraid to admit: I am being held onto, but not in a way that suggests love or respect, more like a possession that’s neither cherished nor let go.

I’ve done everything I can think of to make this relationship work. I’ve tried to communicate openly, to compromise, to address the issues between us. But increasingly, I feel like I’m the only one putting in that effort. Every conversation turns into a cycle where my concerns are minimised or ignored, and I end up feeling blamed for the very problems I’m trying to solve.

Living like this, constantly feeling disrespected and unheard, is wearing me down. I’ve held onto the hope that things might improve, but I’m beginning to realise that they may never change. It’s exhausting, both emotionally and mentally. I’ve reached a point where I know I deserve more—someone who sees and values me, who is willing to work alongside me to build something meaningful. 

I don’t know how much longer I can keep trying. Staying in a relationship that feels so one-sided is slowly breaking me down. I know I need to prioritise my own well-being, even if it means making the difficult decision to walk away. Continuing as we are is simply unsustainable, and I’m afraid if nothing changes, I’ll lose a part of myself in the process.

I’m not seeking advice or looking for solutions; I just needed to express what I’ve been going through. Sometimes acknowledging the pain is the first step toward finding clarity.

[imacrazydicta]

Echoes in Silence

Sometimes I wonder, what fills his mind, Is it shadows of pain he can’t unwind? I look at him—hollow, a silence so deep, An echo that lingers, a wound that won’t sleep.

His words are few, but the void is loud, A boy in the dark, lost in the crowd. While my thoughts storm daily, a restless sea, I ask myself—why’s he still with me?

Will he change, or stay blind to my face? Does he feel my weight, or just need the space? Am I love, or a ghost he lets drift near? Why do I care, when it’s doubt I hear?

Yet somehow I mirror the cracks he hides, In his silence, my own ache collides. I stand in the hollows his absence creates, Hoping one day he’ll open the gates.

And maybe his silence will break into song, Filling the void I’ve chased all along.

[imacrazydicta]

The Stranger I Almost Spent Christmas With

I met you in November, just before the frost, a comedian with secrets, in laughter half-lost. You asked me to stay, but I curled on your couch, your hands were warm, but your words stayed in drought. Your black cat stared like a silent guard, named after some demon from cinema noir. The grin you wore was stitched with care, but even in jokes, I saw your despair. You hummed old Elvis while making our coffee, spoke of old lovers and heartbreaks like me. You said you’d be lonely on Christmas Eve, and I almost stayed—but I had to leave. That final night felt like a film half-lit, we sat on your bed, and the silence hit. You turned from warmth to a guarded stare, like I touched a wound that was always there. I left with your spoon and your old dinner fork, tucked in my bag like a memory’s cork. Not stolen—just held like a moment you miss, a goodbye without a final kiss. You sang me Death Cab in a trembling tune, “I will follow you...” in that dim-lit room. I dreamed we’d make music, you strumming chords, but we never did, and that hurt more.

I ghosted you first—I’ll admit that part, but I still wrote you letters straight from the heart. You replied with comfort, though never too deep, and I wept in the snow, losing sleep. You circled my street in that silent car, but never came closer, never came far. Almosts and echoes, like ghosts in the dusk, I kept your utensils, you kept your trust. You were the joke with a hidden sting, the note unresolved, the song I didn’t sing. I loved you in riddles, you feared the reveal, so we buried the spark in something unreal. Now I write you in verses, stripped of the mask, where the jokes are gone and I no longer ask. You were a stranger I knew to the bone, but darling, I ride best when I ride alone. So hang up your hat, let the curtains fall, your cowgirl’s gone—she’s not taking your call. You missed your chance to sing along, now I’m just lyrics in a lonesome song.

[imacrazydicta]

Champagne & Gunpowder

We don’t do daylight—it’s too honest, too plain. We bloom after midnight, in lipstick and rain. Three queens and a king the dealer left untamed, Laughing at stories too wicked to be named. One sips like she’s tasting the downfall to come, One drums her nails slow like a funeral drum. One tilts her head, knowing she’s twisting the knife, One wears his grin like a double-edged life. We speak in barbed honey, in riddles, in smoke, Our truths are the punchlines that never get spoke. We play with the world like a marionette’s strings, Pull tight, then release—oh, the chaos it brings. If the city found out, it would choke on our name, We’re champagne and gunpowder—one spark, and flame. By sunrise we vanish, but the rumour survives: Four shadows in silk, more dangerous alive. They say in the back rooms, the alleys, the bars, Four ghosts still walk under blackout stars. No one can prove it, but all swear it’s true— If you hear soft laughter, and a song drifting through.

