These last couple of years have felt like a roller coaster because I didn’t have the security of knowing. Not in a lack of intuition way but in a lack of clarity way. I was forced to interpret silence as it’s own language. Instead of just hearing the invisible, I began to decipher it. What was once crazy became premonition through whimsy. The little led the way to reveal a lot. Small became loud and big became distant. Senses intertwining to create a whole new experience.

Tucking away my thoughts for later, trying to explore an alternate reality, living through the lense of the poet. That was my life. The invisible became a freshly discovered galaxy. Emotions became vehicles to uncharted territories, some were abandoned by forgotten memories.

There are very few things that I’ve kept from my childhood. I don’t have a childhood home, a museum of a life lived. I am the living fossil of experiences, an archive of destinations. A database with missing files, a catalog with torn pages, a gallery with missing prints, an ancient site that requires interpretation to understand.

I grew up not trusting my mind. I don’t remember. The gaslighting amplified the doubt, stories rewritten to manipulate me. Lies sprinkled with enough truth, capitalizing on my innate sense of justice as well as my kindness. I didn’t have a chance of knowing.

I had a lot of catching up to do, dissociating creating a backlog of pain. Healing my body required me to dig up old graves. Past emotions I buried, a lag of grief that’s been pending, now downloaded and saved.

Rest is a process of alchemy. When everything becomes too much, rest is beneath the pleas of release. To rest is to trust. Trust in your journey. Trust in your intuition. Trust in the flow of your own creativity. Trust that where you are is the same as where you're headed, meaning that now is necessary for the next present.

I see what we’re creating when I recognize myself as the muse. When I devote myself to me as a creation. When I honor the ability to live. When I experience the reality that needed to exist. It’s not about wanting more from life, I want more from me.

Abandoned young, hope feels like a fairy tale. There are parts of me that sink into fantasy and there are others that hiss at light, feeling threatened by the possibility ending in disappointment again. These ruins have become home and I've managed to transform them into a place of comfort.

Agony shows me my limitations and teaches me that there is a depth to my love I previously knew nothing about. It reveals a glimpse into what I'm capable of. It reveals my capacity to process pain. Do I settle in this resistance or do I accept that I want more?

What is struggle but the beginning of a fairy tale? A hero’s journey or the depth of a villain? Struggling is storytelling, the conceptualization of what we are and the ability to consciously create a physical reality. Do you understand how magical this all is?

All the pain I ignored for years trying to keep my head above water is loud and present. I can't ignore it anymore, I have to accept. The pain has to go somewhere; where do I want it to go? How do I transmute despair into hope?

I've always wanted adventure and any opportunity to create it, I did. When I couldn't explore the world around me, I began to explore the world within me. I gave discovery a new meaning, one that was built through experience and allowed me to stretch what adventure can feel like.

You aren't your circumstances. You aren't what happened to you. You aren't how people treat you. A mantra, a reminder that I am never fully formed; I am constantly created. I don't have to punish myself for being alive. Accepting the fact that I am so important, I exist.

I've created this because I've been hoarding my thoughts, my visions, my insights. I've gained a lot from others who decided to share themselves so who am I to break that chain of creativity? Who am I but another version of you?