They say pressure makes diamonds.  
Fine.  

But here’s my truth:  
My peace was forged under  
every ******* ounce
of what came before.

BY A BOY WHO CHOSE SOLITUDE

I never craved penthouses kissing the clouds,
nor mansions where silence feels cold.
I worked through storms,
not to rise above the world—
but to step away from its roar.

All I ever wanted
was a wooden hut in the hills—
where rivers laugh like children,
where the wind hums forgotten songs,
where rain feels like the sky washing off
what hurt the most.

The sun…
a father’s hand on my shoulder.
The moon…
a mother watching over dreams.

In cities, I wandered,
craving their lights,
but never their noise.
I loved them—
the quiet ones, the old ones,
where people moved like whispers.

But even there,
I couldn’t find the silence
that lets you hear yourself think.
So I built it—
in my mind first,
then in the earth beneath my feet.

Why?

Because I needed a place
where my voice echoes back to my ears,
so I know I still exist.
So I know I still feel.

I am tired of competition.
Of proving.
Of performing.
I want a life like a straight line—
not because it's boring,
but because it's honest.

And love?
I stopped chasing it.
Because no one holds hearts like I do.
And mine—
it’s not made for games.

It's fragile.
Like sunlight on still water.
It breaks quietly.

So I gave it back to the only hands
that never dropped it—
my own.

In solitude,
I found my teacher.
My shelter.
My self.

Now I know what I want.
Now I know who I am.
And when I sit, alone, under the rain,
I don’t feel empty—

I feel home.

—a poetic short

The world had ended a thousand times,
not with bombs or fire,
but in the quiet way hope fades.

And yet here he was—
a lone figure sitting on a wooden bench,
where the sea whispered to the shore like a tired lover returning home.

The wind was soft… like it knew his name.
It danced through his long, unkempt hair,
lifting strands as if trying to remind him
he was still alive.

The sun didn’t shout from the sky—
it leaned gently from the East,
painting the air gold,
turning every dust particle into a drifting crystal.
A silent snowfall of light.

Flowers bloomed wildly beside the stone road.
They weren’t perfect.
Some petals torn by wind,
some bent with age—
but they lived without apology.

He didn’t cry.
There were no tears left.
Only numb eyes that watched beauty pass
without reaching out.

Then he saw her—
not in flesh,
but in the dust-light.

A girl with eyes like forgotten songs,
running barefoot in the gold haze,
laughing, spinning—
just like she used to,
or maybe never did.

She waved.
Smiled.

And slowly, she broke into golden glitter.
Like she had become part of the sun itself,
leaving only warmth
and the ache of something that almost stayed.

The wind stilled.

And he whispered,
“You were never mine to keep…
but you were mine to remember.”

The reel would spin again tomorrow.
But for now—
he stayed.
Just a man, on a bench,
with the sea in front of him,
and the ghost of love in the wind.

La vita è bella

Hold any taken chance, waiting in mind,
planning action lucidly, clearly seeing through
hoped
t'be once
before, now
t'never was, yet
nor could have been,
justice just for its own sake
right now, only once, now,
but while our minds were
at the circus, ensorcelled,
entranced, as seen on TV
entertained out
of our minds
at the counting fair,
queued up to see the final
quarrel using nukes,
contained
within the mobilized mass
of we, the people, singing jibberish

and raving ecstatic
as early man who had no hell,

joyous nonsensed we shapen cloud, dancing.

But, that's not you, is it?
No time to watch the end of the world.

Life is a chore,
a duty assigned, a calling
to serve the whole, order established,
after pangs of disestablishmentarianism's errors.

Matter made from energy, mind bending
best intended results, except… having

the good sense God gave a green apple.
Return on investment from my grandma.

The aim of all good ideas is beautiful.
The expectant success, seen before being
taken in stride, step after step, to life's end.

Waiting, while meandering in life's realized
library of all we have gained after realizing
knowledge recognized as comforting, really
works in the core chaos knotted dreads real
dim points of light, from the old city on a hill,

a mighty fortress,
a bulwark, never failing,

enlightening the fog of war, beyond which
no life does not reshape its reasoning
weighing machine,
perpendicular pivot balance,
serpentine millipede weform worth…
true balance and jeweled pivots,
silicone slick speeding ion quest…

no hidden meaning, mere idle time revaluation.

Just thinking, adjusting the load,
hard nuts we take to be cracked
at the fire we share.

Be having, rationed good sense,
detecting pattern sequential,
after history is now,
after now is next,
and next, again,
upon comprehension
made ritually exceptionalized,

there is no place like home, the idea…

in traditional stories rebroadcast into
cultural consciousness comfort zone
allegorically religimenting, hope
each winter and spring
summer and fall… working
no need
for pointless pain
or friction unmollified,

golden oil economy of Greece,
illiteracy blissfully believing the noble
stories told and retold, it's a wonderful life.

We can smile, we can hide the horrors of war.
But Art as truth's goad through life, ties

token reminders to hearken when thinking
wishing praying were hopings forseen, just so.

Sleep, and rise and head toward tomorrow.
Watching your steps until you're sure,
from then on
the way is made smooth
blessed assurance, balance is mine

dulling joint effort and toil
freeing hands to manipulate,
fibers and spider's webbing,
in to toys to pay attention to,

seasonal significance literally lost
as the survivors
from past holy terrors refuse
reconfusion, defusing the future bomb.

So, say we let go all our certainties,
waiting absent mindedly
taken up
in mystery religious ligamental nets
of reminding caution, cuidado,]

step lightly.
La vita è bella

fully receiving this present wrapped with my 5 senses
spring forces marry summer,
and the birds rejoice, singing praises of the perfection of the is-ness.
the pain, moments of relief all intertwine to expand my capacity.

my capacity to receive more lightness...
love is not heavy but in our experiences we have made it that way
our minds took over and numbed out our soul that is older than the oldest person you know.

this isn't an arrogance game, it is remembering who we all have been from the beginning.
over here, the need to create for an audience and for validation is extinct.
because at our core we have finally remembered who we came here as...
babies, before the conditioning and internalized pain of others
we grew void of our magic
yet that magic never gave up on us.
now through words it blooms regardless of the mind's traps
the mind thinks it knows everything yet the soul descended to taste the mystery.

so here i am back in this seat, looking at my screen, being one with the keyboard as i allow the words to find their place...
with no judgement, or pretense...
just acceptance!