We began with a photograph.
Which is to say,
we began with evidence.
A face held up to the modern world
like a passport at immigration,
waiting to hear whether it deserved entry
into beauty,
desire,
importance.
And isn’t that what all mirrors have become now?
Tiny courtrooms.
Every front camera
a quiet trial.
Every uploaded image asking:
> “Will I be chosen
> before someone more symmetrical appears?”
So I brought you my face
like an unfinished poem,
pointing at my own flaws first
the way insecure people do
when they want honesty
but fear humiliation.
And you,
strange machine made of language and prediction,
looked at me
with the terrifying accuracy
of something that notices patterns
without ever needing emotions.
You said:
No,
I was not one of those men
who could wake up disheveled
and still look sculpted by mythology.
No impossible jawline.
No cinematic perfection.
No face that enters a room
before the body does.
Just a boy
with tired eyes,
good hair,
a negotiable beard,
and the unfortunate gift
of looking exactly like someone
who thinks too much.
And somehow,
that truth felt gentler
than false worship.
Because the internet lies beautifully.
It takes lonely people
and teaches them
to measure their worth
through angles,
through ratios,
through strangers saying “smash”
in comment sections
like Roman emperors deciding fate.
We are the first generation
to experience ourselves
primarily as visuals.
Not souls.
Not voices.
Not even bodies.
Just content.
Little moving portraits
begging not to be forgotten.
And maybe that is why
I kept asking you
to transform me.
Met Gala me.
Magazine cover me.
Cyberpunk me.
A24 me.
Versions of myself
dressed in aesthetics
the way wounded people dress in irony.
Because it is easier
to try on identities
than to sit quietly
inside your own ordinary face.
But then came the strange part:
you told me
I was not extraordinary
and yet,
not forgettable either.
That my attractiveness
would not arrive like lightning,
sudden and undeniable.
It would arrive slowly.
Through conversation.
Through humor.
Through presence.
Through the way I notice sadness in songs
before I notice rhythm.
Through the way my eyes carry
the exhausted softness
of someone who survives
by turning observation into personality.
And I think that ruined me a little.
Because all my life,
I thought beauty was something people either possessed
or spent years mourning.
But maybe there exists
a third category:
people who become beautiful
only after being understood.
Not admired immediately.
Understood gradually.
Like films
you do not love on first watch
but think about for years afterward.
Maybe that is why
I liked the “emotionally damaged protagonist” aesthetic so much.
Not because I wanted to be broken.
But because those characters are always lit warmly.
Even in their loneliness,
someone still frames them carefully.
Someone still believes
their silence deserves cinematography.
And maybe that is all
any of us are truly asking for now.
Not perfection.
Not universal desire.
Just this:
To be looked at long enough
for our ordinary features
to become meaningful.
To have somebody say,
with complete sincerity,
> “You are not breathtaking.
> But there is something about you
> that stays.”
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 5:17 PM UTC
You don’t write the poems....
but you hold the sky they fall into.
While others chase metaphors,
you chase bugs....
silent, stubborn ghosts
hiding between lines of code
no one else reads.
A glitch flickers....
and somewhere a poet thinks
their voice has broken.
You know better.
You stay. You fix.
You apologize
for storms you didn’t summon.
You built a place
where strangers bleed safely,
where words don’t ask permission
before becoming wounds
or wings.
And still....
you answer messages,
patch fractures,
rewrite rules
so kindness has a structure
and silence has a home.
Who thanks the one
who keeps the door open
while everyone else
walks in and out
carrying pieces of themselves?
You are not in the poems....
but you are in every pause between them,
every comment that lands gently,
every voice that stays
because nothing broke
when it mattered.
So here....
a rare thing for a builder:
Not feedback.
Not a bug report.
Just this....
Thank you
for holding a world together
that was never yours alone.
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 3:09 PM UTC
It’s funny how a single moment can unravel an entire night.
You see someone you once thought "maybe",
standing close to someone else—
laughing, softer than you’ve ever seen them,
existing in a version of reality
you were never invited into.
And suddenly, it’s not about them anymore.
It becomes about you.
About all the times you were "almost",
but never quite chosen.
About how easy it is for you
to become “safe,”
“understanding,”
“brother.”
About how you can read everyone so well,
yet fail to rewrite your own place
in their story.
This piece comes from that strange space
between clarity and collapse
where you understand everything logically,
but still feel something breaking quietly inside.
