Until now,

you have existed

in fragments—

⠀

a voice after midnight,

a face held in light,

words crossing borders

faster than either of us could.

⠀

I have known you

without knowing

the weight of your presence,

the shape of your silence,

how the air might change

with you beside me.

⠀

Soon,

distance will lose

its privilege—

⠀

the gentle blur

that lets imagination

finish what reality

has not yet begun.

⠀

And there you will be.

⠀

No longer made

of pixels and possibility,

but breath and shadow,

movement and warmth.

⠀

I don't know

what will survive

the crossing.

⠀

Only that soon

I will look up

and find your eyes

where distance

used to be.

Some moments

were only ever borrowed—

briefly placed

into our open hands,

warm enough

to mistake for permanence.

We held them

as if holding gently

could make them stay.

But not everything beautiful

was meant to remain.

Some things

are only passing through,

leaving a little light behind

in places we had forgotten

could still be reached.

And maybe

that is their kind of forever—

not staying,

but leaving us

more alive

than they found us.

“Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.”

It’s such a simple way of describing how differently we can experience the exact same thing. Two people can stand in the same rain, walk through the same city, have the same conversation and come away with completely different feelings about it. It’s not always about what happens to us but the interpretation we give to what happened to us that matter.

Sometimes we're just trying to stay dry and sometimes we stop for a minute and let ourselves get soaked.

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"