John the Griot

A Little Longer

Sun, 08 Nov 2026 00:00:00 GMT

I hope the sun finds you tomorrow.

And if it rains,I hope you stay a little longerto hear it against the glass.

I hope the bread is warm,the journey home is kind,and something you thought you’d lostfinds its way back in time.

I hope you grow old enoughto laugh at all your fears,to find that what once broke your heartcould hardly move you years from here.

And when the world grows tired,as all good things must do,I hope you find a thousand reasonsto be glad it happened to you.

Kindness of Winter

Sun, 08 Nov 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The trees have given up their gold,the evening comes before its time.The wind has grown a little bold,and frost has learned the window’s lines.

Yet somewhere underneath the snow,a thousand sleeping gardens lie.The earth remembers how to grow,though nothing green can meet the eye.

And I have come to love the cold,the naked branches, pale and thin.For even winter, growing old,must leave a little room for spring.

Waiting Outside the Castle

Sun, 07 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

A few weeks ago, I came across an Instagram reel telling of an Argentinian fable.

Whether the story is actually Argentinian, or even real, I have no idea.

But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

The story goes that a princess was looking for a husband.

She invited all the men in the kingdom to wait outside her castle.

Whoever remained there for a year would marry her and become king.

At first, there were dozens.

Then weeks passed.

The weather changed.

Some left because it was too cold.

Others because it was too hot.

Some simply grew tired of waiting.

By the end of the year, only one man remained.

A man who, by all accounts, loved the princess deeply.

Then, on the very last day, he stood up and walked away.

The princess saw him leaving and ran after him.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“You only have one day left.”

“Tomorrow you will become my husband.”

And the man replied:

“You saw me here.”

“You knew I was waiting.”

“And still you let me suffer.”

I think most people hear this story and focus on the ending.

I find myself thinking about the year.

The mornings.

The winters.

The days when nothing happened.

The hope required to wake up every morning and believe that tomorrow might finally be different.

Every time I come back to the story,

I find myself less interested in the princess.

And more interested in the castle.

Castles are strange things.

You can see them from miles away.

You can admire them.

Imagine yourself inside them.

Build entire futures around them.

But they are not homes.

A home invites you in.

A castle defends itself.

Its entire purpose is to keep people out.

The castle never opened.

But it never closed either.

I think that’s why the story stays with me.

Had the princess rejected him outright, he could have just gone home.

Had she invited him in, the waiting would have ended.

Instead, he was left in the space between.

Not chosen.

Not dismissed.

Just close enough to stay.

Rejection is painful.

Ambiguity is expensive.

The castle never asked him to stay.

Nobody chained him to its gates.

Nobody locked the road behind him.

And he was free to leave at any moment.

But yet he remained.

Because some of the hardest things to leave are the things that still contain possibility.

Especially when tomorrow keeps whispering that it might be different.

One more day.

One more week.

One more season.

Hope can be a difficult thing to leave.

And there’s a sort of strange comfort in almost.

Almost loved.

Almost chosen.

Almost enough.

Almost there.

Entire years can disappear inside that word.

We mistake possibility for invitation.

And sometimes that mistake becomes a life.

The longer I think about the story, the less I believe the princess was the prison.

The prison was not the castle.

It was the belief that tomorrow would finally be different.

The strangest part of the story is not that the man left.

It is that the princess was surprised.

As if waiting had become his nature.

And longing was a permanent condition.

As if a person could stand outside a gate forever and never eventually remember they had somewhere else to be.

But I wonder if he was surprised too.

Not that she chased after him.

That she was surprised he was leaving at all.

Perhaps he thought she cared.

Perhaps she thought he would stay.

Two people arriving at the same moment, carrying entirely different stories.

And maybe that’s what happens when we wait too long outside castles.

We become so focused on getting in that we stop asking whether anyone is actually opening the door.

Perhaps that’s why the story has survived.

