Thankful for the small things, the tiny things, the in-between things—the way the wind sneaks through the cracks in the morning, whispers of coffee steam curling like ghostly lullabies, the scuff of a shoe on pavement, the hush of a friend’s voice saying I hear you. The weight of a book in your hands, the rhythm of a song that rattles your bones just right, headlights stretching long down an empty road.

I have loved stars that collapsed into themselves. People who once burned with the kind of brilliance that made you believe in something bigger—something divine. They carried light in their hands, in their words, in the way they saw the world with wild, unfiltered wonder. But like Icarus, like Lucifer, like every fallen thing that ever thought itself untouchable, they flew too high, reached too far, believed themselves invincible.

The best is not behind you. The best is not in the hands you have already let go of, in the love that has already left, in the dreams that have already withered. The best is ahead, waiting for you to stop gripping the bones of something long dead.

The world is uncomfortable with what it cannot see. We are taught to rally against cancer, to wage wars on failing organs, but we do not know how to hold space for the quiet, interior battles. We turn away from suffering that does not bleed, does not show itself in scars and statistics. And yet, pain is pain. It does not lessen because it is unseen.

My heart is dying, but not in the romantic way. Not in the way they write about in poems. It is shriveling, it is gasping, it is clenched so tight it cannot beat properly. They tell me the name for it—stress cardiomyopathy—so neat, so clinical. A heart giving up, not from clots or cholesterol, but from grief, from strain, from the sheer unbearable weight of being alive.

The future is, as it always has been, an open question. It holds both promise and uncertainty, joy and hardship. Perhaps the key lies in accepting that life will continue to ebb and flow. Stability may never be a permanent fixture, but it doesn’t have to be. What matters is the ability to adapt, to cherish moments of calm, and to remain hopeful in the face of change.

"I am" is not merely a statement of existence; it’s an invitation to explore what it means to be. This project is not about crafting a neat, cohesive narrative of my life. Instead, it’s about embracing the messiness, the contradictions, and the unresolved questions. It’s about finding the threads of continuity in a life that often felt disjointed.

I miss the rush. The excitement. The sense of being in motion and surrounded by energy. I want that feeling again, desperately. I need something—someone, somewhere, something—to reignite the fire in my belly, but I don’t know where to look. I feel ridiculous, wallowing in this unmotivated sadness, waiting for a spark that never seems to come.

Still, I am trying to hold onto hope, fragile though it may be. I remind myself that energy does not have to be a warning; it can also be a gift, an opportunity to focus on self-care and wellbeing. Learning to trust these moments, to believe they are not always harbingers of collapse, feels like its own act of resilience.

I have discovered that my creative journey demands more of me. While painting allows me to process emotions in a way that feels intuitive and safe, writing has emerged as a far more terrifying—and transformative—medium. Writing requires vulnerability of an entirely different kind. To paint is to show the world a fragment of my soul; to write is to strip myself bare. Words demand precision and honesty, forcing me to confront truths that cannot hide behind abstraction. In writing, there is no veil, no protective layer of color or form. I must stand naked in front of an audience, offering my thoughts and feelings in their rawest form to anyone who cares to listen.

When this journey began, it was an ambitious leap into the unknown—a conscious decision to trust myself and believe in my capacity to design the life I envisioned. It wasn’t about following a pre-set path but about crafting something uniquely my own, guided by faith in my abilities and an unwavering commitment to my goals.

My glass of water sits just out of reach, mocking me from the table. And yet, I can’t bring myself to move toward it. I’d rather sit here, parched, than muster the energy to give my body the care it needs. It’s not just laziness—it’s something deeper, something darker. A grotesque apathy, a loathing that runs so deep it’s easier to let myself wither than to do the smallest thing to preserve myself.

This year, I will stand as I am—

unmasked, unwavering, wholly true.

Each step rooted in purpose,

each word a mirror of my heart.

Side by side, we walk through endless doors,

our quiet promises unfolding.

The path bends, narrows, stretches wide—

but always, it is ours.

Two shadows moving as one

Blurred Days

The clock blinks,

but I can’t read its face—

hours melt into wrapping paper scraps

and half-finished conversations.

Bare

I stand without cover,

no shine, no mask.

Just skin,

lined and soft,

telling stories I didn’t ask to write.