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Paco Rabanne: Chainmail Ensemble (1998) Photography: Thierry Le Gouès

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— Lina A.

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— Lina A.

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—Andrea Gibson, "Good Light," Lord of the Butterflies

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On my walk to the post office

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YOU WILL FIND A WAY!!!! YOU WILL FIND A WAY . You will find a WAY ….. you WILL find a way . You will find a way you will find a way……!! YOU WILL FIND A WAY YOU WILL FIND A WAY you will find a Way you will (find) a way you will find. a way you will find a way YOU WILL FIND A WAY!!!!!!!

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me remembering i have a name and body and people know me:

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divine nature

(01-09-2025)

O vast, eternal earth, my heart’s own home, You cradle time with patient, silent grace, In whispered winds and windswept hills you roam, And in your depths, I find my sacred place.

The forest hums a hymn beneath the sky, Each leaf a prayer that quivers in the light, The roots, like hands, reach deep, and testify To love that spans both day and endless night.

The sun ascends, a fire in quiet bloom, Its golden fingers part the cloak of dawn, While shadows bow, as though in reverent room, To greet the light and witness what’s reborn.

The oceans’ voice, both tender and profound, Washes the shore with songs of sacred truth; Each wave, a prayer, a blessing without sound, A rhythm etched in memory of youth.

O mountains, guardians of sky and stone, You stand as monuments of years untold, Your peaks, like altars, in the dusk alone, Reflect the glories of a time grown old.

In every grain of sand and drop of dew, I sense the hand of God, the breath of life, A quiet force that pulls the heavens through, And calms the storms that stir this world to strife.

The quiet sky, a canvas pure and wide, Paints colors that belong to no mere eye, And in the bloom of flowers I abide, For in their beauty, angels pass us by.

The soaring bird, the moon’s pale, gentle face, The storm that rages wild in its own right, All bear a truth, a fragile, sacred grace— A prayer that’s born from earth to reach the height.

For every breath I take upon this land Is one that whispers reverence and praise, In nature’s touch, I learn to understand How all is holy, through both night and days.

Each step upon this soil, each glance above, Is more than sight, more sacred than the mind, For in these simple things, I see the love That binds the heavens with the stars aligned.

The winds that kiss my skin, the waves that break, The stars that dance upon the silent sea, All speak to me, and with each sound I wake To feel the pulse of divinity in me.

In nature’s arms, I find my spirit’s song, A hymn that rises, quiet, full, and true— Where beauty holds the earth, and life belongs, And love, eternal, whispers through the blue.

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acorns.

(01-08-2025)

In the quiet of the fall, An acorn falls, too small, too still, From the oak that whispers tales Of roots that run beneath the hill.

It lands upon the earth so cold, A simple seed, a heart of gold. It waits beneath the winter’s sigh, To sprout, to rise, to touch the sky.

And though it may be just one grain, It dreams of branches, leaves, and rain, Of winds that carry whispered names, Of kindred hearts, of kindred flames.

Two acorns meet, by chance or fate, And through their touch, they resonate— Not in the ways the world might see, But in the roots of memory.

They share the earth, they share the light, They bend toward each other’s sight, Growing stronger as they intertwine, Their paths forever now aligned.

For acorns know what we forget— The ties that bind, the love unmet. In every seed, a promise stays, Of growing closer through the days.

So when you feel the cold wind blow, Remember how the acorns grow— That deep beneath the surface’s guise, There’s something stronger than the skies.

A bond that rises, wide and tall, Two hearts, like acorns, after all.

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Entwined

(old poem)

(12-30-2024)

In the quiet where our bodies rest, Two souls entwined, a quiet nest, I find in you what words can’t say— A home in you, in soft decay.

Our differences are woven close, Like threads of night, like dawn’s repose, Two rivers, winding, separate paths, Yet flowing into one, at last.

Your breath is mine, a whispered song, A melody where we belong. In your eyes, I see the shore I’ve been adrift for years before.

You are the chaos to my calm, The storm that breaks, the healing balm. In every contrast, every fight, We forge a balance, pure and bright.

I don’t need answers, don’t need plans, Just this soft silence, our two hands— Palms pressed, yet never quite the same, Still, we burn as one, a steady flame.

You feel like home, in all you are, Not a place, but where we are. I could live here for all my days, In this quiet, this sacred maze.

So let the world spin far away, Let time stretch thin, let night turn day. For in this moment, all I know— Is that with you, I am whole.

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In This Moment

(old poem)

(12-30-2024)

first attempt at posting a poem

In the quiet space between our words, Where silences speak louder than sound, I find a warmth that needs no proof, A comfort in the stillness we’ve found.

The way your eyes meet mine sometimes, Like stars caught in the endless sky— A moment stretched in the breath we share, An unspoken question, a soft reply.

I often dream of what could be, A future where our hearts align, But today, I hold this tender truth: What we have now is more than fine.

There’s beauty in this fragile space, In waiting, in what might unfold, But in this moment, here with you, I find a quiet joy, untold.

So I’ll leave tomorrow in its place, Let the hope of more reside, But for now, this connection here, Is all I need, and I’m satisfied.

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The Self Proclaimed Incel.

