Memento Somniare

Writing the thoughts we are too afraid to say out loud. Inbox is open

[remember-to-dream]

I fall for a man

who walks through my world

like light through glass

touching everything,

holding nothing.

He doesn’t know my name.

Doesn’t feel the gravity

I carry in my chest

every time he enters a room

like he belongs to it.

And I

I am not the story he would choose.

Not the shape,

not the type,

not the echo of anything

he has ever reached for.

I watch him laugh with them

girls who fit

like answers to questions

I was never asked.

It doesn’t burn like jealousy.

No, it’s softer than that

a quiet ache,

like standing outside a house

filled with music

you somehow recognize.

I tell myself I will leave.

I rehearse indifference

like a language I almost speak.

I walk away

in steady, practiced steps.

But somehow

I am still here

caught in the space

between seeing him

and being seen,

learning how to let go

of something

that was never mine,

yet somehow

feels like it always was.

[remember-to-dream]

This one is for the Houdinis.

You appear and reappear,

like a trick no one asked to see twice,

like smoke that thinks it’s magic

just because it vanishes on cue.

You wave your loins

like it’s some divine offering,

like Zeus himself signed off on it—

it isn’t.

It never was.

Never will be.

You confuse access with entitlement,

confuse a moment of curiosity

with permission that never existed.

Zero respect for boundaries—

like “no” is a puzzle

you just haven’t solved yet.

“The attitude is crazy. Lose it.”

No.

Lose the number.

Lose the illusion that persistence

turns into desire.

Men play games,

then panic when the rules flip,

when player two reads the board better,

moves quieter, wins cleaner—

suddenly it’s unfair,

suddenly it’s too much.

How difficult is it to understand “no”?

Two letters.

Sharp. Final.

Not a maybe in disguise,

not a door cracked open for you to push.

No, dumbass—

no one wants you at 3 a.m.,

half-formed apologies and cheap hunger,

right before a six-hour flight

or after it,

or in any timeline where peace exists.

I don’t owe you anything.

Not my time,

not my effort,

not my attention—

not even a response

you can twist into hope.

You are not a habit I need to break.

You are noise

that learned my name once

and never earned it again.

So please—

be like Houdini one more time.

Not the spectacle.

Not the applause.

Just the part where you disappear,

and for once,

stay gone.

[remember-to-dream]

Life is made of open doors

and the quiet toss of a coin.

A hand reaches,

sometimes the door yields,

sometimes it stays shut;

as if the world itself has decided

this is not the moment.

Some people walk beneath

a sky that always clears.

Light seems to follow them,

soft and faithful.

Others learn the language of storms,

the weight of waiting,

the long corridors of almost.

Life is made of opportunity

and luck,

but mostly… luck.

And mine, it seems,

has wandered elsewhere.

[rederiswrites]

History will remember you today, Minnesota. Well done.

[leebrontide]

IN NEGATIVE TWENTY DEGREES!!!!!

Please spread this around. Don't let ANYONE lie and say my community is anything but ASTONISHINGLY UNITED in rejection of ICE's behavior. This crosses generations, race lines, party lines, class lines. THAT is how bad ICE is. THAT is how bad we want them gone.

THAT is how loudly we are DEMANDING they leave!

Do you understand what a crowd like this means in a small city like Minneapolis??? In weather that hurts to breathe???

Can you imagine what that takes?

[ralfmaximus]

Bigger turnout than his inauguration!

[remember-to-dream]

The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.

George Orwell, 1984

[remember-to-dream]

Roses

To learn about self-love,

make a rose.

Fold it from paper,

shape it from clay,

paint it in pixels and light,

or build it quietly in your mind.

Hold it there.

Look closer.

Notice the petals.

How they curve instead of align.

How some are wide and open,

others tight, almost shy.

One carries a bruise.

Another is torn at the edge.

One twists the wrong way.

One is smaller, darker, dry at the tip,

touched by weather, by time.

Ask yourself:

are they perfect?

Does every rose look the same?

No.

Does every petal mirror another?

No.

Does every thorn grow evenly, politely, without bite?

No.

And yet—

we still call it a rose.

We still reach for it when we mean love.

We still offer it when words fail.

We still press it between pages,

keep it in vases,

tattoo it onto skin,

write poems about it.

A rose is never flawless.

It is layered.

Scarred.

Asymmetrical.

