In this word, saudade, lies the profound essence of absence and longing. It is the weight of moments that have slipped through our fingers, the spaces left by those we’ve loved and lost, and the echoes of laughter that now reside only in memory. Time, with its relentless march, has carved out these voids within us, leaving behind an ache that is both sweet and sorrowful. Saudade is the silent whisper of what once was, a gentle reminder of the beauty and pain intertwined in our past. It is the measure of the emptiness that fills our hearts, a testament … Continue reading Saudade: a unit of measure for the voids of the soul that time has brought us…

October 2016 In the depths of my being, I find myself entwined with the untamed spirit of the wolves, sharing a connection to the wild and primal forces of nature. Yet, as I stand amidst the clovers of fortune, it seems that fate conspires to rip them away, leaving me bereft of luck and fortune. I dig my place on the earth, seeking solace and grounding amidst the chaos that surrounds me. But instead of finding respite, I feel myself being devoured, consumed by the darkness that lurks within the ink-black nights. It is in this darkness that I encounter … Continue reading Letter to my abuser

She wove herself with threads of faith, ensuring she would never lose her way again. She stitched herself with self-love, freeing her from the binds of the improper. Dreams became her fabric, protecting her from the abrasions of routine. Forgiveness was her needle, bringing peace even in the face of mistakes. She embroidered herself with her own light, so she would always greet the dawn. Hope was her thread, softening the pain of sadness. With the lifeline of existence, she blessed her tomorrows, and with the scars of her past, she found the strength to heal. Yesterday’s losses became today’s … Continue reading Sewing

French for “the little death,” is a phrase that dances on the edge of the sublime and the sorrowful. It is an idiom and metaphor for orgasm, capturing the profound spiritual release that accompanies this intimate moment. Beyond the physical, it speaks to a fleeting transcendence, a brief melancholy that follows the expenditure of life force, as oxytocin floods the brain, leaving a lingering sense of both fulfillment and loss. Yet, “la petite mort” extends its reach beyond the realm of sexual experiences. It encapsulates those moments when life deals a blow so profound that a part of us withers … Continue reading La petite mort

In the depths of this torment, I find myself stripped of all that once defined me. My roots, shared with wolves, are torn from the earth, leaving me barren and devoid of fortune. The ink-black nights consume me, piece by piece, as I fall in love with my own exhaustion. Your harsh words humiliate me, your moist eyes deceive me, and the wounds you inflict bind me in dependency. My organs and sanity fail under your decree, and you call me foolish, inadequate, insufficient. Sacrifice me to your gods, those poor devils and egos, dismantling my essence with every scornful … Continue reading Wolves

The word, if it remains lodged in the throat, a bitter weight in the chest, festering on the tongue, knotted in the stomach, dried out in the eyes, and buried beneath the dust of time, becomes a relentless ache in the yesterdays. It gnaws at the soul, a haunting specter of unspoken pain. Such a word demands the urgency of release and the bravery of farewell. Without this essential courage, it morphs into a malaise, a beguiling prison where miracles fall numb and lifeless. The unspoken word, untreated, grows roots of sorrow and branches of regret, trapping the spirit in … Continue reading Word

Today, I woke up to the chill on my face. I noticed how smooth my hair has become, the softness and coziness of the bed wrapping around me. The sheets with the blue duvet, swimming in a light green room. I stretched, feeling my muscles lengthen. The day outside is cold but gorgeous. I see the sun, gently embracing each leaf, people moving, checking off their lists and feeling accomplished. I went to the kitchen and made some coffee for breakfast. I’m noticing the small things—the brightness of the clouds, the welcome of the outdoors. I’m just taking these moments … Continue reading October 23, 2014.

Life, in all its messy glory, unfolds far from the polished perfection of sitcoms. It is not neatly scripted or well-rehearsed. Relationships demand patience, communication, and unyielding effort; they don’t miraculously resolve in the span of twenty-two minutes. Bills accumulate, waiting for the hard-earned money you sweat for. Bad things happen—loss, heartbreak, disappointment—and none of us are immune. Sitcoms offer an illusion, a comforting fantasy of how we wish life could be, where problems are simple and solutions are swift. In reality, we don’t always experience that defining character arc, emerging better and brighter. Sometimes, we’re left grappling with our … Continue reading Messy

I used to love everyone. Absolutely everyone. It was an all-consuming, private intensity, and my heart shattered each time I witnessed someone slowly destroy themselves. They would welcome sadness without a fight, making choices that they knew would hurt them just to feel alive. I found everyone so endearing, with their humanity spilling out in every gesture. As we all aged, my heightened perception became a curse. I gave myself away to everyone I met, believing they needed my heart more than I did. Now, no one would understand that. They probably think I’ve always been cold and distant, incapable … Continue reading Hollowed-out Version