Once, I knelt on cold church pews, my small hands clasped in prayer. The scent of incense hung heavy, and stained glass windows painted stories of saints and sinners. I was raised Catholic, steeped in tradition, my heart echoing ancient hymns. Jesus, the great teacher, walked dusty roads, sandals worn thin by compassion. His parables stirred hearts, and his miracles ignited hope. I imagine him sharing laughter with Siddhartha Gautama under a Bodhi tree, their wisdom converging like rivers into an ocean. Yet, as seasons turned, I stepped away from dogmas and rituals. The stained glass lost its brilliance, and … Continue reading Inward Horizons

In the vast expanse of cosmic indifference, where galaxies swirl and stars ignite, I pen my plea.You, who measure epochs in eons, perceive my emotions as mere motes—a fleeting dance of particles. To you, they are whispers carried on solar winds, ephemeral as stardust. But within me, they swell like nebulae, consuming galaxies of thought and feeling.So, dear Universe, as you traverse the celestial tapestry, heed this humble plea:Watch your steps, for my heartstrings stretch across constellations. Your cosmic tread may unknowingly unravel the delicate threads that bind me. And if, perchance, you find yourself near my soul’s orbit, tread … Continue reading Dear Universe,

In the corners of my soul, I harbor a poem—a fragile creation woven from ink and longing. It began as a tender bud, but somewhere along the way, it withered. Perhaps it was the touch of human hands, the clumsy fingers that stained its purity. “We poison love,” the poem whispers, its syllables laden with regret. We, the architects of our own undoing, wielded our doubts and insecurities like venom. We injected doubt into its veins, watched as its verses convulsed, twisted, and lost their innocence.Yet, despite the poison, I return to it. I read those lines, tracing their contours … Continue reading The Tainted Poem

In the quiet chambers of my soul, there lie shaded areas—mysterious and elusive. They beckon me, like forgotten paths in an ancient forest, waiting for my footsteps to trace their contours. I am yet to understand these enclaves, where light and shadow dance in delicate balance. The dark regions of my mind remain uncharted territories. Like a starless night sky, they stretch infinitely, concealing secrets and fears. Perhaps within those depths, I’ll find constellations of forgotten dreams or galaxies of unspoken desires. I tread softly, a curious wanderer seeking illumination.My heart, too, harbors unexplored corners. Hidden chambers echo with whispers … Continue reading Unfolding the Simple Complexity

When they tell you that this tragedy, this ache that has taken root in your bones, is not worth their time, do not falter. Instead, grasp your pen—the instrument of defiance—and write. Write with the fire of a thousand suns, scorching the parchment with every syllable. Show them the way they are wrong. Paint your pain in vivid hues, each stroke a testament to the universality of suffering. For every woman who has ever felt the weight of solitude, let your words be a lifeline. Let them scream across the pages, echoing through generations. And when they force-feed you doubt, … Continue reading Ink and Rebellion

In the quiet darkness, where sight abandons its throne, our senses awaken. Fingers trace the contours of existence, seeking solace in the familiar. How many faces lie hidden, waiting to be discovered by touch alone? The skin becomes a canvas, mapping memories and secrets—the gentle curve of a cheek, the rough edges of a scar, the pulse beneath a wrist. And yes, I’ve closed my eyes and danced with abandon, guided by intuition rather than reason. The rhythm of life, the sway of emotions—they need no visual confirmation. In that realm of shadows, where perception transcends the visible, love blooms … Continue reading Exploring Touch And Love

Nos caminhos da vida, nos tornamos metade. Metade para caber em espaços menores. Menos sofrimento, é verdade, mas também menos vida e menos amor. Essa metade se forma pela distância que criamos entre nós e os outros, entre nós e a própria existência. Quem se fragmenta, anestesia-se para se despedir do que o consome. Deixamos de sentir a urgência de existir, e pouco nos devora além da nossa própria metade. Ignoramos as alturas do amor, não mais conhecendo a dor da queda, tampouco as nossas liberdades. Em nossa metade, perdemos as alturas do amor. Não mais sentimos o vento nos … Continue reading Reflexões sobre a vida —Metades