Let's make The Story:
Grief didn't scream here,
but smoulders like an old fire.


Let's make The Story:
what remained was a shape?
emotionally or regrettably—
whatever, the truth was escape?


Let's make The Story:
as though the weight was not of flesh,
but the memory—fragile and unfinished ash.
#thought

Where The Eye's name had once been written,
there was a single, unfamiliar line.

A moment where The Eye self begins to dissolve into the text,
But every wall is a setting, every eye a reader, every life a story.


The journal grew heavier in The Eye's hands,
its pages rustling without wind,
And on the inside cover—

The Eye felt the words,
not just in mind, but in bones.
The Eye was becoming part of the draft,
and the draft was becoming part of Eye.

But now, The Eye felt less like the reader
and more like the text—
less like the observer
and more like the observed.

And then The Eye felt,
the walls watching back.
And for the first time,
The Eye closed the journal.
#thought

The walls had always been there.
Plain. Solid. Reliable.
But now, as you stepped back into the room,
you saw them differently—
not as boundaries, but as settings.
Frames for a scene still unfolding.

The fissure led to an underground cavern.
Walls glittered with crystalline growths,
pulsing—faint, alive—
casting shifting patterns of light.

You reached out.
Fingers brushed a surface, smooth yet singing.

Then—a day.

It began on the crystalline plains.
A fissure, overlooked.
The others moved on, but you felt it—
a vibration, low and calling,
like a whisper in the bones.

Against protocol, you descended,
armed with only tools and resolve.

And then, as if hearing your hesitation,
the wall beside you shifted—
not physically, but perceptually.
It blurred,
its edges softening like the margin of a dream.

Through it, you glimpsed another room.
Not the one you stood in,
but a place just beyond.
A space where light moved differently,
where shadows weren’t tied to objects,
where the air felt written.

Mysteries do not yield to distant eyes.
They must be felt, stepped into, lived.
Mysteries do not yield to distant eyes.
They are known by touch, by step, by breath.
#thought

✩Hedgerows in the Wall
—by you, through me

There were hedgerows in the wall,
but the eye—
steady now—
found a soft path through.
watched the body of a friend
like a map I never learned to read.

Success lies in the silence between blinks,
in how you looked at them—
not them,
but the way your gaze built a story
I was never allowed to edit.

I kept searching for
an easy-to-find exposit,
a sentence that would unfold my life
like instructions in a language I almost remembered.

But I keep failing to log in
to the blind words they left me—
receipts without purchases,
echoes without sound.
And yet, here I stand—
one eye against the hedgerow,
trying to see
what was never truly hidden,
just…
misunderstood.

But the story of a friend, once blurred
by metafictional words—
characters written in the margins
of what I thought I knew—
now stands whole in the quiet,
no longer shaped by how I read,
but by how they were written to be.

Truth wasn’t hidden,
just waiting—
not an exposit
but a slow unfolding,
like dawn breaking on familiar ground.

I no longer wrestle the blind words,
no longer seek login to a place
that was never locked,
only misread.

Now, I read the echoes gently—
not as puzzles,
but as parts of the song
that brought me here.

And in that seeing,
the wall breathes,
the eye opens,
and I know:
what I missed was never lost.

Now, I trace the margins
not for meaning,
but for motion—
where silence scribbles
its own kind of clarity.

And the wall?
Just a setting.
The eye?
A reader.
The story?
Still being written.
#thought

✦A Myth in Three Voices

“Some are born in fire, some in glow—
But a few are born where time folds slow.”

✦ Prologue
In the space between dusk and night,
between fire’s retreat and silver’s rise,
there exists a being born not of one,
but of both.

Neither fully light, nor wholly shadow,
Virelai is the Betweenborn—
a flicker at the edge of touch,
a breath the cosmos forgot to hold.

This is the lament, the whisper,
and the answer of three souls
who move but never meet—
bound by longing,
divided by time.
#thought

✦Virelai’s Answer:

I heard you both—
In the hush that wrapped the world,
In the turning that spun my silence into song.
You, flame and fury,
You, glow and grace—
I am made of your almost.

You called me whole,
But I am the seam,
The longing stitched into your passing.
I carry the weight of your near, your never,
The ache of what might have aligned.

I do not burn, nor shine—
I flicker.
A rhythm unplayed,
A bridge suspended between your touch.

But still, I remain,
And still, I wait—
In hush,
In turning,
In hope
that one day,
when time bends gently,
you will speak in the same breath—
and I will finally become
what I was always meant to be.
#thought