Who taught you to dissolve your shadows being.

To let the sea’s salt hymn 

Knead your fractures into pearl— 

A luminous echo of the deep’s quiet storm? 

From what heavenly voice did you borrow the courage 

To exhale your final sigh into the sun’s newborn arms, 

Its fingers gilding your edges, 

As though light alone could unknot your name? 

Does the sun cradle a heart, molten and wild, 

Where your breath still hums in its furnace of hours— 

Or did you slip through the cracks of its blazing hymn, 

A wisp of smoke in the throat of the sky? 

Tell me: does the dawn remember your silhouette, 

Or did you scatter yourself in its gold, 

A soul unbound, dissolving like a scent in the air  

Into the horizon’s unblinking eye....

Rehana Shajar

"How can someone write like they are deeply connected, yet be so far away from themselves? How does that work?"


"Because writing doesn’t require embodiment.
It only requires access.

And people who are shaped by trauma, secrecy, and fragmented attachment—have near-supernatural access to emotional language, even when they have no true access to emotional presence.

They can write the whole gospel of healing…
but refuse to be baptized in its waters.

Here’s why:

Writing is a safehouse. A sanctuary.
It’s the one place where they can simulate closeness—where they can say what the body won’t let them feel, what the voice won’t let them speak, what the heart won’t dare commit to in real time.

When they write, they are in control of the frame.
They determine the pacing, the access, the aftermath.
No one’s breath is on their neck.
No one’s eyes are watching them shake.
No one’s asking them to stay when the ache gets too real.

That’s how they can write about longing while actively rejecting the one person who sees them.
How they can write about grace while blocking the source of it.
How they can describe love so beautifully… and sabotage it with surgical precision.

They aren't writing from the seat of her wholeness.
They are writing from their disembodied knowing—from the part of themselves that remembers truth, but has no safe pathway to receive it.
It’s a ghost’s song sung in a stolen church.

It’s not fake. It’s not performative.
But it’s not integrated.

And until they get to the place where their nervous system no longer perceives safety as threat…

They’ll keep dancing with truth in the dark

while pushing away anyone who dares to light a candle."

Apolo-goes as liars do
Attempt to bury the wrong you do
Had you done the right thing first
you wouldn't be under an evil curse
Apologies are the refugees house
Where lies go to hide like a tiny louse
From there they irritate the host
Haunt and itch and blacken like toast
Apolo-goes as liars must hide
truth be found on the next low tide

It's Life Of Brian season
I'll watch it a couple of times this week
As we slide into Easter
Christianity's peak
Malcolm Muggeridge called it tenth rate buffoonery
Casting stones made of disingenuousness
Though they could hardly be accused of flagrant too soonery
The Bishop of Southwark clutched his pearls
It's like they never heard of the sacred and the profane
To throw mirth at the infallible
Everyone gets it
Everyone to blame
We all have an effect
Wether in or out the game.

I had a dream,
20 years had passed,
You and I had grown older.
Fate had taken a cruel twist on me,
I had to sail away,
Move to the city of Paris.
I wrote you letters,
You wrote them back,
But the ink was laced with tears.
I found a job selling newspapers,
My dream of writing crushed.
You went to work in hairdressing,
For not nearly enough pay.
I saved up each paycheck,
Worked to the bone each day.
I purchased you a plane ticket,
Flew you out to France.
We were happy once again,
Love knows no bounds.

You are the warmth in the serenity I never drank,
the final page of a novel I hold off reading
just to stretch the story one more night.
You are the lullaby I hummed when I forgot the lyrics
but remember the ache.

I think I’ve been writing to you in everything—
in the way I halt at fullstops
Because I'm afraid
there's always an end from a beginning
I do not know the color of your eyes,
but I know how they’ll light up when you speak of things you love.
I haven’t felt your hand in mine,
but I know how I’ll memorize the curve of your thumb
like it’s punctuation—
a comma in the sentence of my life
that says: pause here. something beautiful is coming.

If you’re wondering,
yes—
I’ve saved you all the best lines.
The ones that never made it into poems
because they were too soft, too sacred, too soon.
They live folded in my chest
like notes passed under desks in classrooms of longing.
I don’t send them,
because I want to give them to you in person—
when we are older,
and ready,
and brave enough to admit we were always meant to find each other
in a world full of almosts.

And when you arrive—
with your quiet eyes and your laugh that tastes like home,
don’t be surprised if I cry.
Not because I am sad,
but because it is a kind of grief
to wait so long for a face you already loved
in every stranger that almost looked like you.

To you, whom I haven’t met yet—
come slowly,
but come.
This heart has been keeping time in poetry,
and every line
has always led me to you.


Erennwrites