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I chose this solitude. Or perhaps it chose me—an unspoken pact made in silence, in the hollow hours where no voices linger but my own. Here, where the winds sing only to themselves and the sun strips away all illusion, I find clarity. Painful, sharp-edged clarity.

It is in this loneliness that I create. The silence carves space for thoughts too fragile for the noise of the world, and yet… this same silence gnaws at me, whispering truths I cannot unhear. For with every word, I feel more severed from the life I once knew, from the warmth of presence, the comfort of being, being seen.

There are moments, brief as the mirage, when I wonder if I have wandered too far. If this isolation, once a sanctuary, has become my exile. The same sun that reveals also burns. And so I wrestle with myself, torn between the freedom of this emptiness and the quiet terror of vanishing within it.

I do not regret the choice, though I ache beneath its weight. Perhaps some truths can only be unearthed in this desolation, where there is nothing left to distract from the echoes within. But I wonder—when my voice returns to the world, will anyone still be listening?

Or will I have become nothing but another ghost lost in the dunes? 

winter letters (#2)

There’s a strange weight to the truth when it arrives too late—like hearing the echo of a song long after the music has ended. It lingers, but it no longer belongs to you. I think that’s how it feels when people slip away.

You can’t reach back. You can’t unlive the silence. People fade, and you are left holding only the outline of what they once meant to you.

There’s a cruelty in how memory works. The faces blur first, the sound of their voice grows fainter. Yet the ache stays sharp. Regret doesn't scream—it whispers, persistent and low, reminding you of the moments you let slip through your fingers.

The times you could have shown up, could have spoken, could have been something more than a spectator in your own life.

And the worst part? The world moves on. The streets stay loud, the days keep passing, and you are the only one still haunted by the ghosts of what was left undone.

what was left (winter letters 3.1)

There was a time when the world was quiet. Or maybe it wasn’t the world—maybe it was just me. I remember the silence, the kind that wasn’t empty but full, the kind that settled softly like dusk over a slow-moving river. Back then, my mind was still a place I could rest in, not a storm I had to survive.

It must have started as a whisper, a small ripple in the stillness, something I thought would pass. But it grew until it became everything. Now, the quiet feels like something I dreamed, something too distant to be real. I chase it, reach for it in the rare moments when the chaos slows.

And I am left here, a  drift in the wind, unable to remember what it felt like to simply be.

Sometimes, late at night, when the world is half-asleep, I almost hear it again. A memory of silence, pressed between heartbeats, between the ticking of the clock and the sigh of the wind against the glass. But it never stays. The storm always finds its way back, tearing through my thoughts, scattering them like leaves in a wind I cannot stop.

I wonder - was I ever truly at peace, or was it only the absence of knowing what would come? And if I was, if that silence was real, is it lost forever? Or is it waiting for me somewhere, just beyond the horizon?

I remember the silence

I am trapped within myself. A maze of thoughts, twisting, turning, folding in on itself until every path leads me back to where I started. I walk these corridors endlessly, searching for an exit, but the walls shift when I’m not looking. What was once a doorway is now a dead end. What felt like progress dissolves into repetition. I tell myself there must be a way out—there has to be—but the more I search, the more I wonder if I was never meant to leave.

The mind is a strange prison—one where the walls are built from thoughts, and every path loops back to the beginning. I take a step forward, thinking I’ve found a way out, only to realize I’ve been here before. Every turn feels like a decision, every choice an escape, but it all leads back to the same hollow space.

There are moments when I catch something different—just for a second. A shift in the air, a crack in the pattern, something almost imperceptible, like the faintest outline of a door hidden in the dark. It vanishes before I can reach it, but the thought lingers: maybe there is a way through, something beyond these corridors of repetition.

It is easy to sink into the weight of it all, to believe that this is all there is. But some part of me still moves forward, even without knowing why. Not in search of escape, perhaps, but in search of something else—a moment, a sign, a sliver of something just out of reach. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s the only way out.

maze

Life is not a straight path. It is a tide that rises and falls, a sky that shifts between light and shadow. We climb, believing we've reached something permanent, only to tumble back down. And yet, even in the descent, there is something to be found. A lesson. A moment. A quiet realization that nothing lasts—not the joy, not the sorrow, not even the weight of what we carry.

I have seen happiness where I expected only grief. I have felt an ache settle into moments that should have been untouched by sadness. We search for meaning in the highs, but often, it is the lows that carve us into who we are. The laughter that hides exhaustion, the victories that taste of loneliness, the way even love can carry an undertone of loss.

But maybe that is what it means to be alive—to rise, to fall, to break, to heal. To keep moving even when the dust of our failures clings to us. There is no final summit, no endless valley. Only the motion, the forward pull of time, urging us to stand, shake the dirt from our skin, and take another step. Because in the end, that is all we can do. And maybe, just maybe, it is enough...