Not because the man stopped loving the princess.

But because he finally understood something.

Love may require patience.

It may require sacrifice.

It may require effort.

But it should not require you to live outside its walls.

The castle never opened.

The drawbridge never lowered.

The only thing that changed was the man.

Until one day, he realised the gate was never the thing keeping him there.

And perhaps that’s the real lesson of the story.

Not that castles exist.

But that people sometimes spend years outside them, forgetting they could leave.

You're Suffocating the Roots

Tue, 02 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Most people know a plant will die without water.

Fewer people know you can kill it the same way.

Water it too little and it dries out.

Water it too much and the soil remains constantly wet, filling the tiny pockets of air beneath the surface.

The roots can no longer breathe.

And slowly, despite receiving everything it was supposed to need,

the plant begins to die.

I think about this often.

Not because of plants.

Because of people.

Because there is something deeply human about refusing to leave things alone.

We check on wounds before they have healed.

We dig up seeds to see whether they are growing.

We pull on doors before somebody has had the chance to open them.

We confuse attention with care.

Control with love.

Interference with devotion.

And then we stand bewildered when the thing begins to wither.

A relationship is struggling.

So we call again.

Explain again.

Push again.

Demand reassurance again.

Not because we are cruel.

Because we are afraid.

A dream is taking longer than expected.

So we force it.

A friendship grows quieter.

So we interrogate it.

A season of life feels uncertain.

So we try to solve tomorrow before breakfast.

There is a small arrogance in impatience.

The belief that our constant involvement improves everything.

I know the instinct well.

I have checked my phone one too many times.

Asked questions that need not be asked.

Reached for things that were already on their way.

Sometimes we struggle to believe that something can grow without our involvement.

But roots do.

A seed does not become a tree because somebody stood over it anxiously.

It grows because somebody planted it, watered it, and trusted what was happening beneath the surface.

Most of life seems to work this way.

Healing.

Love.

Faith.

Grief.

None of them care very much about our timelines.

And maybe that is why they frustrate us.

We want visible progress.

A sign.

A guarantee.

Something to reassure us that our waiting is not being wasted.

So we keep reaching.

Keep checking.

Keep interfering.

As though growth were something we could hurry.

Perhaps this is why so many beautiful things never bloom.

Not because they lacked love.

Because they were never given room.

Room to fail.

Room to return.

Room to choose.

Room to become.

The gardener who waters a plant every hour is not acting from hatred.

The parent who never lets go is not acting from hatred.

The lover who clings is not acting from hatred.

Most suffocation arrives disguised as care.

That’s what makes it dangerous.

Not everything needs your intervention.

Not every silence needs filling.

Not every uncertainty needs solving.

Not every unanswered question needs another question behind it.

Some things grow because of what we give them.

Others grow because of what we stop taking away.

The roots need water.

But they need air too.

Not everything that is quiet is dying.

Fireworks

Thu, 28 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

We speak of permanenceas though it is the purest form of love.

Forever.Always.Till eternity.Never leaving.

But some things are beautifulbecause they do.

Every summer, London performs the same small miracle.For months we curse the rain,the early darkness,the grey sky that hangs over the city like tiredness.

Then suddenly, for a few weeks,everything softens a little.

Windows remain open longer.People laugh from across the street.The parks fill with bodies stretched toward the sunas if warmth itself had just now remembered us.

And because it ends,we love it.

If London were twenty-seven degrees forever,we would stop noticing the light on the buildings.We would stop arriving early to parks.We would stop calling our friends saying,“You need to come outside.”

The same is true of fireworks.

No one would gather for themif they lasted all night.

No child would point toward the sky in wonderif the explosions never ceased.The beauty lives in the vanishing.

In the brief permissionto stand still beneath something burning.

And yet,how often do we ruin ourselvestrying to turn fireworks into sunlight?

A short weekend becomes a future.A conversation becomes destiny.A version of someone, glimpsed briefly and beautifully,becomes impossible to release from memory.

