#emotionalintelligence
I don’t try to read you —
I just hear you
before you speak.
Your silence has a frequency,
and my ribs
are a tuning fork.
I was trained in the language of flinches,
in the dialect of door-slams,
in the grammar of breath held too long.
So when your smile sits crooked
on a sentence that says “I’m fine,”
I see the typo.
I don’t mean to notice —
it’s muscle memory.
My nervous system grew up
studying micro-expressions
like scripture.
I can feel the bruise
beneath your bravado.
Smell the smoke
from fires you swear are out.
You think you’re hidden —
but hurt has a posture.
Trauma has a tone.
And I have lived there long enough
to recognise the furniture.
People open to me
like overfilled drawers —
secrets spilling
into my lap
before they’ve learned my surname.
They say,
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
And I want to say,
because I know the shape of breaking.
Because my eyes don’t judge fractures —
they map them.
I don’t go looking for pain.
It just hums.
And I hum back.
Maybe it’s the way I hold space
like a door that’s never slammed.
Maybe it’s the softness
survivors carry
when they refuse to harden.
Maybe it’s because
I survived what should have silenced me
and chose to stay gentle anyway.
Empathy isn’t a gift I unwrapped —
it’s a scar that learned to listen.
I can spot the child
still standing inside the adult.
The tremor behind the temper.
The apology lodged in a throat
that never learned safety.
And I don’t expose it.
I cradle it.
That’s the strange thing —
I never meant to be a lighthouse.
I was just trying to stay afloat.
But ships find me.
Storm-worn.
Hull cracked.
Carrying cargo they can’t dock anywhere else.
And I let them anchor.
Not because I’m strong all the time —
but because I know
what it feels like
to pray someone
would see through me
and not turn away.
I don’t read minds.
I read survival.
And when your past
recognises mine,
it relaxes.
That’s not magic.
That’s mirror.
And maybe the reason
they tell me everything
is because somewhere in my eyes
they see this:
You’re safe here.
I’ve been there too.
Feb 13
Feb 13, 2026 at 1:07 PM UTC
The Living Atmosphere
--Jonathan Galbraith
There is a knowledge
that does not belong to thought.
It moves first.
It moves between us
before it ever becomes mine.
The heart is not a container.
It is an opening.
And when it closes,
the world does not grow quieter —
only narrower.
Change keeps passing through reality,
color after color after color,
but a sealed life receives
only a thin white edge of it.
We call that safety.
We call that control.
But what is really lost
is participation.
Grief is not an event.
It is an entrance.
So is wonder.
So is tenderness.
So is the sudden weight in a room
no one has named.
The danger is not sorrow.
The danger is insulation.
For the same current that breaks us
is the one that lets us touch
what cannot be owned,
only felt -
the Living Atmosphere
of being here at all.
Feb 3
Feb 3, 2026 at 8:44 AM UTC
Misery is where distasteful love likes to hide— where she keeps
falling for showboats dressed like lifeboats, the world watches her
drown again. Funny how even the coldest kiss feels warm when
you’re tired of being alone.
Golden boys shine loud from a distance, but up close, their glow
goes too quiet. Their hearts aren’t real, their promises aren't heavy,
and the intentions lose their colour the moment she holds them too
close.
Their words hit like fireworks— bright, loud, gone fast. They aim
for her heart, _shoot a couple shots,_ but only the true ones stay after
the impact, to help cover the bruise. But most take what they want,
leaving the apology unfinished, and move on like she was a season.
Most of them live behind masks; clean edges, perfect smiles, their
lies rehearsed to look like devotion. And the real ones carry their
scars in plain sight, not competing for gold, silver, or bronze, just
hoping for an honourable mention in the story of someone they
hope to love.
At the funeral of her latest heartbreak, most of the gold walks away
untouched, leaving her misery as the only inheritance they know
how to leave behind. And the rest stand there again, the good
guy in the corner, loving her like a truth she refuses to learn:
_Some halos come with horns._
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 6:00 AM UTC
To paint white lies on a white fence —
to call it kindness, in your defence.