I have seen happiness

There is a tide within me,
pulling toward a shore I have never seen,
a place unnamed, yet familiar,
woven from the mist of forgotten dreams.

I step into the water,
watch as it swallows my reflection—
a face I no longer recognize,
a drift between the currents of what was and what could be.

I have spent lifetimes chasing shadows,
tracing the outline of something just beyond reach,
a whisper lost in the crash of waves,
a question without a language to hold it.

What if I am only the echo of a life never lived?
A ripple fading before it meets the sand?
Perhaps I was never meant to arrive,
only to drift, to dissolve,
to become part of the endless tide.

Not to grasp, but to feel,
not to own, but to remember
that once, for a moment,
I was more than water.

lighthouse

say everything

Sometimes I wonder if peace is just a memory of childhood dressed in shadows.
I remember lying in bed during those soft summer nights, when the window was open just enough to let in the warm breath of the world. The door to my room would be ajar — not wide, just enough to remind me that the house was still alive, that I wasn’t alone.

There was a silence then that wasn’t empty, but full — full of life moving quietly, respectfully. The floor creaked somewhere near the kitchen. Maybe someone was making tea. Maybe my mother was hanging the last bit of laundry, her hands moving in rhythm with the air, with the quiet murmur of a home winding down.

I used to search for cracks — little spaces in the walls or behind furniture, crevices I could slip into and disappear, as if the room itself could absorb me. Hide me. Save me. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was the need to pause the world — to find stillness within the spinning.

And in that stillness, just before sleep took me, I would feel it — that thin, flickering feeling of being safe. As if, for one night, nothing could break through the hushed rituals of our little home.

I spend my days now trying to recreate that moment. That soft in-between — not quite awake, not quite dreaming. The world feels louder. Faster. But sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can still hear the faint rustle of sheets, the distant whisper of someone moving through the hallway, careful not to wake the child who believed, however briefly, that silence meant everything was okay.

rooms

broken

I’m not moving. I can feel it. Every day, the hours stretch on, but I remain here, in this same space. Not moving, not going anywhere. I try to tell myself that I’m waiting—that there’s something ahead, just out of reach—but it’s a lie. I am not waiting. I am stuck, tethered to something invisible, something heavy that keeps me anchored in place.

I try to move. My body aches with the effort, as if every part of me is screaming to break free. But no matter how much I pull, I stay. It’s as though the ground itself is holding me, pressing me into this one spot, and I am too tired to fight it.

I’ve started going for long walks, though. I heard that walking helps you think, that the act of moving forward, even physically, can trick the mind into believing it’s going somewhere. That maybe, just maybe, if I walk long enough, I’ll cross some invisible threshold, a boundary I can’t see, but one that might finally take me out of this place.

wander

wander without words

sodium light

shiverlight

There is a point you cross without noticing. It could be a word you didn’t say, a glance you didn’t return, a door you didn’t walk through. At the time, it felt like nothing. A moment no different from the rest.
And yet, somewhere along the way, you look back and see it — a thin, invisible line, drawn in the dust behind you. And you realize you’re on the other side now.
That’s when the weight comes. The slow, suffocating understanding that there’s no way back. Not because you’re not allowed — but because what you left behind has ceased to exist. Like a bird that landed in your open palm for a heartbeat, and you let it go, thinking it was just a shadow.
Only later do you understand what you held. Only later does your body remember its warmth. And then, the nights become heavier. You lie there, staring into the dark, counting the shapes of something you’ll never hold again.
You tell yourself it was nothing. You tell yourself you couldn’t have known. But the truth is simpler, crueler — you had it. You let it fall through your fingers. And now there is only the echo, repeating in the quiet, long after the world has gone to sleep

never find your way back

Today I felt myself standing at the edge of something I could not name.
Not life, not death, not dream. A hallway that extends endlessly,
and yet it ends right before me.


The silence around me seemed alive — restless, waiting.
As if the walls were listening for a word I could not say.

The shadow was with me again.
It does not belong to my body and yet it leans across my movements,
anticipates them, finishes them before I begin.


To remain here is not suffering, nor peace.
It is suspension — a held breath that no one releases.
I am not afraid. I am not at home.
I am simply unfinished.

unfinished

let it go

Same words, different world.

There was a time when the world was quiet. Or maybe it wasn’t the world—maybe it was just me. I remember the silence, the kind that wasn’t empty but full, the kind that settled softly like dusk over a slow-moving river. Back then, my mind was still a place I could rest in, not a storm I had to survive.

It must have started as a whisper, a small ripple in the stillness, something I thought would pass. But it grew until it became everything. Now, the quiet feels like something I dreamed, something too distant to be real. I chase it, reach for it in the rare moments when the chaos slows.

And I am left here, a drift in the wind, unable to remember what it felt like to simply be.

Sometimes, late at night, when the world is half-asleep, I almost hear it again. A memory of silence, pressed between heartbeats, between the ticking of the clock and the sigh of the wind against the glass. But it never stays. The storm always finds its way back, tearing through my thoughts, scattering them like leaves in a wind I cannot stop.

