conversations with the self.
this piece is part of a 'conversations unsaid' series, click here to see that list
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conversations with the self.
this piece is part of a 'conversations unsaid' series, click here to see that list
“I pay attention to beauty and brokenness, love and grief and the holy ordinary that appears daily. This practice brings me into a sharper relationship to where I live and with whom. I find myself torn between two minds. One mind loves the glorious indifference of each species to my human presence. The other believes they are responding. Perhaps both can be true when we recognize the deep interdependence between all life.”
— Terry Tempest Williams, The Glorians: Visitations from the Holy Ordinary (Grove Press, 2026)
I love you, truly — you are my first love.
But your words are so heavy,
and my soul is already weighed down.
You have power in your hands
to heal every part of me —
the cracks, the darkness,
and this ungodly disease.
But you just wait by my side.
You’re always here.
You deserve better,
a perfect picture.
You are so kind and so good;
I’m not, and even misunderstood.
I can take nothing from you —
I gave you everything that I could.
Nothing to show but ashes and holes
in my worn-out clothes.
I’m sorry I’m so far away.
My heart — it always aches
for things I can’t have.
I just want to surrender to you,
but it hurts too much
to face that I let you down,
that I broke the picture
and dropped it to the ground.
I still call out to you with my last breath:
Save me… would you save me still?
October 27, 2025 @walkingparadoximok
If he had any damn purpose in this life, it was to save her.
Courtesy of AmikArtest for my wattpad book Seri@l
@amikartest @artsy-jandi
I wish I could write...
I wish I could write exactly how my mind worked, visualize how my thoughts pour into my mind and never leave.
I wish I could run my thoughts onto the pages, spewing them into the lines with the exact overthinking nature I think daily.
I wish I could write with 14 streams of consciousness rushing through it, allowing the silence to fade as it does each day my eyes are awake.
I wish I could explain the made-up situations and broken ideas that live within my mind, the unsaid words and begs, and the creative ideas I trap within a box out of fear.
I wish I could immerse those who read my stories into my mind so that the feelings of hunger,
desire,
desperation,
need,
brokenness,
and undoubted joy could be felt on their skin.
I wish everyone could see how my mind spirals into pain caused by my imagination and the truth caused by the love around me.
I would write myself into panic attacks and the hurting ribs you get when laughing too hard.
I would write myself into fairytales and daydreams that break off from movies and television.
It would never be a never-ending silence, an experience I know nothing of.
And I would write the truth about myself;
You; and everyone else.
The truth that broke myself into pieces and built it back up again.