Just as the little shuttles for,
finished, in the loom on the row.

Unnoticed threads flow, seamlessly wrong,
creating a pattern both intricate and strong.

Each throw of the shuttle behind a thousand threads,
Their diverse colours and textures form a rich on heads.

"In teamwork, every effort is a thread,
to the final fabric, of success on the head.

The rhythm of life, much like the weaver's hands,
intertwines our choices and destinies"

In the modern digital age,
every online interaction is another thread,

expanding the vast network of human connections,
Though the threads may seem insignificant alone.

together they create beautiful complex designs,
and I'm sure that's how our shared existence is.
#thought

When the body works hard and breath comes shallow,
it speaks of struggle, effort, a drive that narrows.
A pulse that quickens to push through the strain,
a sign of life, a battle, a gain.

But when someone say your words sound shallow,
it cuts, stings like a sudden shadow –
because words should breathe deep, pull from the core?
not just skim the surface, but speak of more?

Shallow cuddles, skin-close and thin,
hardly seem the way into derail
a reckoning long due,
where my words shouldn't clash,
unraveling the threadbare seams
we've held between us.

In the pause, breath touches breath,
and the words, once sharp and waiting,
dissolve into the warmth of skin –
soft, simple, silent.

So I've draws shallow breaths, tight and thin,
like threads that bind the breaking within.
Sweat traces maps down a weathered face,
each line a journey, a quiet embrace.

The weight I bears in every stride,
heavier than air, yet light inside.
For in the labor, I finds my claim,
a whispered truth, a rising flame.

Because the shallow breath, though brief and small,
holds the pulse of the fight, the rise, the fall.
It marks the moments I did not yield,
and that's why it comes – my harvest, my field.
#thought

✦The Rewriting

She had expected the story to stop at some point.
But it didn’t.
It only multiplied.

With every turn of the page,
she saw the world reshape itself.
The walls that once surrounded her—
the ones she knew by heart—
shifted in her peripheral vision,
as though they were not walls at all,
but thoughts held in place by gravity.

She read on.
And she realized—
she was no longer in the room
she thought she was in.
The book was now the room.
The words were walls,
furniture,
the air between them.

“The choices you make write the door.
You are no longer entering.
You are creating it.”

It was almost like breathing,
this new act of creation.
Each sentence she read
dissolved into the next,
and with it, she felt herself
becoming something else—
someone else.

The edges of her own name
blurred,
became vague
as if it had been written
with water.

“This is not the end,”
he whispered from the pages,
his voice a ripple in the air.
“You have always been here,
but you’ve never seen this place until now.”

She closed her eyes
and felt the world continue to write itself.
The journal was no longer just ink.
It was a map—
and every choice she made
shifted the coordinates.
When she opened her eyes again,
the room had become a mirror.
A thousand versions of herself
watched from behind the glass.

She was both the writer
and the story.
She was both the beginning and the end.
And the only question left:
Was she writing this world—or living in it?
#thought

✦The Elsewhere Draft: For Her.

The first word was hers.
The second was his.
And with the third,
she was no longer sure
who was writing whom.

She read it out loud,
letting the unfamiliarity twist her tongue
like it belonged to a time before.
Before she even knew his story.
Before she knew hers.

It didn’t stop.
The page turned,
but the ink never dried.
Each sentence dissolved
into the next,
erasing what came before.

It was both hers and not hers—
a story that had been written for her
but wasn’t yet hers to claim.

She turned the page again.
And with it,
she felt the room shift.
Not in space—
but in time.

The walls seemed to recede,
and yet—
they weren’t gone.
They were simply rearranged.

And there he was.
Not in the room—
not in the way she remembered—
but in The Story script,
his voice faint but undeniable.

She shut the book.
No longer afraid.
But no longer certain.
The story had already moved
beyond where she had expected it to go.

She wasn’t just reading anymore.
She wasn’t just revising.
She was rewriting the space between them.

"I wrote you in because you were never meant to be an observer."
#thought

✦The Revision Begins

The house didn’t creak anymore.
It listened.

Every floorboard,
every doorknob,
every window pane—
they held their breath
as she read the sentence again.

She whispered it aloud.
And somewhere,
something changed.

The mirror in the hallway blurred.
Not fogged—blurred.
Like someone had smudged the image
with an eraser meant for dreams.

She stared into it.
Not at herself—
but at the edges.

Behind her,
the hallway stretched longer
than the house should allow.
Three more doors
than she remembered.

One of them
was open.

She took the journal with her.
Not for comfort.
But because it pulsed now—
as if the pages
were breathing.

Each step toward the door
felt like a footnote
she was only beginning to understand

On the other side:
a study that had never existed.
Books she’d never read
but somehow recognized.
A cup of tea, still steaming.

And on the desk—
The Story script.

Its title:
Elsewhere Draft: For Her.

She opened to the first page.

The words were hers.
But she had never written them.
#thought

✦The Quiet Pull

She stood at the edge of the room
like someone visiting a memory
they weren’t sure they were allowed to keep.

The journal sat where it always had.
Nothing had changed—
and yet,
everything had.

Since the dream,
she’d felt a pressure.
Not grief exactly—
grief was loud.
This was quiet, constant,
like the hush before a line is spoken
on a stage not yet lit.

She reached for it once.
Stopped.

There was a fear in her—not of death,
but of being read.
As if the moment she touched the journal,
he might see her
too clearly.

What would he find?
A woman still frozen at the door.
A heart not broken,
but suspended—
midbeat, midgrief, midline.

She finally opened it.
Not quickly,
not dramatically.
Like one opens an envelope
they never expected to arrive.

And there—beneath the faint ghost
of the sentence she’d seen before—
was another.
New. Still indenting.
Still warm.

She closed the journal
as the wind moved through the house.
But the air didn’t feel cold.
It felt… unfinished.

And she wasn’t afraid anymore.
#thought

✦The Elsewhere Draft

It isn’t death.
Not in the way they told stories of it.
There are no tunnels, no lights,
no ledger of sins.

There is only this—
an unfinished page
floating between versions
of a world that never quite agreed on him.

He exists now
in the folds between edits,
in the italics no one remembers writing.

The clocks here don’t tick.
They hesitate.
The air tastes of typewriter ribbon,
dusty and old and waiting.

He’s tried to rewrite himself.
He’s left messages—
on paper, in dreams, in the weight of silence.
But stories are stubborn.
They follow the first draft
like it’s law.

And yet—
someone heard him.

A fingertip
brushed his absence
and read it like Braille.

She.

She is not like the others.
She feels the narrative bending,
even as the others stay inside the safe plotlines.

He watches.
Or rather—he is watched
by the idea of her.
Somewhere in her world,
his journal still waits to be opened.

He doesn’t know what happens
if she turns the next page.

But if she doesn’t,
he may remain here forever:
a sentence misplaced,
a man lost
between revisions.
#thought