We fall in love most recklesslywith things untouched by ordinary life.

Spontaneous romances.Holiday destinations we never had to survive in.People we never had to know completely.

We remember the feelingand forget the conditions that created it.

The delayed flights.The lack of sleep.The fact that one of you would probably become unbearable by month three.

The hotel room with no responsibilities.The three-day escape from ourselves.The person who remained radiantbecause they left before reality arrived.

And afterwards,we compare everything honestto something that only survivedbecause it ended early.

But not all love arrives like fireworks.

Some things glow quietly.Slowly.Without asking to be admired.

There are people who will never set the sky on fire for you,but will sit beside you through winterwithout making you feel difficult to love.

Places that do not overwhelm you at first glance,but slowly become home.

Lives that would look unimpressive from far away,yet fit your soul exactly.

I think we should be carefulnot to worship intensitysimply because it burns brightly.

Some things are not meant to last forever.That does not make them failures.Sometimes the endingis the very thing that completes them.

The fireworks end.The smoke disappears into the night.The crowd walks home quieter than before.

And somehow,that is what stays with us.

Last Day, Seven Sisters

Wed, 31 Dec 2025 00:00:00 GMT

This year gave me more than I expected.Not everything I asked for,but enough to change the way I speak to myself.

I did many of the things I promised.And I abandoned others.Some were never fully in my hands.Some were.I know the difference now.

One of the small promises I kept postponing was simple:to go on a hike.

I always loved long walksDistance without urgency,time stretched thin enough to think clearly.And still, I delayed it.The same way we delay everything that matters.Not out of fear,but out of comfort.

So it waited until the last day of the year.Instead of starting slowly, sensibly,I chose a long route:Seven Sisters.

Six hours after I began,I am writing this with a phone on five percent,legs shaking,hands marked by plants I care not to name,mud on my clothes,no map worth trusting,no plan worth defending.

I came armed with nothing but a tripodand the belief (unreasonable, stubborn),that I would figure it out.

There were moments, many,where the path felt steeper than it had any right to be.Where my body asked questionsmy mind was too tired to answer.

I guess walking alone does that.It strips away the performance.There was no one to impress.No one to lean on.Only the next step.Only the next breath.Only me, reduced to what was real.

And maybe that’s why it had to be today.Not because the year required a finale,but because I did.A last refusal to postpone myself.

I am proud of myself.Not because of the distance.Not because of the views.But because I showed up unreadyand stayed

Because I learned again,that much of life is not waiting for permission.It is not waiting to feel prepared.It is not waiting for conditions to soften.

You can actually just do things.

Planning matters.Preparation matters.

But sometimes movement matters more.Sometimes you learn the terrainonly by bleeding a little on it.

So here’s to a new year,where I choose movement over postponement,and trust that beginningis already an act of faith.

The Beauty I Almost Missed

Sat, 26 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Not everything has to change my life.Some things are just soft moments that ask nothing of me.And maybe that’s enough.

Like the way my favourite hoodie holds the shape of my shoulders.Or the way sunlight crawls on the corner of my bed like it’s in no rush to be noticed.The sound my shoes make on empty streets.When a song I forgot I loved finds me again.

No one claps for these moments.They don’t get posted.They don’t end with a revelation.But they happen.

And when I pay attention,I realise how much of life is trying to love me quietly.

The warmth of a mug.A text that just says “home?”A breeze that moves my shirtjust enough to feel like a touch.Someone calling my name the way only they do.

This isn’t about gratitude.It’s not about healing.It’s just about noticing,that even on the days when nothing happens,something does.

And maybe the real miracleis that I was here to see it.

This Life

Fri, 11 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Some great poets say:in every life,in every work,in every corner of the universe,I will love you there.

And the romantic in mehonours that vow.But I say:in this life,in this hour,in this breath,I love you here.

