solitude—true presence, is not the death of meaning. It is the birthplace of it.

I am a thousand almosts, held together by hesitation; a gallery of repainted selves.

They said choice would taste like freedom, but not that it’s an addictive sweetness. One that rots the stomach, until even our gut-instincts lose their sense of direction. We do not just suffer from an abundance of options, we suffer from a lack of commitment.

They said choice would taste like freedom, but not that it’s an addictive sweetness. One that rots the stomach, until even our gut-instincts lose their sense of direction. We do not just suffer from an abundance of options, we suffer from a lack of commitment.

Before our feet touch the earth, our eyes have already wandered into someone else’s world. We didn’t notice when we stopped living and began watching others. We’ve become spectators of everyone and participants in nothing of our own.

I’m haunted by the time I’ve given to this never-ending feed. How many sacred moments have I missed, peering into someone else’s backyard; only to rip up my own seedlings and plant what they had sown?

Our skin aches for mornings that begin with the light of dawn and not that of a screen. Before our feet touch the earth, our eyes have already wandered into someone else’s world. We didn’t notice when we stopped living and began watching others. We’ve become spectators of everyone and participants in nothing of our own.

Of how too much possibility can fray the edges of a person.

I have become a graveyard of personas. Restless in the presence of simple pleasures. Always terrified of settling. I used to think I was failing because I hadn’t arrived anywhere, but I’ve simply been lost in the contradiction of different maps, wandering too many paths.