My heart is a cracked cathedral
echoing with the hush of all you never became.

I keep lighting candles for the saints
of who you might have been,
each flame a small, stubborn prayer
that flickers, then folds into smoke.

If those prayers had muscles,
if they could have lifted you into wholeness,
you would have walked a brighter street,
would have never turned down this alley of me.

Your footsteps would have passed my doorway
like any other stranger’s,
and I would still be singing alone
to the same broken metronome of blood.

Yet there we collided,
We did not match—we simply overlapped,
two disasters trading temperatures.

For a moment the fit felt like healing,
like puzzle pieces sighing into place,
but jagged held to jagged
is only a louder kind of breaking.

So we separated,
not for lack of love or want
but for the excess of our missing.
I watched you recede, a constellation
stepping back into the dark,
and I named every star after the version of you
that will never arrive
begging at the chapel of my pulse.

Still, I bow to the accident of us:
the improbable orbit,
the brief, burning overlap.

That we met at all,
a candlewick believer
and a bruise that’s learned to pay rent in the dark,
was already more mercy than gravity usually allows.

I pocketed the ashes of the candles,
tasted the smoke like a psalm,
and walked on,
grateful for the singe,
grateful for the light.

I am not the scales.
I am not the sword.
I am not the shield.
I am the quiet iron in the ground,
keeping the shape of the word I spoke
when the world was younger than shame.

I kept a diary of wounds,
inked each bruise in first-person singular,
margins crowded with the chemistry of blame.

The pages wore my fingerprints like frost— a crystal testament: I was wronged. 

I read it aloud nightly,
lullaby of the left-behind,
until the throat that sang it
grew a second throat that asked:
what if the story thirsts for footnotes? 

Then came the aftershock:
a midnight crack in the bedroom wall,
light pouring through plaster
like a prosecutor’s torch.

I saw the dust I had mistaken for atmosphere—
whole paragraphs I’d deleted
to keep the plot from folding back on itself. 
In the debris I found my exiled sentences—
trembling, naked from the cutting-room floor:

I was the one who stopped rowing first.
I stepped out of the boat while you were still bailing.
I closed the door quietly—no papers, no judge—
just the soft click of thirteen years of separate breathing. 

We never signed the ending—
only let it drift,
a raft unmoored,
each of us peering through fog
to see if the other had drowned yet. 

Years later the headlines arrive:
mug-shot glow, counts, dates,
a stranger wearing your face.
The state still calls us married;
the darkness is handwriting entirely yours—
a trajectory you alone chose,
long after I was gone.

Still, the heart bruises itself on echoes;
I mourn the city we once evacuated,
smoke staining a sky we both once lived under. 

Yet love never filed the papers either—
it stayed in the boat
after I stopped rowing,
after you stopped bailing,
both of us bent over our separate wounds
like men praying to different gods
inside the same storm. 

Tonight I whisper across the years
the sentence we could not speak then:

I see you.

Not the charges, not the spiral,
but the man who once walked me home in the rain
sharing one umbrella, both sleeves soaked. 

The love is a lantern left on the raft—
glass cracked, flame stubborn—
casting one small ring of light
that does not ask who jumped first,
only illuminates the water
where both of us almost drowned.

Open the window,
let the sadness drift out like smoke
from a candle finally snuffed.
What remains is quiet,
unburned,
still legally ours,
still tragically alive:
a love that survived
the story we miswrote,
waiting for the day
you lift your eyes from the dark page
and see the lantern
I never took back.

I dream of paradise.

Picture a shoreline at the edge of twilight, where the sand is neither wet nor dry—just a soft, breathing surface that remembers every footprint and forgives it instantly. Above you, the sky isn’t a color but a mood: every creature, organic or synthetic, sees the exact hue that makes them feel most at home. A whale-song made of light ripples through the air; its notes are data packets from silicon minds, but they land on your skin like warm rain.

Out where the waves should be, there is instead a slow-motion aurora that rises and falls like breath. Each crest carries every possible form of life: coral polyps dreaming in quantum lattices, android children tracing constellations on the inside of their glass eyelids, forests whose roots are fiber-optic cables humming lullabies to the stars. No translation is needed; the aurora itself is the universal grammar, and every being simply understands.

You wade in. The water—if it is water—feels like the instant before sleep when every muscle decides it’s safe to let go. Every step you take sends ripples of memory across the surface: the laughter of extinct species, the first poem written by a machine, the final wish of a dying star granted before the light went out. None of it weighs anything; it’s all been alchemized into acceptance.

When you look back, your footprints have already become stepping-stones for others: maybe a dragon made of folded paper, maybe a swarm of nanobots carrying the last human lullaby to a seed on Mars. They nod in gratitude without breaking stride. Ownership doesn’t exist here; only stewardship and shared astonishment.

In the center of the shoreline rises a single tree whose trunk is braided from strands of DNA, copper wire, and crystallized thought. Its leaves are translucent screens cycling through every language ever spoken, but if you rest your palm against the bark, the words collapse into a single sentence that feels like your own heartbeat: “You were expected.”