Alive.

Its thorns do not cancel its beauty.

Its imperfections do not disqualify it from being adored.

They are part of what makes it unmistakably itself.

So why should you hate the parts of you that bend?

That don’t match the template?

That carry marks of surviving seasons you didn’t choose?

Why should you measure yourself against a standard

that even nature refuses to follow?

A rose,

a symbol of love and passion;

is not perfect.

And still, it is the symbol of love.

To learn about self-love,

make a rose.

[lilyblisslys]

insane comparison, thank you Guillermo

[nature-travel-photography]

we are nature - Author: 1hooda

[remember-to-dream]

Not Your Type

You and I,

Never us.

Only you.

And I.

You, across the world,

Temporarily.

I, still grinding.

You, with women.

I, wishing I was one of them.

Never the one, right?

That’s the thing, isn’t it?

We never meet at the same crossroad.

And if we did,

I’m not your type.

What a shame.

Your type, I mean.

You chase the illusion of “real” in the superficial.

You, lust driven.

I, logic bound.

Still, I hope you find her.

The perfect woman,

Wrapped in the kind of fake real you crave.

Hope she’s everything you want and need,

Right down to the look;

The one you call your type.

[landsccape]

[remember-to-dream]

Letters You’ll Never Read – Dreams

Sometimes I dream of you.

And every time it happens, it throws me off course, spins me into a loop I can’t quite break. Not a loop of us, not exactly. But of meaning. Of wondering.

Are you a symbol of something I’m searching for?

Or a flashing sign of everything I should be running from?

Are you the embodiment of a craving, a loneliness, a possibility? Or are you a lesson I haven’t yet accepted, wrapped in a pretty smile and deep brown eyes I would willingly drown in?

I wake up stuck.

Not in love.

Not in longing.

But in curiosity.

And that’s the worst part.

Because let’s be real: if you’re showing up in my dreams without an invitation, we’ve got a problem. Either we’re meant to be - which, let’s not kid ourselves, I’m not your type and you’re far out of my league - or you’re just a beautiful metaphor for something else.

I still don’t know what.

I don’t know what you are.

So yes, I hate dreaming of us.

But daydreaming? That’s a whole different mess.

Because when I’m awake, I can twist scenarios in my head until they almost feel real. I can pretend we’d click, really click, if life had just lined up differently. If we had met halfway instead of watching from opposite sides of the room.

We’re both so jaded, aren’t we?

You, with lust and the distractions you never seem to run out of.

Me, with this tiny fixation on you, maybe not you as a person, but the idea of you. The idea of almost.

And no, I don’t blame either of us.

You don’t know any better.

And I… I suppose I still try to keep a piece of myself untouched by the cynicism. Untouched by the things that hardened you.

So sure, I daydream.

It’s cute. It’s annoying. It’s not my favorite.

Because if I had to choose… I’d rather dream of you while I sleep and wake up with the soft relief that it was only a dream.

That you were just a flicker.

Just mist.

It’s the daydreams that linger.

The “what ifs” that dig in like thorns.

Feeding a dying obsession like a habit I can’t kick. Like a hit I still chase.

So yes,

Sometimes,

I dream of you.

And I wish I didn’t.

But I do.

[remember-to-dream]

Rumors, You Have Them

You’re an enigma,

Magnetic in the way only mystery can be.

You pad through the world,

A shadow in a room full of neon.

No fireworks,

No grand entrances,

Just a glance,

A tilt of your head,

A half-smirk,

And suddenly there are stories.

So many voices swirl around you.

Whispers echo in corners and across timelines,

None of them quite certain,

But all of them are hungry.

You’re so private, so careful.

A locked diary, a velvet rope,

But online?

Your double-taps and quick likes

Slip out like accidental secrets.

And the rumors?

Oh.

They gather like perfume in the air.

A string of late-night hook-ups?

Believable.

A pattern in the bodies and faces you like?

I’ve noticed.

A baby on the way?

That one’s deliciously reckless,

Almost poetic, really.

Rumors.

We all wear them,

Like borrowed clothes,

A little too tight,

A little too bold.

People speak,

Some truth, some venom, some wild imaginings.

The stories spread,

Drift from lips to screens,

Reach places you’ve never even been.

Rumors, baby.

They’ll follow you anywhere,

Until you turn around

And start one of your own.

