Luck, or fate?

There was a time i thought chaos had become part of me, woven into my bones so deeply that i could no longer separate myself from it. My mind felt like a room full of noise that never slept. Thoughts overlapping thoughts, fears running into memories, emotions colliding like waves during a storm. Some days i would sit quietly while everything inside me screamed. I learned how to smile while carrying heaviness, how to laugh while hiding exhaustion, how to make the outside of me look calm while everything beneath it was falling apart. I had convinced myself that this was simply who i was. Some people are made of sunlight, i thought.. and some are made of storms. I thought i belonged to the latter. I thought chaos was not something passing through me, but something living within me. So i stopped expecting peace. I stopped believing that one day, things would feel lighter. I carried my own mess with both hands and called it home because i didnt know where else to put it. Then you arrived, a...

I used to think the loudest things in the world were thunderstorms, crowded streets, or the sound of people screaming at each other in anger. But I was wrong. The loudest thing I have ever known was my own mind. It was exhausting living inside it. Every day felt like carrying a thousand unfinished thoughts all at once. Regret, fear, sadness, guilt, loneliness, each one speaking over the other until I could no longer hear myself clearly. Even during quiet moments, my head never rested. I could be surrounded by people and still feel painfully alone, because no one could hear the war happening inside me. There were nights when I stared at the ceiling for hours, wondering how everyone else made living look so easy. I wondered why waking up felt heavy for me, why happiness always seemed temporary, why my mind kept finding ways to convince me that I was difficult to love. Eventually, the darkness became familiar. And that is the frightening thing about sadness, it does not always arrive viol...

the feeling lives like a weather system inside the ribcage: low, slow clouds that never quite break, and a wind that keeps rearranging the furniture of attention. sometimes it sounds like an apology you never meant to speak; sometimes it is a list of small betrayals, of rooms left cold, of songs that used to fit and now pull like a shirt too small. there are moments when the weight is a map, precise and patient, folding around each plan you might make and smoothing it out like a paper boat that will never touch water. words come in fragments: a single image, the taste of salt on the tongue after crying, the way a streetlight looks like a question, the memory of a laugh that used to fit the shape of your day. there is a pulse beneath the wanting to stop and the wanting to keep going: a little residue of hunger for something that makes less sense than a horizon. it is not always dramatic. often it is quiet and domestic: the reluctance to open a closet, the decision to leave the dishes u...

One day, wings will grow. Not suddenly, not with fire or thunder, but slowly, almost imperceptibly. They will take shape in silence, through nights that stretch too long and mornings that feel impossible. They will form not from magic, but from endurance. Every time the heart keeps beating when it feels too heavy, every time the spirit chooses to rise again after falling, a feather takes shape. They are not wings of escape, but wings of transformation, born from survival. For a long time, the world has felt like a cage. Trauma has carved walls around the soul, and depression has locked the doors. The weight of memory, the echo of old wounds, the sharpness of shame, these are the chains that have kept everything grounded. In such moments, flight feels like fantasy. Peace seems like something other people are allowed to touch, never meant for the one carrying all this unseen weight. Yet even in the deepest dark, something endures. A flicker. A thread. Perhaps it is a fleeting laugh tha...

Can anything still be given, when the edges are worn down to dust? When the insides feel rusted through and the outside no longer resembles anything that once meant softness or care. When the hands don’t feel like hands anymore, just extensions of movement, burned-out tools repeating forgotten gestures. There was warmth once, long ago. Something bright that lived in the chest, moved in the fingertips, opened wide for the world. But now it's all bone and echoes. Cold that doesn’t hurt anymore, just stays. Silence that doesn’t surprise. The heart keeps going, not with hope or longing, but with the dull inertia of things that haven’t figured out how to stop. There is no clean thing left. No untouched part to offer. Everything has been used up, scraped thin. Kindness, when it comes, feels like imitation. A performance done without audience, out of memory, not meaning. Still, the reaching happens, like a muscle twitching after death. Not because there’s belief in it, but because stopp...

The villa trip had been a whirlwind of laughter and activity, the kind that left me feeling light and full of energy. But now, as the bus rolled down the highway in the stillness of the night, the excitement of the day had drained away, and all I wanted was peace. The quiet hum of the road seemed to whisper through the bus, the faint sound of tires on asphalt lulling me into a calm haze. Outside the window, the darkness stretched endlessly, the dim glow of streetlights flickering past, each one a tiny moment of light lost to the vastness of the night. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass, feeling the bus sway gently with the rhythm of the highway. One by one, the voices around me faded as everyone else succumbed to sleep, leaving me in a fragile, quiet world of my own. The hum of the engine was the only sound, lulling me further into drowsiness. My eyelids grew heavy, and before I could stop it, I drifted off. When I woke, it wasn’t the window that greeted me, but something soft...