Ari

My words

never arrive

the way I mean them to.

They scatter

like startled birds,

becoming

more feeling

than language.

I lose them

before I can hold them,

offering you

only fragments—

sentences

stitched together

by trembling.

Yet somehow,

you understand.

Or perhaps

you do not.

Perhaps

you simply listen

until my chaos

sounds like a language.

I have never learned

how to speak

my heart

without breaking it apart.

But you—

you have always been

fluent

in my silences.

Each night,

I think of you

so I might dream

of your face.

Yet even sleep

denies me.

Perhaps it knows

what I cannot bear—

that even if

you glanced my way,

by morning,

you would not remember

Do not mourn

the man who turned.

Mourn instead

the world

that asked love

to walk

without doubt.

For the Orpheus

who never looked back

is not the Orpheus

who would have crossed

the threshold

of the dead.

Only a heart

that feared

one final silence

would descend

into the underworld—

and only such a heart

would break

They say dreams are born in the quiet hours of sleep, beneath blankets of starlight and borrowed moons.

Perhaps they are.

But I have always loved the dreams that arrive in daylight, their pockets full of horizons, their hands stained with possibility.

The ones that perch on windowsills at dawn, whispering through the cracks of ordinary mornings, turning the mundane into something worth believing in.

A wish is a bird content to circle the sky.

A dream is the wind beneath its wings.

It does not ask to be admired from afar. It asks to be followed.

Across uncertain roads. Through seasons of doubt. Toward destinations that exist first in the heart before they ever appear on a map.

And so I carry mine like a lantern against the dark, cupping its fragile light between hopeful hands.

Not because I know where it will lead, but because some callings are meant to be trusted before they are understood.

Perhaps that is the truest kind of dreaming.

Not the kind that visits in sleep and fades with the morning tide,

but the kind that lingers in your chest like a compass, pulling you toward distant shores, until one day you realize

the dream was never a place you were trying to reach.

It was a river,

I don't think love failed just because it hurt.

Some losses are loud. Others happen so quietly that you only notice them when you catch yourself wondering where your laughter went, where your dreams wandered off to, or when you stopped feeling like yourself.

I kept believing that if I tried harder, loved deeper, or held on a little longer, things would eventually feel right. But somewhere in the process of preserving a relationship, I began neglecting my relationship with myself.

This is not a story about blame. It is about remembering. Remembering the woman who had her own voice, her own passions, and her own light. The woman who felt alive, curious, and free.

I'll take you there one day. Don't forget the blue paint.

A rainbow is sunlight passing through a thousand tiny prisms of rain, revealing colors it carried all along.

Maybe that's why I think of you.

You do not ask the world for permission to be beautiful— you simply exist, and ordinary days bloom into color.

I run through burnout, self-doubt, and days when my emotions feel impossible to untangle.

Some days, showing up is the hardest part. Yet I keep running—not to escape myself, but to find myself.

Each step teaches me that self-love is not a destination but a practice: choosing kindness over criticism, patience over perfection, and growth over giving up.

Because before I can love someone else fully, I must first learn how to love myself completely.

And so I keep moving forward, mile by mile, becoming the person I need most. 🏃‍♀️🤍