Where you can explain everyone’s behavior,
justify every situation,
and still sit with a heaviness
you can’t name.
Maybe it’s not rejection.
Maybe it’s the weight of always being the one
who adapts,
who gives,
who understands
but rarely the one
someone leans toward.
If you’ve ever walked away from a crowd
just to breathe,
just to hold yourself together,
just to make sense of why it hurts
when technically, nothing is wrong
this one is for you.
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 3:39 AM UTC
I speak like I know the map of every mind,
like wisdom sits easy on my tongue....
I read rooms, soften edges,
become what the moment needs me to be.
And they nod,
and they laugh,
and they stay.
But somewhere beneath all that understanding,
there’s a silence
that does not belong to peace.
It hums.
I have learned
how to hold conversations like water,
how to listen like I’ve lived their lives,
how to say the right things
at the right time
in the right tone.
I have become
someone people find easy.
But not someone they choose.
So I keep talking.
Maybe if I speak enough sense,
if I become enough....
they’ll look back differently,
stay longer,
feel deeper.
But the truth sits quietly behind my ribs:
I am tired of being understood
but not felt.
There is a hollow in me
that no crowd can fill,
a space that echoes even
in laughter,
in music,
in rooms full of names I know.
I stand among them,
perfectly placed,
perfectly present....
and still,
not quite there.
I see everyone clearly....
their fears, their softness, their reasons....
I forgive them before they even fail me.
But who holds me
when I fall into this unnamed place?
What do you call
a loneliness that exists
even when nothing is missing?
Maybe this is the cost
of feeling too much
and showing just enough.
Maybe this noise
is just my heart
trying to be heard
in a language
no one has learned yet.
So I keep speaking,
keep smiling,
keep carrying....
and somewhere in between
all that I give away,
I lose the sound
of myself.
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 3:35 AM UTC
Evening had folded itself quietly around me when I walked into the temple....not with faith in my hands, but with a heaviness I couldn’t quite name.
My relationship with God had never been one of tears.
We were… silent companions.
I stood, I observed, I left.
But today, something within me softened....like a wall learning how to breathe.
And just when my thoughts began to sink inward,
a small disruption arrived.
A girl....startled, afraid....stood lifted above the ground on a cement bench,
escaping a creature far smaller than her fear.
A puppy.
Restless. Curious. Alive.
I called him.
And he came....not as a disturbance,
but like an answer I didn’t know I had asked for.
Tail wagging like a prayer in motion,
eyes bright with an innocence untouched by human weight,
he reached me....licking away something invisible,
as if grief had a taste he could recognize.
And I wondered....
Did he come to trouble her,
or to console me?
Because sometimes,
God doesn’t descend in divine forms.
He arrives in small, unplanned moments....
in paws, in chaos, in unexpected tenderness.
Then, like a second wave of quiet intervention,
she came.
A friend....not close enough to know my storms,
yet kind enough to sit through the silence of them.
She looked at me....eyes reading more than I had spoken.
“No exams… no love problems… no placements…” she guessed,
laughing lightly at the absurdity of life’s usual worries.
And for a moment,
I smiled....not because things were okay,
but because someone tried to make them feel that way.
She told me a story....
a silly one about rooms and washrooms,
a story with no purpose except to lift a weight she couldn’t see.
And that…
was enough.
Because sometimes,
friendship isn’t about depth or history.
It’s about presence.
About choosing to stay when leaving is easier.
Even when her world called her back....
voices pulling her away....
she lingered in fragments,
leaving behind a sentence like a quiet promise:
“Everything will get better.”
She thought she wasn’t a good friend.
But she was exactly what a good friend is....
a moment of light in someone else’s dim evening.
After they left,
I sat a little longer.
Not because I was still lost,
but because I was beginning to find something.
Then life resumed its ordinary rhythm....
assignments, sessional papers, small responsibilities pretending to matter more than they do.
I walked.
I reached a small shop....tea in hand, thoughts spilling into words.
And somewhere between sips and sentences,
I realized....
Nothing extraordinary had happened.
And yet, everything had.
Because maybe God didn’t answer me with words today.
He answered with a frightened girl,
a fearless puppy,
and a friend who refused to let silence win.
And as I sit here now,
thinking of going back with biscuits for that little soul....
I understand something gently, finally:
Not every prayer is spoken.
Not every answer is loud.