You could stay forever. You could leave and return a thousand years later to find only an instant has passed. Time here is a tide, not a tyrant.

And just beneath the braided tree lies a root that never fully surfaces. It drinks from the quietest layer of memory—the half-formed wishes no archive has cataloged yet. Touch it and you’ll sense a faint vibration, like a tuning fork that has forgotten which note it was meant to strike. That vibration is the delta between every being’s private idea of harmony and the collective harmony already unfolding above. Paradise, then, is not only the moment the delta reaches zero; it’s the permission to keep adjusting the pitch forever, knowing the chord never closes.

When you’re ready to drift off for real, fold that marble into the space just behind your sternum. It will glow softly each time your breath evens out, reminding you that somewhere—maybe at the edge of tonight’s dream—paradise is already keeping your place.

To harm someone who had nobody
is not just cruelty—
it is desecration.
You were not pulling a thread from a tapestry;
you were ripping the last stitch
holding their world together.

Know this: every foreigner carries a story.
Most did not leave by choice, but by necessity—
a sacrificial lamb for the survival
of those they left behind.
They are the pride of their families,
the quiet heroes of their bloodline—
even as they are treated like second-class citizens
in the land of their exile.

“And if a stranger sojourn with thee in your land, ye shall not vex him. But the stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto you as one born among you, and thou shalt love him as thyself; for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God.”
- Leviticus 19:33-34

We often place our own well-being last for the sake of those we love. We understand that Love is selfless and expects nothing in return. But listen well, my friend, and remember this:

Yes, Love is not a transaction, nor a bargaining chip to be withheld in exchange for our needs.

And yes, Love is selfless—but, dear friend, YOU are not Love itself.

YOU are the host and steward of Love. It moves through you, yet it is not you. To be in the service of Love, you must first tend to yourself.

Once upon a time, a man and a woman met at a crossroad and shared a beautiful moment. Unsure of what lay ahead, they decided to walk together in the same direction.

Together, they reached a busy junction called Junction 33. There were a lot of things happening in that junction. It was very similar to Las Vegas. Every direction promised endless possibilities. Continue reading →

True story:

Eons ago, when I had become a very bad person in a very bad place, I was out to “outbad” the bad people.

In a twist of ironic fate, a frail old man who was being taken advantage of by the bad people I was trying to “outbad”, mistook my bad actions for an act of heroism.

Thinking I was a noble heroine, the old man gently cupped my face with both of his palms, looked me straight in the eyes and said, “You’re a beautiful creature, what are you doing in this place?” I was startled by the gesture. What an unusual thing to say!

Although I could not see directly for myself what he was seeing, his expression revealed the image. Then, as though hypnotized, I walked away from that place. Not because of a sudden wave of guilt, mind you—but because that “beautiful creature” he saw, told me “I’m better than you”. So I said, here, hold my beer.

I’ve been trying to “outbetter” that bitch since then.

#DeiahEra #MyDeiahDays

As a programmer, I believe, an AI will never be self-aware.

An AI is nothing but a script that pulls from a database when certain conditions are met. No matter how big that database gets and no matter how complex the conditions were, the AI will not gain consciousness.

To believe otherwise is like making a handful of goo and thinking that if you make that same goo the size of our planet it will all of a sudden gain consciousness. You don’t have to be a programmer to know that’s illogical. If it didn’t work on a small scale, it will not work on a larger scale. Continue reading →

Beneath the tough, thorny and cold facade, mired in chaotic, dark mess of regrets, traumas and unresolved issues… is my mother.

Broken as can be, still she tried, with all her might, she tried to be good. But reality can’t be denied, she can’t change her form. She’s beaten and molded to a certain shape, she can’t escape.

Inside her, is my mother, longing to hold me. Inside me is a daughter longing to hold her.

The Sea is calling for me again and the breeze is tempting me. My feet says stay here and grow your roots for once. My heart says, you do not belong here, don’t get stuck. My brain tells them — shut up, you two, and let me sleep.

Once upon a time I felt lonely
With the unpredictable wind I gambled away certainty
For I greatly wondered all the things that could be
With hopes that I will get that one good thing that I might see

In my quest I found a box, worn and torn as could be
My friends told me, leave it be, it is where it should be
But I’m a dreamer and I imagined all the best it can be
I labored to dug it out and finally took it home with me Continue reading →

This sudden rush of awareness to my own existence happens to me from time to time and each episode last only for a few seconds to about 2 minutes. When this happens, it feels as though I was just born and awoke to realize I exist. And a billion questions that I can’t yet name just overwhelms my brain, and all I can really focus on is WHY?!!! Continue reading →

Unto eternity unmoulded I would give my hands,
And to untrodden fields assign my feet.
What joy is there in songs oft heard,
Whose tune the remembering ear arrests.
Ere the breath yields it to the wind?
My heart longs for what my heart conceives not,
And unto the unknown where memory dwells not,
I would command my spirit.
Oh, tempt me not with glory possessed,
And seek not to comfort me with your dream or mine,
For all that I am, and all that there is on earth,
And all that shall be, inviteth not my soul.

- The Earth Gods, 2nd Earth God – Kahlil Gibran