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The Future We Will Never See: A Reflective Poem on Mortality, Legacy, and Hope
What’s something you’d love to see in the future, but know you probably won’t live to witness? The Future We Will Never See There are morningswhen I stand near small unfinished things— a cracked bucket catching rainwater,paint peeling from balcony rails,the stubborn basil plant leaning toward traffic noise— and think about the futurethe way people think about distant countries: real enough…
Do You Believe in Minimalism? A Reflective Poem on Simplicity and Enoughness
Do you believe in minimalism? Do You Believe in Minimalism? This morningbefore the city finished assembling itself—before pressure cookers hissed,before elevators swallowed workers floor by floor,before notifications began breeding inside pockets— I stood near a windowwhere dust had quietly inherited the corners. The room was full. Not crowded. Full. There is a difference. A chair holding…
Surviving the Night Flood: The Evening the World Turned Into Cinema
What’s a moment in your life that felt like it was straight out of a movie? I. BEFORE WATER LEARNS YOUR NAME There are days memory preserves in careful glass—birthdays, funerals, exam results,the smell of new paint in a rented house—and then there are days memory storeslike wet photographs stuck together,days that cannot be separatedwithout tearing. The evening of Surviving the Night…
I Still Miss Who I Once Was Poem: A Reflective Spoken Word on Identity, Loss, and Healing
Sometimes emotional collapse does not arrive dramatically. Sometimes it appears on a pavement, handwritten on cardboard beside black bags waiting for collection. This I Still Miss Who I Once Was Poem explores how people mourn former versions of themselves while continuing the uncomfortable work of becoming. I Still Miss Who I Once Was Pavement Theology On a narrow streetwhere buildings…
What the Pavement Decided to Show Me: A Reflective Poem on Walking, Attention, and Ordinary Wonder
Go on a walk today and share a photo of something that catches your eye. I. Leaving the Room I went outside because the roomhad become too certain of itself. The fan rotated with old convictions.The walls repeated yesterday’s moods.Notifications bloomed and diedlike mechanical flowers. My thoughts had started walking circles. So I left. Not for health.Not for purpose.And, Not because…
The First Book I Carried Across Time: A Poem About Memory, Reading, and Becoming
What’s the first book you ever finished and still remember to this day? The First Book I Carried Across Time I try to remember the title first. That feels responsible. People ask about booksas though memory were a shelfand not weather. So I stand inside myselflike someone opening old cupboardsduring monsoon season, lifting boxes swollen with years, waiting for paperto speak. What arrives…
What the Most Profound Advice Taught Me About Running, Resistance, and the Life I Kept Refusing
What’s the most profound piece of advice you’ve been given? Did you take it? Someone once gave me the most profound advice I have ever received. It took me years to take it. Not because it was complicat — it was simple, the way the truest things always are. The problem was readiness. The words were arriving long before I was shaping into someone capable of receiving them. I thanked the person…
Counting
Some griefs are too large to look at directly — so we find ourselves counting pigeons instead. This poem watches an old man on a bench, and discovers what counting can and cannot keep at bay. Cinquain (2 – 4 – 6 – 8 – 2) Old manon the park bench,his newspaper unread,the world's wars folded on his lap—just birds. Haiku (5 – 7 – 5) He counts the pigeons—one, two; her name fills the pause,then…
My Unlimited Budget For 24 Hours: What Would I Do?
If you had an unlimited budget for 24 hours, what would you do? The Question That Wouldn’t Fold Back The hypothetical arrives like most uncomfortable things. Folded inside small talk. Somewhere between the second coffee and chairs scraping back against tile. My friend asks what I’d do with my unlimited budget for 24 hours. I laugh. I say something about a private jet to somewhere…
Better Call Saul Finale is Perfect: The Architecture of Regret
What’s a show that had the perfect series finale? In the quiet, monochromatic twilight of the Better Call Saul finale, there is a single, defiant flicker of color that demands our attention. As Jimmy McGill and Kim Wexler lean against a cold prison wall, sharing a cigarette, the flame of the lighter and the tip of the tobacco glow with a subtle, warm orange. This moment is more than a visual…
Who Was He? The Quiet Distance Between People and Their Identities
If you could have dinner with any philosopher, who would it be? Who Was He? There’s a question people like to ask in interviews and conversations when they want to sound curious: “If you could have dinner with any philosopher, who would it be?” For a long time, I thought the question itself was the interesting part. Which name you choose. What it says about you. Whether you pick someone…
I Have Sat With the Dark and Called It by Its Name: Fear, Self-Doubt, and the Long Way Through
How do you handle fear and self-doubt? I · The Arrival I have known fear the way the mountain knows weather — not as enemy, not as failure, but as something that comes without asking, moves through the high passes, and leaves the rock exactly as it found it. There were mornings I woke already braced — some low familiar pressure in the chest, the body running its old rehearsals: you…
Inner Engineering: Finding the Architect of Your Joy
Inner Engineering: The Silent Architect of Internal Reality There is a quiet, pervasive myth in our modern world that joy is a gift from the universe, delivered to the lucky and withheld from the rest. We spend our lives decorating the “outside” of our existence—chasing the right career, the perfect relationship, and the ideal environment—only to find that the person living inside those…
Modern Storytelling: What the Story You're Telling Reveals About the Invisible Systems
The Invisible Author: Why the Story You’re Telling Was Written Before You Began There is a particular kind of morning that feels like a beginning. You open a blank document, or a fresh journal page, or a new social profile. And something in the gesture suggests authorship — that what follows will be yours. Assembled, in fact, from the specific coordinates of your experience, shaped by no one…
The Weight of Living With What You Choose
I have been thinking about sediment. How it doesn’t arrive with ceremony — no announcement, no bright edge of something changed — just the patient accumulation of what falls through still water and rests. This is how choices settle. Not with the drama we imagined when we made them, standing at the edge of something, heart loud in our chest like a thing trying to escape, but slowly, over years,…
Questioning Reality: A Poetic Exploration of Controlled Hallucinations
What’s a moment that made you question reality? The Architecture of the Controlled Hallucination I dropped my phone beside the bed today—a simple thing, a gravity-bound weight. I heard the thud, the plastic hitting the hardwood floor with a definitive, percussive crack. Yet, when I knelt to reclaim the mundane, there was only the dust of a tidy room. It was gone. Not hidden, not slid, but…
The Words We Murdered: A Poem on the Language We've Stopped Meaning
What’s a word or phrase that annoys you? The Words We Murdered A poem on the slow death of meaning I remember when words were small and true — the way love fit inside a chest without needing explanation, the way tired meant something a night’s sleep could answer, the way broken was said only when something had actually fallen and shattered on the floor. I remember when language was the house…