Meaning is not something you find, it is something you create when you choose to stand still while the rest of the world rushes by.

There are rooms in her that no one sees a kitchen warm with wordless heat, a bedroom where old sorrows breathe, a bathroom full of dull retreat, each hallway holds a swallowed prayer, each corner keeps a truth unseen, a house of storms and starlit air, of hidden locks and quiet dreams. Some men arrive with velvet keys, with gentle hands, with patient light, they listen close, they do not seize, they earn the welcome of the night. And some come loud with iron pride, with hammers swung like love is war they crack the walls from the outside, then wonder why she shuts the door. But she is not a place to own, a name to stamp, a claim to prove she is a wildfire left alone, she is a tide that will not move. Her doors swing wide by her command, not force, not fear, not borrowed plans her map, her rules, her sacred land, the key still shining in her hands.

I stumbled hard, I fell so deep, through endless nights that swallowed sleep. Each misstep etched its mark in me, yet shaped the spine you now can see. What you call luck, what you call fate, was simply choosing not to break to rise through bruises, torn and worn, through every loss I had to mourn. I bled my lessons, paid the cost, counted every battle lost; each failure sharpened who I am, each scar a proof I still could stand. So do not name me blessed or lucky, my fire was born from days unlucky. I wasn’t spared—I was remade, by every choice, each price I paid. I am the sum of all my scars, of shattered dreams and stubborn stars. and if I shine, remember this, I learned my light in the abyss.

including me 🤣

Everyone brings joy to this world. Some when they enter a room, others when they leave it.

Someone may shine with louder flame, their light a storm that speaks their name. Someone may think in crystal streams, and cut through doubt like silver beams. Someone may dance in younger days, with effortless, unbroken grace but none can ever wear your tune, or bloom your sky, or hold your moon. Beauty may rise on another’s face, like morning spilling gold through space. Wisdom may run with quicker feet, and leave behind a sharper beat. Youth may sing its fleeting song, a fire that burns—but not for long. Yet you are ink they cannot claim, a world that never fits their frame. So keep your colors---wild, sincere, the kind that only truth can wear. Each flaw, each spark, each scar, each sign is yours alone… a rare design.

Let them be wrong, let them assume their guesses can’t eclipse your moon. They stitch their tales from frayed-out thread, bend truth until it limps instead. But you, my dear, were never made to beg for peace, to kneel, to fade. No borrowed verdict holds the key your life is yours, unclaimed, set free. Your heart stays calm, your mind stays wide, a quiet storm you keep inside. Their doubts may knock, may hiss, may bite, but cannot dim your inner light. You do not argue. You do not plead. You simply bloom beyond their need. You walk away, still whole, still true as if the sky were made for you. Let whispers pass like wind through trees, like smoke that dissolves with ease. For life is yours, not theirs to prove and in that truth, you find your groove.

The wings of a hummingbird against the sun

mome losing an argument