Not in imagined lifetimes,but in the one whereI found you.

And that,to me,is greater.

A Season Love Couldn’t Reach You

Sat, 28 Jun 2025 00:00:00 GMT

You weren’t single.You were in hiding.

Not from love,but from what it might require.

They said you were guarded.That you needed time.But what you neededwas a reason to believethat time hadn’t already run out.

You called it standards.You called it self-worth.But it was fearwearing better clothes.

You built systems to keep love outand named them boundaries.But they were laws.Passed silently.Enforced daily.

Every gesturewas interrogated.Every kindness,a threat.

You flinched at softness.You smiled at distance.You dated from the edge of yourself,filtering every touchthrough the memory of the last bruise.

And so love came.But it never made it through the door.

Twelve locks.No key.

You memorised red flags,but forgot how to see green ones.You weren’t dating.You were ghost-hunting.

And the ghosts wore your pastlike perfume.

It wasn’t that love gave up.It just got tiredof proving it wasn’t the enemy.

But this isn’t about the person who hurt you.This is about the version of youthat never felt safe enough to be reached.

You don’t need to become more lovable.You need to become more open.More here.More whole.

You don’t need to chase.You need to unlock the doorand sit stilllong enoughto hear someone knock.

They Never Loved The Roots

Thu, 10 Apr 2025 00:00:00 GMT

In spring,your laughter held the sound of running water.You bloomed without effort.Light sat on your shoulderslike it had always belonged there.

The birds sang your arrival.The bees circled like worship.Every glance you gavewas mistaken for sunlight.

And they came with hands outstretched,with mouths full of admiration,as if they had found somethingeternal.

They praised the flowers,not knowingyou had buried pieces of yourselfto grow them.No one askedwhat the blooming cost.They did not stayfor the silenceafter the music.Then autumn arrived—as it always doesand your petals felllike soft confessionsonto the cold earth.The light shifted.Your branches stood bare.And suddenly,you were not what they remembered.Suddenly,you required patience.Stillness.A love that does not vanishat the sight of emptiness.But they only knew how to lovewhat opened.What performed.What gave without question.They did not love the soil in youonly the bloom.And so they left.Mistaking seasonfor self.But you—you are not spring trapped in a body.You are rootstwisting through stone.You are what surviveswhen everything elsehas fallen away.Let them go.Let them return to gardensthat do not grieve.You are still hereeven stripped bare.Even unspectacular.Even undone.And when the light returns,as it always doesyou will bloom again.Not for them.Not for praise.Only for the part of youthat never askedto be seen.

The Cling

Thu, 09 Jan 2025 00:00:00 GMT

It’s not always a needle,a glass bottle,a line drawn on a mirror.Sometimes, it’s the soft surrenderto a bag of crisps at midnight,the pull of another hollow embrace,the endless scroll,chasing the faint hum of belongingin strangers’ lives.

We cling—not because we want to,but because the weight of silencepresses too heavily on our chest.

Addiction whispers like an old friend,Her voice familiar,Her timing impeccable.“It’s easier this way,” she says,and for a moment,you believe it.

You fight,of course you fight.Not every day,but enough to call it trying.You stare down the craving,grapple with its shadow,only to feel its grip tighten,a tide pulling you underwith the force of knowingyou’ll come back.

And when you murmur,“I’m done with this,”She doesn’t shout—She chuckles, softly,as if to say,“You’ll be back. You always are.”

She knows the cracks you hide,the places your mind drifts towhen the worldfeels too sharp to bear.

Because the truth is,we’re all filling something:a hunger,a hollow,a silence too jagged to sit with.

And the pain of fighting—Agh, the pain—isn’t just in saying no.It’s in the after.In sitting with the emptinessthat no binge,no lover,no borrowed warmthcan ever touch.

But still,you fight.You falter,and you fight again.

Because somewhere,beneath the ache,you carry the smallest emberof beliefthat one day,Her tide will loosen its hold.