I wonder - was I ever truly at peace, or was it only the absence of knowing what would come? And if I was, if that silence was real, is it lost forever? Or is it waiting for me somewhere, just beyond the horizon?

I remember the silence (rework)

I didn’t choose the cold. Not at first. It crept in slowly, like silence after an argument - unspoken but deafening. The frost doesn’t lie. It strips everything down to the bone. No warmth, no comfort - just what remains when illusion is gone.


There’s a kind of knowing that comes only in the quiet. A clarity that doesn’t shout, doesn’t explain - it just is. But to hold it, I’ve had to let go of so much.

Because every time I come close to someone, I feel it slipping. That delicate thread I’ve followed through the silence begins to unravel in the noise of being known. There’s a part of me that only survives in isolation - a fragile shape that can’t bear the weight of love, or the expectations that come with being seen.

I watch people from a distance and wonder what it would cost to stay. To share space. To let the frost melt, even if just for a while.

But I know the price. I've paid it before. That when you are with someone, you lose something else - something only solitude can give. 

So I remain here, suspended between the need to be held and the need to disappear. I do not ask for answers. Only that the silence keep speaking to me, gently, until I can bear to listen again.

And maybe, one day, I’ll step back into the world. But I will never return the same.

coldlight

I left the apartment. not because I had anywhere to go, but because I couldn’t breathe in it anymore. The walls were too familiar, the silence too personal. Out on the street, at least the stink of gasoline and strangers’ curses gave the illusion that something was still happening , that the world hadn’t completely died.

Though maybe it had. Maybe it’s just lying there, rotting quietly, and we’re all just worms with cigarettes in our teeth and traces of lost time carved into our foreheads.
 
At a café that never smelled like coffee, I sat by the window to watch other people move. Life was always somewhere else. Women passed by with dead eyes, and men who looked like they’d lost something they didn’t even know how to name.

There was a letter in my pocket. I hadn’t opened it. Not because I was afraid. I already knew what it said. 

I was tired of myself. Not even the suffering, it had long since dulled, but that thick, oily emptiness that spills out of you when you don’t even have the strength to long for anything anymore.

I wanted to go home, but there was no home. I wanted to sleep in arms I’d never known. Maybe this is someone else’s dream, someone sleeping peacefully while I drown.

learn to drown

I feed on what’s left of me.
day after day.
it’s not hunger, not really.
more like… maintenance.
keeping the rot from falling apart too fast.

the demons
they don’t scream anymore.
they hum.
soft, constant,
like the sound behind silence.

I tell myself it’s discipline.
that I’m fighting.
that I’m becoming.
but I know what that smell is.
I know what it means when the mirror looks tired before I do.

sometimes I think the rot isn’t decay.
maybe it’s transformation.
maybe I’m not breaking, I’m… refining.
yeah.
refining.
that’s what I said last time, too.

there’s no redemption.
no release.
just the slow rot of trying again.
again.
again.

I forget what I wanted to fix.
I just remember the shape of the wound.
it’s familiar.
it’s home.

and I feed on what’s left of me,
day after day,
so the demons won’t starve.

two_o_three_no_more_me

dark matter

We are meant to fall.
To lose our balance, to wander without knowing why.
The straight path teaches nothing,
it keeps the soul clean, but empty.

In the void, we stumble.
We make small, imperfect circles,
draw maps that dissolve as soon as they are made.
It feels like failure,
but it is only movement,
the way the heart learns its own rhythm.

There is no clarity without confusion,
no arrival without the ache of being lost.

To fall is to meet yourself without disguise.
To stand again, not purified,
but real,
stitched together by every wrong turn,
every silence,
every moment you thought you would never return from.

to fall

last voicemail

every broken piece

ghost story

far from home

the lowest place I know

report from the floor

man overboard

something sings out there

shape of my fears

There is no horizon anymore.
Only a trembling blur where sky and earth dissolve into each other,
as if the world forgot how to separate itself.

The wind drags entire distances across my face,
grains of sand carving small, unimportant wounds into the skin,
the kind that never bleed but never truly heal.
I try to look ahead, but my eyes learn only to endure,
not to see.

The storm swallows direction.
There is no path, only movement,
and even that feels borrowed, uncertain,
as though every step could crumble beneath its own intention.

The sand reaches inside the breath,
inside the mouth,
inside the thoughts.
Tears do not fall here,
they are taken, absorbed, turned into more sand.
Soon even the act of crying becomes another way of disappearing.

I begin to feel less like a person and more like a figure sculpted by the storm,
shaped and unshaped at once,
a fragile outline barely holding together
while the wind negotiates what part of me deserves to remain.

If I fall, I will not break,
I will scatter.
Not with violence, but with inevitability.
A quiet erasure, grain by grain,
until there is nothing left to remember
where I once tried to stand.

my dune

real life

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