To block out the ugly truths from
reaching your close friends —
but those blind lies keep them fenced.
A combat sport with them — _fencing,_
no mask, no stance, no discipline.
And me? I can’t claim innocence;
truth slips from me like an offence —
too sharp, too blunt, depending when.
Of the sense you say you have, it measures
less the less you choose to correct your friends.
To paint white lies on a white fence,
all in hopes to block offence — it’s art,
you say — but art that hides is just pretense.
Every brushstroke builds a wall instead,
till your kindness feels like self-defence;
painted white again and again.
A play of “offence.”
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 5:30 AM UTC
Slowly falling – too slow, it almost feels like floating; hovering
above coping, breathing through the ache like lotion rubbed
into open wounds. These scars know softness by scent,
not by touch.
Forgetful motion, passive emotions — _a tug-of-war_ between
what I feel and what I should feel. Suppose we spend the rest
of our lives together — suppose we raise children with dreams
we never had the courage to chase, and wisdom we never got
to learn. Would we both smile, pretending not to notice
the cracks under our feet?
Suppose we kiss — and I felt so unprepared to meet something
that feels more prepared to meet me. Your lips, a sermon
I can’t quite believe in; mine, the confession I never finish.
Suppose we go out to dinner, a restaurant dimly lit with
expectations. I serve my fears, my hopes, my half-eaten faith
on a plate— and you pretend they taste okay.
Would you ask for seconds, or second-guess the meal entirely,
saying you’ll be back in a few seconds but we both know
there won’t be a second date?
Suppose we hold hands, suppose our eyes meet — I flinch first,
every time. Would you still think of me as someone worth
holding on to, when my love language sounds like an apology
in translation?
I’m not afraid of falling — __I’m afraid of landing__. I’m afraid
that love is just gravity rehearsing heartbreak. I’ve never
been this high up, and still somehow this feels like drowning.
So if I don’t call it love, please don’t call it running.
Maybe I’m just moving slow enough to see what I’m losing
before I lose it. Maybe I’m just learning how to fall without
letting go.
Oct 19, 2025
Oct 19, 2025 at 4:12 PM UTC
Never cage The Eagle
If you want it to soar!
With a heart filled with sorrow
No amount of love
Can cure a passion lost, caged heart.
No amount of pleading
Will make room in The Eagle's cage
For it to fly and soar.
No matter how much you beg
On bended knee
It will never fly again.
It's qi will leak, from its very core.
It's will to live, will vanquish.
As It gives up It's Life Dream
Slipping silently into
A quiet numbness.
All desire to live passionately, gone.
The Eagle you love
Will turn into a hollow body
That still breathes
With a resignation to a hopeless
passionless, dreamless caged life.
Growing beyond feeling, beyond caring.
Yet, one day when you die
Or your Eagle passes first
The Eagle will open to find what was lost.
Whether in this life or the next
It does not matter.
The Eagle will rejoice and fly again.
From the look on your face
I don't think you liked what I just said.
You do have a choice.
You can choose to set The Eagle free.
In freedom, feed your Eagle with respect
Love, acceptance and care.
Be in awe as you watch
Your Eagle fly toward the heavens
Reflections within the gleaming sun.
Casting It's soaring shadow
Over rivers, canyons and high mountain peaks.
With gratitude your Eagle will return
Again to your loving arms.
Because you love your Eagle enough
To set It free.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 3:23 PM UTC
I prefer the gray.
I don’t want to choose between dark and light.
I like it that way.
No one can tell me if I feel alright.
I prefer the gray.
It can be whatever I want it to.
I like it that way.
Why pick joy or pain when both can be true?
I prefer the gray.
An aching heart can have a smiling face.
I like it that way.
Why must my emotions have their own place?
I prefer the gray.
What you think I mean is for me to know.
I like it that way.
When the words confound you just let them go.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 7:51 AM UTC