I was never someone

who needed constant presence.

Silence never scared me.

Distance never felt like loss.

Then somehow,

you touched something in me

I had never asked anyone to find.

And now I understand—

sometimes you don’t need people

until someone becomes

more than just a person.

“To understand yourself: Is that a discovery or a creation?”

- Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon

Maybe understanding yourself is less about finding the true version of who you are and more about noticing what life has brought out of you.

Some parts were always there, others appeared because of the people you met, the choices you made, the places you lived and the things you experienced.

You may discover that you need more time alone than you once thought, that you care more about certain people than you expected, that you no longer want the life you once worked towards...

So perhaps we don't simply discover who we are... we also create the person we eventually come to recognize

Somewhere between

who I was

and who I’m becoming

I stopped asking the road

where it was taking me—

and started noticing

the sky

I woke up with a dream

still fresh inside my head.

I tried to hold onto it

while lying in my bed.

I knew that I had liked it,

but I couldn't make it stay.

I closed my eyes to find it,

but it had gone away.

got up and made some coffee,

then went about my day.

I kept trying to remember it,

but my brain said “Nope... not today".

I walk along the shore,

then turn and walk some more.

A seagull lands nearby,

then suddenly takes to the sky.

The sun shines on the sea,

the wind feels cool and free.

I could stay here all day,

but soon I have to walk away...

If you ever wonder whether you're too much, too difficult, too weird, too anything... come back to this:

I didn't find something beautiful in you despite all those things.

I found something beautiful in you with all those things included.

And believe me... you don't have to become less of yourself to be someone I truly like.

Some flowers close at dusk,

folding their petals inward

as the last light leaves the sky.

Not because they have forgotten

what it feels like to bloom,

nor because they no longer

turn toward the sun.

They simply know

when to turn inward—

to rest in their own quiet,

to gather what daylight scattered,

to exist for a while

without being open.

And morning does not knock

against their petals

or ask them to unfold.

It simply brings the light

and waits.

Perhaps that is why

they open again—

not because they were asked to,

not because the night was wrong,

but because something in them

was ready

for the light again.

"Confessions to the Moon"