(12-30-2024)

In the vast and often unpredictable landscape of human interaction, the digital realm has provided a curious and troubling stage for a variety of behaviors. Among these is the rise of the self-proclaimed "incel"—a label that masks a complex tangle of insecurity, frustration, and, often, misguided anger. These individuals, who seem to find solace in the belief that their loneliness is not a consequence of their own actions but a societal flaw, frequently lash out in the form of venomous online attacks. To them, demeaning others—particularly women—is an outlet for their own feelings of inadequacy, a futile attempt to reclaim control over a world they feel has left them behind.

At the heart of such behavior lies a deep, almost tragic, sense of insecurity. It is the insecurity of someone who, rather than confronting their own vulnerabilities, projects them outward, targeting others in an attempt to divert attention away from their own perceived shortcomings. In the case of an individual who harasses another through social media, these attacks are not merely about the victim; they are an expression of the perpetrator's internal turmoil—a cry for validation through destruction. To call someone names like "meth head" or "big forehead" is not an act of wit or humor, but a desperate attempt to diminish someone else in a futile effort to inflate one's own fragile ego.

The cruelty, particularly when laced with the suggestion of violence or self-harm ("blow your head clean off"), is a grotesque reflection of immaturity. It is the immature mindset of someone who lacks the emotional depth to comprehend that words carry weight, that beneath the snide comments, there are real human beings, each with their own dignity and struggles. It speaks to a person who, unable to navigate the complexities of human connection, resorts to degradation as a means of coping with their own discomfort. These words are not the clever retorts of someone who understands the complexities of life or relationships, but rather the hollow remarks of someone who is deeply afraid—afraid of their own unaddressed pain, their own inadequacies, and their own failure to connect.

What is often overlooked in these attacks is the profound loneliness that drives them. For many who self-identify as incels, there is a sense of abandonment, not just from women, but from society itself. However, rather than taking responsibility for their own role in shaping their relationships, they externalize their bitterness and resentment. They dehumanize others to avoid confronting their own demons. Yet in doing so, they reveal more about themselves than they likely intend: their inability to engage with others on a meaningful level, their fear of rejection, and their desperate longing for approval.

The insult "no one wants you" is perhaps the most telling. It is not just a jab at the person it’s aimed at; it’s an admission of a much deeper fear—the fear of being unwanted, of being unseen, of being invisible in a world that prizes connection. But in truth, the very act of hurling such insults exposes an intense desire to be noticed, even if it is through negative attention. It’s an irony lost on the one delivering the blow: in their attempt to diminish another, they only magnify their own sense of loneliness and worthlessness.

Ultimately, what these attacks reveal is not the strength of the person hurling them, but their profound fragility. The true immaturity lies not in the insults themselves, but in the inability to look inward, to wrestle with one's own feelings of inadequacy and loneliness in a healthy, constructive way. Until that moment of introspection arrives—if it ever does—the cycle will continue, a cycle of projecting hurt onto others to avoid facing the pain within. And the tragedy is that, in this vicious loop, the one who suffers the most is not the victim, but the one who chooses to remain in the darkness of their own self-made prison.

'OrganMuncher' ; I truly hope one day you get better.

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CONNECTION.

(12-30-2024)

There are moments in life that pass by unnoticed, like the quiet hum of the world around us, until a single person appears—unassuming, yet undeniable. It is only in their presence that something stirs deep within, a reminder of a bond that exists beyond words, beyond time. It’s not always clear at first, but when that person speaks, it feels like the universe has always known their voice. There’s a rhythm to the conversation, a dance of thoughts and feelings that flows so effortlessly it’s as though you’ve been speaking for a lifetime.

The comfort comes not from the things said, but from the silence in between, the way the space around you feels like home. It's the way every topic, no matter how small, feels significant, as if each word shared is an offering to something greater. You lose track of time, hours passing unnoticed, because the connection transcends the clock. There is no rush, no expectation, only the simple truth that being together makes everything else fade into the background.

Sometimes, it’s only when that presence is absent that you realize how deeply it's rooted within you. It's not a longing born from a place of need, but a quiet recognition—of how much better the world seems when that one person is near. And when they return, even if only for a brief moment, it’s as if the pieces of something you didn’t fully understand finally fall into place.

This is the rare, unspoken gift of connection—a quiet intertwining of souls that need no explanation. It simply is, and it’s enough.

Hopefully, I'll find that in someone.

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— Jenny Slate, Little Weirds

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FREE

(12-26-2024)

Moving on from this failed situationship has been a freeing experience, one that has allowed me to fully embrace my own growth and happiness. It’s almost laughable now, looking back at how I could’ve ever been hung up on someone I never even met or dated. The truth is, I’m not grieving the loss of him—what we shared was never anything real. What hurts more is the time I spent investing in someone who was so undeserving. I’m not angry with him; I’m more frustrated with myself for allowing that wasted time to slip through my fingers. But I’m grateful that he showed his true colors, choosing to act immaturely rather than communicate honestly. It’s a gift, in a way, because I now see how his behavior truly reflects the emptiness within him. I wish him what he gave me—coldness, confusion, and the painful understanding of what it’s like to be treated so poorly. I never needed to date him to realize he wasn’t worthy of my love, and I’m grateful that whatever we had ended when it did. I am a vessel of love, kindness, and light, and he is a vessel of darkness and cruelty. And for that, he deserves nothing from me—no more time, no more energy, and certainly no more space in my heart.

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Christina Marie Brown, Ghost I, from My Body is a Haunted House

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