What if I told you, in hush not heard, but felt,
That the ache you name as longing
is the echo of a promise kept?
Not in some far-off fortune,
but in a chamber of the Now
where time folds in upon itself
like linen soft with memory.

You want it deeply, don't you?
That golden glint behind your ribs,
the ache that doesn’t bruise but burns,
not a wound, but a whisper.
It is not born of lack.
It is the future’s fragrant breath
blooming backward into your soul.

These aren’t dreams, my love,
they are breadcrumbs dropped
by a wiser You who’s already danced
through that doorway,
wearing the life you crave
like sunlight wears the morning.

Intuition isn’t guessing,
it’s remembering,
as the river remembers the sea.
Desire is not begging,
it is recognition,
a soul pointing to its own reflection
just beyond the veil.

So walk like it’s yours.
Breathe it. Speak it.
Dress your days in its colour.
Let the vision not be a someday shrine
but a mirror, a map, a marrow.

Because what you want is not ahead,
it is within,
waiting only
to be believed in.

I’m in a drought for time— yet flooded with ideas.
as the sun rises with the dust, and by dusk, all hope
feels spent, or quietly scattered.

I know destiny calls— even without a map, signal
or a location marked. "Yeah, I don’t know what
I’m doing," I often confess, in quotation marks—
still walking toward the shape of who I’m meant
to become.

Pushing through bruises and bitter slights—real joy
flickers, but most smiles still feel perfectly rehearsed.
To stay above the arrows, but never ahead of myself—
sharp enough, still, to pierce through the soft fabric
of my many, many daily doubts. And I’m learning:
sometimes the cage has no door— but only the illusion
of one, built from fear.

There’s always a world just outside of it— waiting.
We’re all just finding ourselves day by day.
And life? It’s one day after another— until, finally,
you recognize the person you've been becoming
all along.

I am good at being alone.
The dishes get done
when I feel like doing them.
Silence hangs like a painting
I chose myself.
The hours bend gently around me,
and I call it peace.

I laugh out loud
at my own jokes,
call it self-love,
call it growth.
The plants don’t mind
if I forget to water them,
and neither do I.
This is thriving, I tell myself.

Then I spend three days
with people I love.
Not performing.
Not planning.
Just existing
side by side-
a meal shared
without occasion,
laughter that erupts
without needing a reason.

I remember something
older than language:
that warmth isn’t just a temperature.
That joy has a different flavour
when someone else tastes it too.
I remember that solitude
was never meant to be
a permanent home-
only a resting place.

There is a part of me
that longs for gardens
we plant together,
for walls we build
with laughter baked in.
For shoes at the door
that aren’t all mine.

Maybe the soul remembers
what modern life unlearned-
that we were made
to brush shoulders
to pass bread
to belong.

And maybe
what I called thriving
was just surviving
with the lights on.

This week, I remembered how to hold things gently-
how to sit in a sunlit room with laughter
and not flinch at the brightness.

I made time.
Not borrowed, not stolen, not carved from guilt,
but real time-
offered with open hands
to people who make me feel like more than a body on a schedule.

There were hours that didn’t apologize for passing,
moments that asked nothing from me but presence.
I gave what I had, and still had something left.
Even joy. Even peace.

This week didn’t ask me to survive it.
It let me belong to it.

And now,
at the edge of it all,
I’m quietly afraid-
that I will look back on these days
from some far-off place
where time slips like water,
and wonder if this was just
a rare breath
before the drowning begins again.