And you’ll learn to stand—steady,unclinging,no longer finding comfortin the weightthat once felt like home.

A Clean Slate

Fri, 03 Jan 2025 00:00:00 GMT

The past folds itself like tired wings,resting in shadows where time forgets.The page before you is white,soft as dawn,untouched by blame or regret.Begin here,where the air is still and kind,and the earth keeps no score.What you leave behindis not a weight—only a story that ends.No eyes hold you but His,no chains bind you but your own.Step gently.The ground aheadwaits to learn your name.

A Tortured Artist’s Guide to Joy

Wed, 18 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Life is meant for living. So live it.

It sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? But it’s not. Somewhere along the way, you convinced yourself that joy has to be earned. That fun, laughter, and lightness are luxuries reserved for some future version of yourself—the one who has it all together.

Not this version of you. Not the one who’s behind, struggling, grinding, or stuck.

You tell yourself, “I’m not there yet.” “I don’t deserve it yet.” As though happiness has a checklist. As though life only starts after you’ve solved everything.

But here’s the thing: life doesn’t wait for you to catch up. It doesn’t care if you’re behind, or tired, or weighed down by the pressure to prove something—to yourself, to the world. The clock keeps ticking, and while you’re busy withholding joy from yourself, the moments you could have claimed are slipping away.

You’re allowed to enjoy yourself, even if life isn’t perfect. You’re allowed to laugh, even when your heart feels heavy. You’re allowed to have fun, even if your to-do list is unfinished.

But I know the thought feels wrong. Like smiling ruins the carefully constructed image of your struggle. Like letting yourself be happy, even briefly, invalidates the hard work, the pain, the weight of everything you’re carrying.

Sometimes, you cling to the grind, the sadness, the struggle—because it gives you a sense of purpose. It’s part of your identity: the tortured artist, the relentless worker, the person who can handle it all and bears the weight of the world on their head. The one who doesn’t need joy because they’re too focused, too serious, too… locked in.

But the truth is, joy doesn’t undermine your struggle. It doesn’t erase the weight of your hard work. It doesn’t make your pain any less real.

Joy is the thing that makes the struggle bearable.

So here it is: PERMISSION.

Tell yourself this.

I give you permission to laugh.

I give you permission to smile.

I give you permission to mess up your carefully crafted seriousness with a moment of fun.

You don’t have to wait until everything is perfect. You don’t have to wait until you feel like you’ve earned it.

Life is happening right now. Not tomorrow.

Not when you’re better,

or more successful,

or healed,

or finished with the grind. RIGHT NOW.

The grind will still be there. The pain will wait for you. But joy? Joy doesn’t linger.

You have to grab it when it shows up, or it’s gone.

So let yourself have it. Dance, even if the world feels heavy. Laugh, even if things aren’t okay. Live, even if you’re not where you want to be yet.

You don’t have to deserve joy. You just have to let yourself feel it.

Happiness is Reserved for Those Who Do Not Think

Tue, 17 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Happiness belongs to those who live untroubled by thought. It is theirs alone—the ones who do not wonder, who do not ask. They pass through life like travelers with light luggage, unbothered by the weight of meaning.

They wake to the sound of birds and hear nothing but birds. I wake to the same sound and wonder how long birds have sung like this, whether they’ll still sing when I’m gone. They see the world as it is—bread as bread, water as water—and go on with their day. I pause at the sight of bread and think of how many hands it passed through, how the wheat grew, how the soil bore it, and who taught us to make it in the first place.

The ones who do not think are not lesser; they are simply freer. They carry no questions about life’s purpose, no grief for strangers they will never meet. War is not theirs to mourn. The universe does not demand their gaze. They do not concern themselves with the stars that no longer burn, or the rivers that will dry long after they are dust.

They laugh easily at jokes without dissecting their meaning. They love without the fear of impermanence—never sitting at the edge of their joy, waiting for it to vanish.