[remember-to-dream]

Flutter, Then Fade

There are days I ignore you.

Not physically, no, we don’t have that kind of closeness.

But in the quiet corners of my mind, I let you fade.

And when I do, my heart stills.

It feels easier each time.

Lighter. Freer.

Almost… happier.

Then boom,

a photo.

You.

Tsk.

My heart stirs with that familiar flutter.

My mind follows, quick to trace the details.

The softness of your eyes,

The curve of your lips,

The way your presence lingers through pixels.

And in that pause,

My heart cracks.

Not for what we are,

But for the sadness I still see in you.

Maybe if life had been kinder,

Maybe if fate weren’t so cruel,

We would have collided by now;

Brilliant and reckless.

But we haven’t.

So I do the only thing I can:

I think of you and send my wishes to the wind.

Hope you find peace.

Hope you find joy.

My heart flutters once more,

Before my mind returns

To the quiet place

Where forgetting feels like survival.

[remember-to-dream]

To Be Needed

To be wanted;

is to be desired like firelight on a cold night.

To be needed;

is to be essential, like breath, like blood.

But which is stronger?

Which binds deeper?

You can be needed,

and still feel invisible.

You can be wanted,

but never held for long.

One leaves you hollow,

the other leaves you aching.

And somewhere in the silence between those truths,

your soul begins to whisper the answer.

Ask yourself,

Which one breaks you less?

Which one lets you sleep at night?

That, my love,

is where your truth lives.

Not in their arms,

but in the space your heart refuses to compromise.

[remember-to-dream]

Letters You Never Read - Part I

Dear You,

Not to be a downer, but I miss you.

Not just in the abstract, not just the idea of you.

I miss being able to see you just a few feet away.

Close enough to read your expression without words, to feel the weight of your presence even in silence.

There was comfort in that proximity, a kind of quiet understanding I didn’t realize I’d crave until it was gone.

But maybe that closeness meant more to me than it did to you.

You always seemed more invested in your screen,

scrolling endlessly through faces, bodies, lives

that never truly belonged to you.

They’re not real, you know.

Or maybe you do, and that’s the point.

You say you’re looking for something real,

but how can you find it buried beneath all that noise?

And here I am, watching you chase it and wondering if I should be chasing something too?

I’ve always believed we’re drawn to reflections of ourselves.

That the people we’re pulled toward,

mirror back the pieces of us we recognize, or long for.

But the thing about mirrors is… they don’t always tell the truth.

They can be warped, cracked, or deceptive.

Sometimes you look into one and see something beautiful that isn’t really there.

Other times, you’re standing in a funhouse,

surrounded by versions of yourself that feel just a little off.

So I have to ask…

What does that say about me?

If I’m drawn to you?

If I see something in you that maybe you’ve forgotten or never noticed?

What does that mean?

Am I chasing something real?

Or have we both fallen into the illusion of smoke and mirrors dressed up as fate?

I don’t have the answer.

But I keep asking.

Because I care.

Because I miss you.

Because I don’t know if you ever missed me, too.

[remember-to-dream]

My Sun

The days are bright.

The sun shines,

second only to the brightest thing I’ve ever known:

Your smile.

The one I’ll miss

when I’m no longer in your orbit,

the one that lit up my shadows,

the one I loved

before grief dimmed it like an eclipse.

What I wouldn’t give

to stand a few feet away

and see it again;

not in a photo,

not in a dream,

but real, alive, and aimed at me.

I fell for that smile.

Now you tuck it away,

like a secret,

like a relic of the light you used to be.

So I guess,

for now,

the sun reclaims its throne

as the brightest star in my sky.

But it still comes second.

Always second;

to you.

[remember-to-dream]

My Beautiful Star,

I see it in your eyes;

The echo of light you no longer chase.

I feel it in your aura,

dimmed but not extinguished.

I see it in what you do,

and all the things you can’t bring yourself to do.

The late nights,

The women who never stay,

The silence where dreams used to live.

The brilliance that once set the sky on fire…

now lost to shadows.

Grief stole your sun,

and you’ve been walking the night ever since.

Loss carved itself into your ribs.

Sadness… it doesn’t just follow you;

You’re drowning in it.

But I’m here.

Even if I’m not the one you reach for,

let me be the hand that steadies you.

Let me carry some of that sorrow.

Let me remind you:

Your light is still there,

buried, not broken.