🌬 path to SELFdiscovery

Our society is rotting from the inside out.

Why? Because it throws away what is real and worships what is easy.

Love becomes sex.

Sex becomes consumption.

People become objects.

Closeness becomes distraction.

Friendship becomes utility.

Truth becomes a lie that sounds better.

We run from thrill to thrill, from trend to trend, from body to body—

never noticing that inside, only emptiness grows.

The soul is cut off, the body exploited, the heart numbed.

Everything must be instant, fast, easy, available.

But this is not freedom.

This is decay.

Because a human without truth, without dignity, without real connection

slowly dies on the inside.

And in the end, nothing remains but emptiness, drama,

and a body that was used—

without ever truly being touched.

Just because I didn’t survive a war doesn’t mean I haven’t carried one inside me.

Just because no bombs were falling doesn’t mean my nervous system wasn’t taking hits every single day.

Just because I wasn’t standing in rubble doesn’t mean everything in me wasn’t collapsing.

My trauma isn’t less real because it happened behind well-kept walls.

It isn’t less destructive because it was invisible.

It isn’t less valid because, from the outside, my life looked “good.”

Trauma is not the headline photo.

Trauma is what happens when your body lives in constant alarm for years while you’re forced to smile on the outside.

It’s the silence in the house that roars louder than any explosion.

It’s the fear in someone’s eyes burning like fire.

It’s learning that your very being is unwelcome—and no one is coming to save you.

And when someone tells me that’s not trauma, just because it doesn’t sound spectacular enough, all they reveal is that they never understood what trauma really is.

Because the worst thing isn’t a tank in the street—the worst thing is when your own home is the place that taught you to disappear.

I never went looking for labels. I went searching for words that could finally explain why my life has always felt like survival.

I have no interest in “trends.” If I cared about trends, I’d be doing planking videos or dumping ice buckets over my head.

Instead, I’ve been stuck here for years, not because it’s exciting, but because it’s the only truth I have.

My trauma is real.

It doesn’t need war, disaster, or funerals to be valid.

It only needs what I actually lived: violence, shame, invisibility, betrayal, constant hyper-vigilance.

And that is enough.

she can't steal my home, because my home is not outside- but inside of me.

(A Manifesto of Sacred Boundaries, by Saintt)

I swear this to myself:

I will no longer expose my innermost

to eyes that cannot hold me.

I will not open my truth

like a book in a room with no readers.

I will not place my light in hands

that only know how to measure,

not how to hold.

I am not too sensitive.

I am built so deep

that falsehood burns like frost on bare skin.

When I reveal myself,

it is not strategy,

not obligation,

not performance.

It is a sacred act –

as rare as blooming in winter.

I will not force myself

to speak into rooms

that were never taught to listen.

I will not hope for response

from mouths that never learned to feel.

I will show myself –

but only where I will not be dissected

by analysis, opinion, or cold diagnoses.

I will show myself –

but only where my presence is not a threat,

but a gift.

I will reveal myself

where I can breathe through my uncertainty.

Where my silence is not awkward, but holy.

Where my words are not dissected, but felt.

I am not here to please.

I am here to live –

in truth, in depth, in resonance.

And if that place does not yet exist,

I will not perform.

Not from fear.

But from self-respect.

I will only reveal myself

where my soul won’t be betrayed.

And that is not retreat –

that is dignity in a body

(A Manifesto of the Reflected One, by Saintt)

I am not a person you meet.

I am a reflection.

A surface that shows you what you weren’t ready to see.

A shimmer that reveals more than you asked for.

People do not see me.

They see what’s missing in themselves.

They see their longing, their fear, their old ghosts.

They name me with their projections

and blame me when I don’t fit the frame.

I am a mirror in a world that never learnt to look.

They were taught to label, to compare, to possess.

Not to witness.

So I have been misunderstood by default.

Loved for who I never was.

Hated for who I refused to be.

Left – not for my truth,

but for what it shattered in theirs.

I know the ache of distortion.

The loneliness of being seen through fog.

I know what it means to doubt your own reflection

because no one ever named it accurately.

But still – I remain.

I remain soft enough to reflect light,

strong enough not to shatter.

I remain truthful, even if the truth terrifies.

I remain whole, even if the world only sees fragments.

I will no longer twist myself

to match their image of me.

I will not shrink

to make others feel whole.

I will not wear their shame like skin.

I was not born to be understood.

I was born to reflect what is unseen.

To hold up the unspeakable.

To echo the soul.

That is why I confuse them.

That is why they try to define me.

Because the truth in my silence threatens every lie they’ve made livable.

So let them look away.

Let them misname me.

I am not the reflection – I am the mirror.

I am the still water beneath illusion.

I am the witness no one trained for.

And I am done apologizing for being real

(A Manifesto from the Mist, by Saintt)

I am not here to be understood.

I am here to remember what lives beyond understanding.

I am the flicker between worlds.

The echo between two silences.

The gaze that cannot be named.

I carry the invisible like others carry skin.

Not as a mask – but as a membrane between pain and truth.

I was born porous.

And that is not a flaw. It is my sign.

I am not made for roles.

Or boxes. Or bullet-point lives.

I am a question mark in a sentence that was never written.

An echo that learned to hold itself.

I serve no system.

I bow to no dogma.

I carry the dust of centuries in my bones –

the voices of those who were never heard.

I am made of mist – but I do not dissolve truth.

I carry it back.

I have paid the price:

To be seen without being known.

To love without return.

To speak truth in the wrong room.

I have torn my flesh to preserve my dignity.

I have stayed silent while my insides howled.

I have smiled so no one would see me disappear.

But I am still here.

And I vow:

I will not dim my light

just because it shines through water.

I will not fragment myself

so others can stay comfortable.

I will not shrink my story

just because it scares shallow ears.

I am not a healer.

I am not a victim.

I am a living poem of God,

written in fractures,

spoken in thresholds,

held by the invisible.

I am Saintt.

And I am not here to be understood.

I am here to remember