It is not their fault, this ease they carry. It is not mine, this weight I bear.

I do not remember when it began, this compulsion to think. To observe. To carry the world in my mind long after it has passed me by. I only know it is mine now. I sit with it, restless, watching as others move through the day—full, satisfied, content—while I pick apart the fabric of it all, thread by thread.

They are happy, not because the world is kind, but because they have chosen not to see. I cannot look away, and I’m not sure if I would want to.

The Strangers

Mon, 16 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Some don’t fall for love at all.They settle into its shadow,a place where loneliness feelseasier to bear when shared.What begins as a casual dance,a filling of empty hours,grows roots in silence.Not affection,but a strange inertia that binds them,as if the absence of dislikeis enough to pass for care.They lie side by side,facing opposite walls,breathing through the quiet—because to say “I don’t love you”would tear open what little they’ve built.The laughter is muted,the arguments dull.They don’t ache for each other,and yet,they stay.For some, presence alone becomes a comfort.To have someone—anyone—is proof they are still seen,still desired enough to not disappear entirely.And so they walk side by side,strangers in step,navigating a lifeneither of them wantsbut neither will leave.Perhaps it is fear—of silence too loud to bear,of nights spent only with themselves.Perhaps it is habit—the human way of holding on,even when the grip bruises the skin.They endure,not out of passion,but because leavingfeels like work,and stayingfeels like less.What they lose is harder to measure—not a heartbreak,not a tragedy,but the slow erosion of meaning,the quiet death of longing.And when it ends,it does not shatter.It dissolves.A dull conclusion to a storythat was never written in full.Yet they look back,somehow still haunted—not by love,but by the hollowness of its absence.For even empty spacescan leave their scars.

Romantics

Sun, 08 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Romantics seldom get happy endings. The thrill of cliff diving is quickly met by horrors at the bottom. To love as a romantic is to court catastrophe.

What starts as a delicate thrill, a skip of the heart at a glance soon swells into an obsession that consumes all else.

The object of desire becomes an idol before which the romantic readily sacrifices their dreams, their stability, their sense of self.

One by one, the foundations of a balanced life erode, washed away by an unrelenting tide of passion.

Calm waters turn to raging rapids, sweeping away reason and restraint. Lovers cling to each other as they careen towards the precipice, heedless of the jagged rocks below, lost in a fantasy that they alone exist in the world. Their singular focus makes them blind to the gathering storm.

And when at last they meet the inevitable shattered end, the romantic is left hollow, far below where they started.

For them, love's wreckage is a tragedy etched into their soul. While others heal and move on, the romantic continues to pick at the scab, cherishing the scar it leaves behind. A badge of honour that proves the depths of their devotion.

In bleak nights to come, the scent, the memory of lost love lingers like a ghost refusing to relinquish its hold. A siren song beckoning the romantic to once more dive headlong into waters that drowned them before. Unlearning the lessons of the past, they seek to reclaim that which destroyed them.

Self-destruction becomes the only destination for romantics who yield again and again to love's spell. Hope fades that the next union will be the one to last, to validate the sacrifices made. And yet they cannot resist love's call, moths forever throwing themselves at the flame.

The shipwrecks, when they come, are almost a relief. A denouement to the drama that gives shape to an empty life. For in the throes of passion lived and lost, the romantic finds their tragic purpose.

An ode to the sheer expanse of human feeling. Another chapter etched into the anthology of their irrevocably damaged heart.

Nature's Symphony

Sun, 01 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

The lilies don't beg for sunshine,The barley don't beg for dew,The stars don't beg for moonlight,The ocean doesn't beg for the tide.

The stream doesn't beg for a course,The desert doesn't beg for the sand,The trees don't beg for the rain,The glove doesn't beg for a hand.

The sun doesn't beg for the morning,The moon doesn't beg for the night,The earth doesn't beg for tilling,The redwood doesn't beg for her height.

