crumbled thoughts.
what remains unspoken.
My feelings hover at the edge of my tongue each time someone asks, Are you alright?
Life—what is it, if not a lie disguised as truth? Yet in its very letters, there is a paradox. The F in life is never still; it becomes feeling, forgiving, fight, facade, fake, force, friendship, family, even fear. And then, at times, fun. But why must these words weigh so heavily upon us? Is forgiveness after a fight necessary? Perhaps not. Not everyone deserves to be forgiven. Not everyone deserves the gift of friendship. We, as humans, place value on things that often crumble under their own weight.
I think most clearly in fragments, when my mind refuses to be bound to one straight line of thought. At times, my thoughts arrive like a sudden storm, then vanish, leaving me stranded. And yet, it is in these moments of incompleteness that I stumble upon truths.
I am drawn to books as though they were living beings. To read a book is to give it life: every page I open inhales, every line I trace with my eyes exhales. A book, once opened, pulses with vitality, but when closed, it returns to silence. Each turned page dies quietly—unless marked, underlined, or highlighted. Then it achieves something close to immortality. A highlighted line is not forgotten; it breathes forever, because the reader’s hand left behind a proof of existence.
Perhaps that is what I love most—the smallest acts that awaken hidden life. A chair, empty for months, becomes alive the moment someone sits on it. A pen that lies forgotten on a desk holds no breath, but in the instant it glides across paper, it becomes an extension of the human hand, an artery of ink carrying thought into form. Even the raindrop on the windowpane, even the road abandoned at night—do they not exist in a kind of half-life, waiting for eyes to notice them?
I love to wake when the world is asleep. The silence then is not empty but attentive. It is as if nature whispers differently when humans withdraw into dreams. A bird shifts its wing, the air folds into itself, even the shadow of a tree against the streetlight carries weight. To observe these smallest things is to be reminded that life continues in quiet corners, in objects we forget, in moments we overlook.
I suppose I am a woman who lives too much in thought. A lover of literature, yes, but also of the unnoticed—how a page bends, how fingers move, how people hold books as though they were fragile yet eternal. Books lining my shelves wait like companions, their spines scuffed by time, yet each one revived the instant I open them.
Life, to me, is not the war, nor the triumph, but the pause between both.
Not the whole book, but the single page glowing because I chose to linger there.
Not the question, Are you alright? but the silence that dares to follow.
And perhaps, in these smallest things, the world finds its truest life.
