#prose writing

[aimlessvisionary]

I find myself at a standstill, more often than not.

More often when I've an idea, than when I've none.

But in moments where I have nothing, when walking a murky trail and treading the waters, more than ever do I have a want.

My enemy is my indecision and my greatest ally, my limits.

[sagebriarspoets]

There Is No Beginning

This is all so similar to a dream. There wasn’t anything . . . and then there was everything, with more being added all the time. No narrative, no purpose, no reason—not yet, anyway. It's chaos at first. There are no rules to follow, they are being made up as the dream lasts. After a while, it starts to make a kind of sense. But only if you pay attention. A dream takes its shape and finds itself first. It fills in the gaps with false memories and dream logic as we ask questions of it.

Why can the dog talk? Because of course it can, it’s a talking dog. Where did this person come from? He’s from a long time ago, you remember him from then. Why have days suddenly passed? Because this is the next part. Where was I and what was I doing before all this started? It didn’t start, there is no beginning. You were already here, just like everything else, and everything is happening right now, and even more will happen later. Just stay asleep.

While you are awake and thinking, the explanations are unfair and don’t answer the question at all. You're left unsatisfied, digging deeper for answers and making up your own where none can be found. But while you're asleep . . .

While you're asleep, it all makes perfect sense.

Of course it does, it always has, ever since no beginning.

It is, after all, just a dream.

Maybe it's a mind processing what it has experienced as it rests—a subconscious looking for meaning where there was none? Or perhaps it is a force like physics with rules we just don’t know? It might be something incomprehensible, like infinity. Or thought to be a myth, like magic. But no matter what we can think up, we call it the same thing.

A dream.

And in a dream the beginning is always the same:

There is no beginning.

[autumnsweepingwillow]

A message remains unsent, and I can’t stop myself from reading the last book you sent me out of desperation.

I wasn’t cold, not really but I was direct. it terrifies me how bluntness and self preservation feels like a cardinal sin.

My stomach twists and aches with nausea when my existence is desperate to get doe-eyed and pleasing, and yet I can’t stop myself from finally having unfounded courage.

It spills and sputters out of me, messy and uncomfortable, indirect out of fear, instinctively softening the blow with hopeful words I don’t mean.

“Temporary.”

“Maybe, I just need some time.”

“Not forever.”

Terrified of your self destructive tendencies.

Terrified of change when I had gotten so used to all the awful things we were

[totsnitel]

I am ashamed of you—furious, sickened, and humiliated by the fact that your blood runs through my veins.

I hate that no matter how far I try to pull myself away, biology keeps dragging me back to you. I hate that I carry your name, that it sits on my identity like a stain I never consented to wear.

Every part of my existence that connects me to you feels like a betrayal of the person I am trying so hard to become.

It angers me that I didn’t get a choice.

That I was born into a history I never asked to inherit, tied to a person who caused more damage than love. I look at myself sometimes and wonder which parts of me are mine and which parts are echoes of you, and that thought alone makes my skin crawl.

The idea that we share blood—that something so intimate links me to someone I resent so deeply—fills me with rage I don’t know where to put.

I am angry that people expect forgiveness just because we are related. Angry that shared blood is treated like an excuse, like a free pass for hurt, neglect, or cruelty. As if DNA is supposed to soften the damage. As if carrying your blood means I owe you understanding.

I don’t. All it means is that I was forced to start life with a weight already on my back.

What disgusts me most is how your presence lingers even when you’re not around. In the questions people ask. In the name I answer to. In the moments when I catch myself fearing that I might become you in ways I don’t even notice.

I fight that every day.

I fight to unlearn you, to tear myself away from the parts of you that tried to root themselves in me.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part—that I have to spend my life proving that sharing blood does not mean sharing character. That I can be nothing like you, even if my veins say otherwise.

I am angry because I deserved better.

I deserved a connection that didn’t make me feel ashamed of my own existence.

And I hate that something as fundamental as blood is the very thing I wish I could drain myself of, just to finally feel free.

june 8, 2026 -Tel

[totsnitel]

‎If one day you see me loved by someone else, ‎I hope you remember there was a time when all I wanted was for that someone to be you.

‎Not anyone else. ‎Not someone easier. ‎Not someone better.