[imacrazydicta]

The Shape of Quiet

This is the kind of quiet people trust too easily.

People keep calling this place peaceful.

I think that’s funny.

Peace, to them, is just the absence of noise. No cars, no shouting, no notifications screaming for attention. They sit on a bench, feel the wind, and decide the world is quiet.

I sit on the same bench, and the world refuses to shut up.

The wind hits first. Not as wind—never just wind. It tastes like metal. Not sharp enough to hurt, just enough to remind you something is unfinished. I don’t know why it does that. It just does. So I swallow it and pretend it’s normal, like I always do.

There’s a kid laughing somewhere behind me. It splits the second it reaches me. Part of it turns into this flickering yellow—too bright, too uneven. The rest loops like a pattern that almost works but doesn’t quite land where it should.

I hate almosts.

So I sit there, breathing slower, adjusting nothing and everything at the same time until it settles into something tolerable. Not perfect. Just… less wrong.

The numbers show up eventually. They always do.

Not in front of me. Not like something I can point at. More like a presence that leans into the edges of things. Familiar in the way people are familiar, except they’re not people, and they don’t behave.

Three is restless today. It keeps pacing, like it’s waiting for something to start. Six is quieter, watching everything like it already knows how this ends. Nine feels heavy. Too close. I don’t like nine when it gets like this.

I shift on the bench.

“Back up.”

They don’t.

They never really listen.

My phone buzzes. It cuts through everything in this low red pulse that spreads outward, disrupting whatever fragile order I’ve managed to hold together. I don’t check it. Not yet. Red is impatient. I don’t negotiate with impatient things.

There’s music somewhere. Faint. Probably someone passing by, or a car, or someone’s headphones leaking into the air.

Doesn’t matter.

The second it reaches me, everything reorganizes.

The ground settles first. Bass always does that—thick, black, reliable. It holds. Finally, something that understands structure without asking questions.

Then the melody slips in, and it’s not one thing. It shifts—gold, then silver, then something in between that doesn’t have a proper name. It curves through everything, like the trees were placed there just to carry it.

I close my eyes.

That’s where it gets dangerous.

Because now it’s not “out there” anymore. It’s everywhere. Inside, outside—doesn’t matter. The chorus expands into something symmetrical, almost architectural. Like a cathedral building itself out of light and timing and intention.

It’s perfect.

Almost.

There’s a note. Too early. Barely noticeable if you’re just listening. But I’m not just listening.

It cracks the whole thing. Not enough to break it. Just enough to make it wrong.

My hand presses into my palm without me thinking about it. Grounding. Always grounding.

I start moving things. Not physically. Just… adjusting.

Pull the timing back. Soften the edge. Let the gold thread breathe instead of forcing it forward.

Half a beat.

That’s all it takes.

And suddenly everything locks into place like it was always meant to be there.

I exhale before I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

“There you are.”

It slips out quietly, like I’ve found something that tried to hide from me.

My phone buzzes again. Louder this time. The red pulse comes back, cutting straight through the gold. Disruptive. Ugly. Out of place.

I open my eyes.

The park returns.

Flat. Simple. Manageable.

For a second, I just sit there, stuck between what things are and what they could be if people actually paid attention.

They don’t.

That’s fine.

I stand up anyway.

“I need to write that down before it disappears.”

Because it will. Not the feeling—I never lose the feeling. But the exact shape of it? The timing, the way it folded into itself? That part is fragile. It doesn’t wait.

As I walk, the numbers follow. Of course they do.

The music lingers a little longer than it should.

And the wind still tastes like something unfinished.

People pass by like nothing’s happening.

Like the world is exactly what it looks like.

I almost envy that.

Almost.

[imacrazydicta]

The Sacred Burn: For the One Who Dares

This is the poetic version of The Sacred Burn: A Lover’s Rite in Three Acts.

