You asked the river

"Who are you?"

The river answered:

What a human question
Am I the water flowing beneath your feet?
Am I the mouth that gives birth to me?
Am I the branches that reach into the sea, becoming something new?
Am I the droplets that shape me, an ever-moving snake from the bird's eye?
Am I the earth and the rocks under the water, the bed that gives me space to move?
Am I the picture in your mind of a place that never changes, still in its meaningless movement?

Am I not all these things at once?
Am I not the same as you, ever-changing and infinite?

Let me ask you a question, then.

The river says,

Who are you?

When a noble heart is betrayed,
He runs not home, but feeds the flame.

Toward the low, he throws his grace,
A furious fall from a higher place.

As if to curse what once was pure,
To make his past no longer endure.

Not for pleasure, not for thrill
But to punish the light it once stood still.

there is peace to be found in stillness,
watching life play out from a distance
like a belated guest that joined halfway through,
like none of this pain belongs to you
and you could stand up and walk away
anytime if you wished to.
when you see yourself on the screen, does it move you?
do you want to step in and interrupt it,
knowing exactly what's going to happen?
of course, you can always edit it later
before it gets sent to storage,
before you decide which one you like better.
for you are the viewer and the director,
making commentary on your own lack of skill;
an omnipotent deity, if you will.
now that's a comparison you could get behind,
but it's all taking place inside of your mind
and the next scene's coming up soon.
it's a shame you've missed on so much of the plot
worrying about small mistakes.
now you know that nobody else seems to care,
so just take a seat and enjoy the view
like none of those fears belong to you,
watching life reveal itself in the distance.
there is hope to be found in stillness.

Once a day, thoughts of THINKING,
It was ages before or is it just me who aged?
Hearing whispers—
"Oh girl! Don't overthink, you're just a child."
But... how did this girl learnt to feel this way?

Back in days, this messy, inactive Angel…
She made mistakes and advancements at the same time.
Following her years with Covid-19,
Grew an ache of anger, depression, and loneliness—
Thinking the world was completely against her.

Then that day, when tears fell…
Wait—were those the thoughts of the overthinker me again?
And that was the time I recognised
Myself, with numerous talents to shine.

Today, an orator, poet, painter—she transformed.
But never gained the courage to own the title of best person.
She changed me, my young self, but…
Why is it me writing all these things as a memory of guilt again?
Maybe… it’s just me who aged—
Not my guilt.

-Parisha

this body doesn't belong to you.
you want to crawl out of it,
and the only think you can think of
is how good it would feel
to just peel it off
and disappear.
you can hear them talk about you,
every word is like a slap in the face.
you feel small in this open space,
but their laughter resonates
and all the exits are locked.
so you try to make sense of it,
try to teach yourself their ways,
try to follow the rules of their game.
they say you can't win if you don't play,
but you haven't won yet.
this body isn't the one you chose.
you wish you could give it back,
write a complaint to the maker,
but they don't accept returns.
so you live through your thoughts,
dreaming of the day
when you can change your clothes,
your address, your name,
finally peel it off
and disappear.

an alien---sharper eyes and softer lies,
ink-stained hands and paper planes,
calloused fingers reach out to you,
bluer skies, she's got less to say,
for clouds, they fill her mind,
hopes, passions, and fears,
her peculiarity, known,
a cut just in between,
barely noticeable
---descended.

052625

It rained.
The sky trembled,
and so did I—
waking in the hush of lateness,
a body unraveling in silence.
Illness came not like thunder,
but like memory—
quiet and overdue.

Weeks ago,
voices too young to understand
asked me things I couldn’t answer.
I smiled.
But something inside
went missing.
So I closed the door
before the next knock.
I named it fear,
but maybe it was a kind of vanishing—
the way I’ve always slipped through
before connection could tether me.

Trust—
a thin, brittle bridge
between islands.
I walked it once.
Now I float
in my own weather.

I thought
I was finished breaking.
That the years had made me whole.
But strength is not stillness.
And even stone remembers
how to fall.

There were worries
I tore from my own hands,
pages I left blank
so no one could read me.
And yet—
this morning,
I unwrapped something fragile
I had wrapped in forgetting.

And it was me.
Still here.
Still trying to become.