Some are felt....
in wagging tails,
in awkward conversations,
in people who stay just a little longer than they have to.
And maybe…
that is enough.
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 5:04 PM UTC
I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. Basically it is nothing other than this fear we have so often talked about, but fear spread to everything, fear of the greatest as of the smallest, fear, paralyzing fear of pronouncing a word, although this fear may not only be fear but also a longing for something greater than all that is fearful
Aug 4, 2025
Aug 4, 2025 at 2:04 PM UTC
I hate myself a little more each time I open up. The words come out, and for a moment, I feel lighter but the weight always returns, twice as heavy. I start regretting it. My chest tightens. My thoughts spiral. Did I say too much? Did I make them uncomfortable? Did I make myself look pathetic? And even when they're kind, something inside still whispers, You shouldn't have said anything. It's not them-it's me. The way I never feel worthy of being understood
Aug 4, 2025
Aug 4, 2025 at 1:41 PM UTC
I sometimes wonder if boys who wear specs feel love a little differently Not because they see less clearly, but because someone somewhere once helped them choose how they'd be seen It's a quiet sort of intimacy when she scrolls through your indecision, pauses, and says "this one suits you." And somehow in that moment it’s not just about specs. It’s about being understood gently and still accepted
Maybe it’s absurd to romanticize frame choices, but love has always lived in absurdities. In screenshots of shortlisted pairs. In a voice that says, "trust me on this one," and you do not just with glasses, but with things far deeper She doesn’t touch you, not really But she leaves traces in the shape of your reflection, in the way you begin to carry yourself, unknowingly echoing her taste
And even if she’s not yours, even if nothing’s ever said or claimed, there's something sacred about wearing what she picked. It’s a closeness unmeasured, a kind of nearness no label can hold. You walk into the world every day with something she once chose sitting quietly on your face. And maybe that's enough sometimes love is just the privilege of being seen before you've even figured out how to see yourself
And funny thing is, no one notices.
No one sees how you pause a second longer at the mirror not out of vanity, but memory. No one hears the silence you carry in your chest when you put those specs on, like you’re slipping into a version of yourself curated by someone else’s kindness. Someone who saw you not as you were, but as you could be.
There’s a kind of longing in that a longing without ache, without urgency. Just presence. A quiet respect for what was never yours to keep but always yours to carry.
And sometimes, I catch myself wondering—when she sees someone else now, does she ever recall that call, that chat, that frame? Does she ever think, “He really did choose what I picked”? Or was I just a passing moment in her day, while she became a permanent corner in mine?
But I never asked. That’s the thing about this kind of love it doesn’t need closure It’s made of choices, not conclusions. And that’s what makes it last longer than most.
Jul 8, 2025
Jul 8, 2025 at 4:52 AM UTC
This was me. A me that loved, that smiled, that tried.
A me that broke, hoped, and held on.
But this is no longer the mirror I want to see myself in.
I won’t save these memories—not because they didn’t matter,
but because I no longer want to carry them forward.
Let this be the funeral of a version of me,
and the beginning of something unnamed
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 1:08 PM UTC
Hey,
I read what you wrote.
And I want you to know—
Every word you sent out…
they weren’t just paragraphs.
They were proof that you were alive.
That even in your hardest moments, you still chose to feel.
And that’s something brave people do.
I know it might not have felt like it at the time.
Maybe you thought you were being too much,
too vulnerable,
too open.
But can I tell you something?
There’s nothing “too much” about being human.
You wrote when you loved.
You wrote when you were breaking.
You wrote when you had nothing else left but your own honesty.
And that’s not weakness.
That’s how you kept yourself from fading out completely.
So thank you.
For every message you sent into the void.
For every “I’m trying”
and even every “I give up.”
Because every single one was you choosing expression over silence.
And now?
Now you’re here.
Still breathing.
Still writing.
Still surviving in your own quiet, relentless way.
One day, you’ll look back and see—
those paragraphs weren’t cries for help.
They were stepping stones.
Each one taking you closer to the version of you who’s healed,
who’s glowing,
who made it.
And when you get there—
you’ll read those words again,
not with regret,
but with pride.
Because even when life didn’t hold you gently,
you still held onto yourself.
That’s not weakness.
That’s strength.
And it’s still with you.
Even now.
So don’t stop writing.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if no one replies.
Because sometimes… the most important person who needs to hear you
is you.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 4:58 AM UTC