As many of you know, I prefer my poems to rhyme. It’s how I lace emotion with rhythm, how I make every line echo like a pulse beneath the skin. So this isn’t just a retelling... it’s the same fire, now dressed in rhyme and resonance.

〰〰〰 You’ll meet me once and think you know, but I’m the kind of fire that starts off slow. I move like heat beneath the skin, a warning smirk, a game to win. I speak in riddles, flirt with flame, and call your hunger by its name. My body enters before my word, a dare, a flash, a line you’ve heard. But fall too fast, and I’ll retreat, I crave the ones who make me compete. Not out of fear, or shallow play, but to be earned in my own way. 〰〰〰 If you survive the spark I give, you’ll touch the place where real things live. My walls don’t drop with just a look, they fall like pages from a book. And when I kiss, it’s not for show, it’s where my truest feelings go. I can take you and not kiss your mouth, but if I do, I’m headed south— to where our spirits intertwine, where flesh is verse and soul is line. So know this truth and hold it tight: my kiss is sacred, full of light. If I kiss you when we touch, it means I crave you far too much. It means I want what’s deep, not skin, it means I’m letting you walk in. 〰〰〰 You think I’m done? You’ve just begun— I lead you where the dark things run. I’ll ask you things no lips should say, then laugh and take your breath away. I’m not a fling. I’m not your fix. I’m not the girl who plays with tricks. I’m spell and storm, and raw delight, the kind you dream of every night. Try to cage me—you will choke. I disappear in ash and smoke. But if you stay and light me slow, I’ll be the flame you’ll always know. 〰〰〰 I don’t want love that stays half-shown. I want a bond carved into bone. If you can match my sacred fire, I’ll give you all that you desire. But take me quick, or play me wrong, you’ll miss the place where I belong. So come with truth. And come with nerve. I am the burn you must deserve. So tread with care, don’t just explore, I’m not a phase, I’m something more. A haven wrapped in skin and bone, I’m not just a lover. I am a home.

[imacrazydicta]

The Sacred Burn: A Lover’s Rite in Three Acts

I originally wrote this as a draft while working on a university project. We were supposed to be writing a script for class, but somewhere along the way, this piece started taking shape instead. I poured myself into it, and before I knew it, I had stepped out of the assignment and into something deeply personal.

I might turn it into a full poem, but for now, it stands as a powerful draft titled:

“The Sacred Burn: A Lover’s Rite in Three Acts”

It’s not just writing. It’s a ritual. And maybe, it says more about me than I meant it to. 〰〰〰

Act I: The Summoning

You’ll meet her and think you’re ready. You are not.

She moves like sin disguised as sunlight. Speaks like a blade wrapped in velvet. Smirks like she’s already heard your safe word. Her body enters the room before her name. A fire-starter. A provocateur. A test of your own hunger. She’ll seduce your mind: fast, hot, unfiltered— just to watch your convictions twitch. Fall too quickly, and she will mark you unworthy. Surrender too soon, and she’ll vanish between blinks. She doesn’t crave obedience. She craves a worthy opponent, someone who can make the fire beg. Not because she fears closeness, but because what she offers is not affection— it is initiation. 〰〰〰

Act II: The Offering

Now comes the part you’ll never forget— the ritual beneath the flame. Once you pass her fire and match her famine, she lowers her walls—not all at once, but like moonlight peeling away centuries of armour. You’ll feel her in her silence, in the press of her hips, in the breath she steals when you think you’re leading. Her body, soft like prayer. Her breath, syncopated with your heartbeat. Her eyes—twin altars. Kneel, and you may glimpse your own soul reflected. This is not lust. This is communion. Where memories become hexes and every inch of her becomes a living talisman. She does not fuck. She remembers. And now, know this: Her kiss is not an act. It is a summoning. Her sex may be shared—sacred yet primal, but if her lips find yours while her body takes you, that is the moment the veil lifts. She can take you without kissing. But if she kisses you while you’re inside her, you’ve been chosen. You’ve been invited into the holy of holies. She is not kissing flesh. She is kissing your ghosts. She is reaching for your past lives. And she is asking one thing—

“Will you merge with me, or will you burn?”

