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i think one of the greatest struggle when it comes to love is to not letting yourself be loved. do you flinch too?

p.s. this one just popped out of my mind as i read 'tender is the night' by fitzgerald.

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i read a quote about this recently from unknown and i relate so much.

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how do you think of a title?

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hi there, i want you to know that your poetry is beautiful and that you are seen. keep writing always

Thank you for your kind words. It means a lot to be reminded that what we share can reach others in ways we may not always see.

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Showing Up

There are days when I wake up with a heaviness I can't explain. No tragedy, no storm, just an invisible weight pressing on my chest. It's on those mornings that getting out of bed feels like a small, private victory. I used to think strength looked loud, fierce, full of fire. But lately, I've been learning that sometimes, strength is just showing up. Not for applause, not even for progress but simply because I promised myself I would

I don't always believe that things will get better. There are moments I sit in silence, knees tucked into my chest, trying to quiet the war inside my mind. Doubt, fear, anxiety—they visit often. But what surprises me is how often I still stand up, shaky knees and all, and whisper, "Let's try again." Not because I'm sure, but because I'm still here. Because even when I can't trust the world, I'm trying to trust myself. I've learned that showing up doesn't always mean being the best in the room. Sometimes, it just means entering the room at all. It means turning in a paper even if it's not perfect, walking into class when your heart is racing, speaking even if your voice shakes. It means not giving up when no one is watching. Quiet resilience. Steady faith. A soft, stubborn kind of hope.

There's a version of me who's always trying to disappear, who doesn't want to be seen until I've figured it all out. But I'm slowly learning that growth doesn’t wait for perfection. Healing doesn't ask for permission. Life happens in the middle of fear and fumbling. And if I only showed up when I felt ready, I'd never move at all. Sometimes I have to say it out loud to myself: "It's going to be okay." Not because I know it for sure, but because the sound of my own voice gives me something to hold on to. A lifeline, even if thin. A reminder that I'm trying and trying matters. Trying counts. And honestly, I think that's what courage really is. Not the absence of fear, but showing up in the presence of it. Still brushing your hair. Still answering messages. Still doing the mundane things that tether you to the world when your mind wants to drift.

Courage is continuing, even when it's not dramatic or impressive. Even when no one claps for you. There have been days I wanted to give up on my goals. On people. On myself. But I stayed. I stayed through tired mornings, silent nights, and all the empty spaces in between. And somewhere along the way, the voice that said "I can't do this" softened. It didn't disappear, but it made room for a new voice. One that says, "Maybe I can." And that maybe has carried me.

I've started honoring the small wins: brushing my teeth when I'm anxious. Eating lunch when I feel numb. Replying to a message when I'd rather isolate. These little things feel like nothing, but I've come to see them as proof of life. Proof of effort. Proof that I'm still here. And no, I don't always feel strong. But I do feel human. Messy, real, and trying. I'm no longer waiting to become a perfect version of myself before I start living. I'm learning that just being, just showing up is more than enough for now. So here I am, whispering it again: it's going to be okay. Not because I know what's coming, but because I've made it this far. And maybe, just maybe, that's reason enough to keep going.

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From February 16 to 17, 1913 Letters to Felice by Franz Kafka First published : 1973

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Some recommendations I've read lately that truly moved me and somewhat touched my writings (aside from my life wreckage and ofc, e.e. cummings): Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur, The Sun and Her Flowers by Rupi Kaur, The Lover's Dictionary by David Levithan, Love Her Wild by Atticus Poetry, No Matter the Wreckage by Sarah Kay, Pillow Thoughts by Courtney Peppernell, In Blackwater Woods by Mary Oliver, and Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong <3

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God I spent so long, really my entire adolescence and adult life being afraid to admit that I loved certain things or wanted certain things; worrying that the things I wanted were not for me and that the things I loved were trite and commonplace. I didn’t dare admit to either emotion, though that did not render me free of them. Then today, finally, I read a little Mary Oliver in the quiet space of my room and realised that things are very simple. The legitimacy of what you love is only in the feeling of it, which, aside from curious examination, you need not defend in front of anybody and least of all yourself. There are many complex things that can benefit from critique and analysis but to love a harmless thing, and feel that you love it somewhere deep inside, is best left as it appears, and pursued for the feeling of it and accompanied only by soft thought, occasionally.

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this is lowkey inspired by rosé song 'toxic till the end'.

anyway, just a little life update: hopefully i can still write more poems and prose, and shared it with you lovies once school year start :(

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E. E. Cummings, The Complete Poems: 1904-1962

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“Poetry is something more philosophic and serious than history; for poetry speaks of what is universal, history of what is particular.”

— Aristotle, Poetics

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