The fish don't beg for the sea,The flowers don't beg for blooming,The bees don't beg for their honey,The butterfly doesn't beg for beauty.

The lion doesn't beg for its roar,The elephant doesn't beg for strength,The osprey doesn't beg to soar,The twins don't beg for a friend.

Nature doesn't beg for attention,It exists and thrives on its own,Yet here I am, seeking validation,You've left me lost and all alone.

2000s Love

Fri, 29 Nov 2024 00:00:00 GMT

There’s a glow in my mind,cold, blue, unblinking,where faces shift faster than I can hold them,and silence is just the hum of scrolling.

You sit somewhere,your fingers tracing a screen,sending words that land without weight,shaped by algorithms,delivered in bubbles that never pop.

There is no jukebox here,only playlists built to match a moodI don’t feel.Songs loop endlessly,but they don’t play for us.

I watch how your face reflects the light,pixelated, paused mid-laugh,and wonderif love should feel this distant—carefully programmed,filtered smooth,a connection just clear enough to miss.

I was born for it,this 2000s kind of love,but sometimes I wonderif it’s why we’re so far apart,why finding youfeels like reaching for a handthat’s always somewhere else.

70s Love

Fri, 29 Nov 2024 00:00:00 GMT

There’s a booth in my mind,red vinyl, split at the seams,where knees touch like a secret,and the air hums of coffee and sugar.

You sit across from me,fingers tracing circles on a chipped mug,your smile loose,like it’s been waiting all night to unfold.

The jukebox flickers in the corner,soft enough to let us stay lost in each other,loud enough to remind usthis moment isn’t ours alone.

I watch how the neon spills across your face,pink bleeding into gold,and think,this is how love should feel—close,unhurried,and warm enough to make the world outside disappear.

I wasn’t born for it,this 70s kind of love,but sometimes I wonderif I carry it anyway,a simpler achefor the kind of lifewhere finding youwas as easy as walking into a diner.

What If

Sun, 02 Jun 2024 00:00:00 GMT

What if you sleptWhat if you dreamedAnd what ifIn your dreamYou went to paradiseAnd there plucked a strange & beautiful flowerAnd what ifWhen you awokeYou had the flower in your handWhat then?

Heart's Halt

Sat, 01 Jun 2024 00:00:00 GMT

I would sit at the shore and count the grains of the earth till you returned,Even the waves have formed a more trustworthy companion in your absence.

The tides come and go, a rhythmic dance,A constant embrace with the shore.But my heart remains fixed in a waiting stance,Wishing for yours to come back once more.

The sand whispers secrets of love's ebb and flow,Of reunions that always take place.But my longing lingers, with no place to go,In this solitude, I cannot keep pace.

So I wait and I watch, for the day you appear,Bringing back the light to my eyes.I'll keep counting these grains of the earth,Hoping that someday, our love will arise,And like the waves, we'll find our constant grace

Essence II

Wed, 17 Apr 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Why do flowers bloom, only to wither and die?Why does the sun paint the sky, then bid farewell?Why do stars shine so bright, then fade into the night?Why do we give our hearts, only to have them shattered and cast aside?

Why do empires rise, only to crumble and fall?Why do we erect monuments, knowing they will one day be sand?Why do we chase dreams, even as they lose their gleam?Why does everything come to an end, like a story with a final page to turn?

Why are we but fleeting sparks in this cosmic dark?Why do we strive to leave our mark, before our light goes out?Why are our lives but whispers, echoing in the vast chambers of time?Why do we waltz to the melody of a universe that will one day be still?

Why should we embrace the beauty, in the face of certain loss?Why should we cherish each moment, knowing life will run its course?Why should we love, dream, and hope, when all will turn to dust?Because in the end, it's all we have, this fleeting gift of us.

Essence I

Mon, 01 Jan 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Why do flowers bloom only to wither away with time?