Dust and divinity.

I am still healing, still trembling, still unworthy— and still chosen. I saw the Lord. He met me in the ache, and I’m not walking out alone.

[isawthelord]

PetalsandPromises 1:

Here’s the truth: healing isn’t neat.

It’s a battlefield,

a wild, tangled mess of fire and petals.

I’m not here to sugarcoat the struggle—

I’m here to say,

yes, it hurts.

Yes, it’s hard.

But absolutely, it’s worth it.

Because every scar is a story,

every fall a step forward.

So if you’re tired of pretending,

if you’re ready to fight for your own light—

this is your place.

Bring your cracks. Bring your chaos.

Bring everything.

Because here, we don’t just survive—

we rise. We bloom.

We promise.

[isawthelord]

InkWingArchives II

Filed under: phantom living, ghost hands, still blinking

There are days where I swear I’m just watching.

Not living—just hovering slightly above it.

Like my body’s going through the motions

and I’m in the rafters,

a quiet observer of my own face.

The world gets gauzy.

I forget what came before this moment.

Or the one before that.

Like someone pressed “pause” on my self

but left “play” on everything else.

I laugh, but it’s a recording.

I eat, but don’t taste it.

I speak, but the words aren’t anchored to breath.

And no one notices.

Because I’m still technically… here.

Sometimes, I miss me.

Even when I’m in the room.

—InkWingArchives

(Has it ever felt like you were just pretending to exist?)

[isawthelord]

InkWing Archives – Entry I

I don’t think we outgrow the need to be seen—we just get quieter about it.

We start calling it “independence.”

Or “self-sufficiency.”

Or “I’m just tired.”

But sometimes, I catch myself looking for witnesses in small ways.

Leaving a note where someone might find it.

Wearing something that feels like an unspoken message.

Saying, “I’m fine” but hoping someone will ask twice.

I don’t need attention.

I need resonance.

I need to be read like a book that isn’t being graded—

just gently held open,

understood in soft light,

and left better for having been flipped through.

That’s what this archive is.

Not a cry for help.

Not a performance.

Just… a soft place to store the truths that didn’t fit inside me anymore.

Some thoughts were never meant to stay caged.

So I gave them wings.