〰〰〰

Act III: The Ascension or the Ashes

And just when you think you’ve tasted her entirely— she’ll take you somewhere unwritten. She will ask you questions no lover dares. She will drag the truth from your spine with a whisper. She will find the part of you that you buried, and make it beg to be reborn. Here, she is the philosopher. The priestess. The wild witch at the edge of the forest with blood on her tongue and scripture in her thighs. She will crave meaning in the moan, freedom in the grip, and if you try to cage her— even with love— she will disappear, leaving behind nothing but smoke and tremors. But if you build with her, dream with her, travel her like scripture you dare not mispronounce— she will anoint you with the kind of loyalty that frightens the gods. 〰〰〰 She is not a woman. She is a ritual. A religion. A ruin waiting to be worshipped. The flame is slow— because the lesson is eternal. She is the sacred burn. And to kiss her is to offer your soul to the fire.

[imacrazydicta]

Checkmate

— a love played like chess

A gentle move, just two steps near, The board was quiet, the motive unclear. You smiled as if it meant nothing at all, Yet I knew it was a beckon, not a stall.

You let me build—my centre strong, Confident I could do no wrong. But somehow in your passive grace, You’d already occupied the space.

I fanned my bishop toward the light, A flourish dressed in black and white. A feint, perhaps, to seize control, But I was chasing what you stole.

We danced in mirrored symmetry, You matched my every subtle plea. Knight for knight, I thought I’d win, But you were reeling my logic in.

The end drew near with pieces few, Each breath I took, you already knew. One move I made—too proud, too late, And in your smile… I saw my fate.

That final pawn, I reached, I swore, But I had opened your secret door. You’d set the trap from the very start, Not on the board, but in my heart.

Checkmate came in satin guise, Not with a sword, but with your eyes. And as I stood, undone, amazed, You only laughed. You’d planned this maze.

[cozimamanning]

[thatfunnyblog]

Wanna LAUGH OUT LOUD?! Follow this blog..

[imacrazydicta]

Voice of Your Heart

When you think about life and all its negative things, Scary thoughts creep in and the deep fear it brings. Dealing with friends who betrayed your trust, Standing alone in the rain, from dawn until dusk.

Losing the one with whom you shared all your dreams, Leaves your eyes cloudy and your tears running streams. With family members shouting from morning to night, You just want to run and escape from the fight.

School is tough and lessons don’t make sense, You walk through your future, stuck on the fence. Your world feels dark, so lost and confused, Angry, frustrated, and deeply misused.

Everything’s blurry, with no light in sight, You wonder if living is worth the fight. But then a small voice suddenly calls— You look all around, but there’s no one at all.

The little voice says, “There’s more you must see, Life isn’t just pain—it’s who you choose to be.” There are people who care, and new friends you’ll find, Each day holds a moment, a memory in time.

You breathe a bit slower and begin to believe, That life has more joy than you once could perceive. You can get educated, if you choose to learn, Your path is your future, it’s yours to earn.

You’ve been betrayed, left out, and refused, But your worth will shine, not to be abused. The right people will see what you’ve always known, Your value depends on the seeds you’ve sown.

Not having a lover is not the end of the road, The right one won’t leave when the feelings erode. Families argue—it’s part of the way They learn how to heal and not drift away. If you think problems can’t be undone, You’ve just not yet seen what strength you become.

This little voice saved your spark from the dark, It kept you from drifting too far from your mark. And that’s when you knew, from the very start, That voice all along… was the voice of your heart.

[imacrazydicta]

Can I Just Say...

It doesn’t matter if you’re feeling crappy and just plain miserable — that doesn’t give you the right to make others feel the same way. In any case, I had read this line somewhere before...  I have been cranky for the past few weeks, and I kept telling people it was because I was so stressed out about everything that had been going on lately—academic and personal issues. But I have realised that no matter what my reason or problems are, I have no right to make others feel the same way—to make them as unhappy as I am. The world does not revolve solely around me, and I have been a bit of a "bitch" over the last few days. So, if I have offended anyone, please accept my heartfelt apologies. 

I asked one of my friends if I had been so negative these past few days, and her answer was, "Yes, and mind you, not just this week, but the past WEEKS." So, yeah, there we go.

I know what it's like to be surrounded by negative people, and the negative vibes they pass on to you are just so UGH... And I really don't want to be that way. So I'm going to try to brighten up and smile a little more. :D