Scarf? Yes, because that's what goes around the head
LOVE'S THIRST
LOVE'S THIRST
How many times must I
kneel at love's empty well;
panting, waiting for its
echo to taste like water?
How many times must
I thirst for your name,
before my breath finds
its own rhythm again?
The well is dry. I know this.
So why do my hands still
rise to cup the air?
How many times must I
kneel at love's empty well;
panting, waiting for its
echo to taste like water?
How many times must
I thirst for her name,
before my breath finds
its own rhythm again?
The well is dry. I know this.
So why do my hands still
rise to cup the air?
How many times must I
kneel at love's empty well;
panting, waiting for its
echo to taste like water?
How many times must
I thirst for her name,
before my breath finds
its own rhythm again?
The well is dry. I know this.
So why do my hands still
rise to cup the air?
THE THRESHOLD
THE THRESHOLD
Contentment rests on a knife’s edge,
with too little pressure, and it slips
into the valley of surrender.
Ambition climbs with hands of fire,
too tight a grip, and the summit
burns to ash.
I walk the wire between enough
and more, measuring my worth
in the weight of my open palm.
The art, I think, is to hunger like the
ocean; always moving, always full.
Contentment rests on a knife’s edge,
with too little pressure, and it slips
into the valley of surrender.
Ambition climbs with hands of fire,
too tight a grip, and the summit
burns to ash.
I walk the wire between enough
and more, measuring my worth
in the weight of my open palm.
The art, I think, is to hunger like the
ocean; always moving, always full.
THE ART OF DEPTH
THE ART OF DEPTH
The world skims surfaces like
dragonflies on the waters, dare to dive!
You were born to drown, not in noise, but
in the nectar of slow silences, in books
that crack you open, and conversations that
leave fingerprints on your bones.
Let them call you too much: too still (for sitting
with silence until it sings), too intense (mastering
one thing until it masters you back), and too
obsessed with love’s irrational devotion.
While they race, sink deeper!
Walk slowly enough to watch light rewrite the
world between breaths. Ask volumes of terrifying
questions and Let beauty ruin you regularly.
Plant your roots where others fear to linger;
in the rich, dark soil of love and passion.
The shallow stream rushes loud and
forgotten, but the deep river remembers
every stone it carries.
The world skims surfaces like
dragonflies on the waters, dare to dive!
You were born to drown, not in noise, but
in the nectar of slow silences, in books
that crack you open, and conversations that
leave fingerprints on your bones.
Let them call you too much: too still (for sitting
with silence until it sings), too intense (mastering
one thing until it masters you back), and too
obsessed with love’s irrational devotion.
While they race, sink deeper!
Walk slowly enough to watch light rewrite the
world between breaths. Ask volumes of terrifying
questions and Let beauty ruin you regularly.
Plant your roots where others fear to linger;
in the rich, dark soil of love and passion.
The shallow stream rushes loud and
forgotten, but the deep river remembers
every stone it carries.
THE GREATEST TEACHER
THE GREATEST TEACHER
You are both student and Teacher—each stumble is a
lecture, each joy a revelation, each wound a syllabus
written in the ink of experience.
No external teacher knows the unique language of your
soul like you do; the way your fears whisper, the way
your truth hums beneath the noise of the world.
To outsource your wisdom is to silence your inner
professor before the lesson begins. Sit at your
own feet. Take notes from your own life.
The answers you seek abroad are already etched
in the walls of your beating heart
You are both student and Teacher—each stumble is a
lecture, each joy a revelation, each wound a syllabus
written in the ink of experience.
No external teacher knows the unique language of your
soul like you do; the way your fears whisper, the way
your truth hums beneath the noise of the world.
To outsource your wisdom is to silence your inner
professor before the lesson begins. Sit at your
own feet. Take notes from your own life.
The answers you seek abroad are already etched
in the walls of your beating heart
You are both student and Teacher—each
stumble is a lecture, each joy a revelation,
each wound a syllabus written in the ink
of experience.
No external teacher knows the unique
language of your soul, like you do; the
way your fears whisper, the way
your truth hums beneath the noise
of the world.
To outsource your wisdom is to silence
your inner professor before the lesson
begins. Sit at your own feet. Take notes
from your own life.
The answers you seek abroad are already
etched in the walls of your beating heart
DOUBT
DOUBT
Blessed is he who doubts, for wisdom
is his promise. Let doubt be the moon
to your tide—not to halt you, but to pull
you toward deeper waters.
What is faith but doubt that chose to
Kneel and whisper ‘Teach me’ instead
of ‘Terrify me’?
The surest hands are those that tremble
first—For only the uncertain truly listen.
Do not curse your questions. They are the
lanterns swinging low along the path
to what remains.
Even the stars doubt their light
sometimes—Yet still, they burn
Blessed is he who doubts, for wisdom
is his promise. Let doubt be the moon
to your tide—not to halt you, but to pull
you toward deeper waters.
What is faith but doubt that chose to
Kneel and whisper ‘Teach me’ instead
of ‘Terrify me’?
The surest hands are those that tremble
first—For only the uncertain truly listen.
Do not curse your questions. They are the
lanterns swinging low along the path
to what remains.
Even the stars doubt their light
sometimes—Yet still, they burn
Blessed is he who doubts, for wisdom
is his promise. Let doubt be the moon
to your tide—not to halt you, but to pull
you toward deeper waters.
What is faith but doubt that chose to
Kneel and whisper ‘Teach me’ instead
of ‘Terrify me’?
The surest hands are those that tremble
first—For only the uncertain truly listen.
Do not curse your questions. They are
the lanterns swinging low along the path
to what remains.
Even the stars doubt their light
sometimes—Yet still, they burn
PURPOSE
PURPOSE
Purpose is not a treasure waiting to be unearthed at the end of some
mythical quest. It is the echo of your attention. What you devote
yourself to becomes your purpose, not the other way around.
Purpose feels heaviest when we treat it as a destination, a place we
journey to, and lightest when we recognize it as the act of showing
up to create, to connect, to kneel in the dirt and tend what matters.
We create who we are, like the clayman does the pot.
You are not here to find purpose. You are here to animate it with your
hunger, your grief, and your stubborn love for this broken world.
Purpose is not a treasure waiting to be unearthed at
the end of some mythical quest. It is the echo of your
attention. What you devote yourself to becomes your
purpose, not the other way around.
Purpose feels heaviest when we treat it as a destination,
a place we journey to, and lightest when we recognize
it as the act of showing up to create, to connect, to kneel
in the dirt and tend what matters. We create who we are,
like the clayman does the pot.
You are not here to find purpose. You are here to
animate it with your hunger, your grief, and your
stubborn love for this broken world.
DEATH
DEATH
Death is the silent curator. It is the shadow that gives form
to light, the deadline that makes the draft meaningful.
We spend our days running from this truth, yet every
flower, that blooms knows it by heart that without
decay, there is no soil; without endings, no stories.
What terrifies us is not the living, but the un-lived moments
we clutch like crumpled paper in our hands: the love unspoken,
The risks deferred, the selves we abandoned to please ghosts.
Death’s mercy reminds us that we are not infinite,
only irreducible, like the day sky
Death is the silent curator. It is the shadow
that gives form to light, the deadline that
makes the draft meaningful.
We spend our days running from this truth,
yet every flower that blooms knows it by
heart that without decay, there is no soil;
without endings, no stories.
What terrifies us is not the living, but the
un-lived moments we clutch like crumpled
paper in our hands: the love unspoken, the
risks deferred, the selves we abandoned
to please ghosts.
Death’s mercy reminds us that we are not
infinite, only irreducible, like the day sky