‎‎Just you.

‎‎You were the name hidden behind every prayer I never said out loud.

‎The person I kept choosing,

‎even when you were giving me reasons not to.

‎‎And maybe that’s the saddest part.

‎Because I really would’ve stayed.

‎I would’ve loved you in quiet ways.

‎In patient ways.

‎In the kind of ways that don’t leave the moment things become difficult.

‎

‎But love cannot survive on almosts.

‎Not when one person is trying to build a home while the other keeps standing near the door.

‎So if one day you see me being loved gently, ‎consistently, ‎completely—‎please understand that I was always capable of giving that kind of love too.

‎You just met me at a time ‎where you could not hold it.

‎And maybe someone else eventually will.

june 4, 2026 -Tel

[totsnitel]

"For you, I would."

There’s a strange kind of magic in the phrase “for you, I would.”

It’s simple, almost weightless—yet it carries the heaviness of a door someone chose to open just for you.

I’ve realized that in life, people are like old houses with rooms they rarely let anyone enter. Some rooms stay locked because of fear, or habit, or years of convincing themselves that nobody needs to see what’s inside.

But then someone arrives—quietly, unexpectedly—and suddenly the lock doesn’t feel so stubborn anymore. For them, you’d turn the key.

That’s what “for you, I would” feels like. An unlocked door. A held breath released. A choice made willingly, not out of obligation but out of gentle affection.

And I think that’s the sweetest part—the choice.

Because it means: I don’t normally do this. I don’t normally offer this part of myself. But for you? I’ll make an exception that doesn’t feel like a burden.

When I look back on my own life, I realize my deepest connections weren’t built on big dramatic gestures. Theywere built on these small exceptions—the tiny, quiet ways someone stepped out of their comfort zone because I mattered. And the tiny, quiet ways I did the same for them.

It’s like discovering that love—real love, not just romantic—is less about fireworks and more about rearranging your routine. Making space where there wasn’t any. Letting someone into a life that was once carefully self-contained.

Because “for you, I would” isn’t about sacrifice. It’s about trust.

It means: I believe you won’t break what I’m offering.

It means: I’m willing to soften in places I’ve kept hard.

It means: I see you—and I want to meet you halfway.

And maybe that’s what makes the sentiment so beautiful and fragile. We don’t say it lightly. We don’t give it freely. It’s reserved for the rare people who make us feel seen enough to try again, try differently, or simply try at all.

In a world where so many choose themselves first, “for you, I would” is the quiet rebellion of the heart.

A reminder that sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is take one small step outside our walls.

Not for everyone.

Not for just anyone.

But for that one person who makes the ordinary feel worth stretching.

And when someone says it to you or when you realize you’re thinking it about someone else,

that’s when you know: Something in you has shifted. Something tender has begun. And you’ve just found another door that, somehow, you’re willing to open.

november 1, 2025

-Tel

[totsnitel]

Thank you for teaching me what it means to love.

The words left my lips softly, without bitterness, without regret. For the longest time, I thought love was something you gave until you were empty, something you proved by how much you were willing to endure. I thought love was about waiting, about bending, about holding on even when it hurt.

But love—real love—is none of those things.

You taught me that. Not in the way I once hoped, not through warmth and permanence, but through absence, through the spaces you left behind. You taught me in the way the ocean teaches the shore—by retreating, by pulling away just as I reached for you.

At first, I mistook this for cruelty. I convinced myself that if I was patient enough, if I proved my love enough, you would stay.

I waited at the water’s edge, believing that love was about persistence, that if I stood there long enough, the tide would change.

But love is not meant to be chased. It is not something to beg for.

I see that now.

Because of you, I learned that love is not about losing yourself in someone else. It is not about sacrificing pieces of who you are in exchange for scraps of affection. Love should not feel like constantly reaching, constantly hoping, constantly proving.

Love is soft and steady. It is reciprocal, not a test of endurance. It does not ask you to shrink or to wait in the cold.

And so, I thank you—not for staying, but for leaving. Not for loving me, but for showing me what love is not. Because now, I finally understand.

"Thank you for teaching me what it means to love."

And this time, I mean myself.

may 30, 2025

-Tel