Love was never a heartbeat. It was the echo left behind after the heart forgot why it was still beating. It arrived wearing another person's face, its hands stitched together from promises that had already begun to rot. I welcomed it. Not because it was kind, but because loneliness knows how to mistake a wolf for warmth. Every smile it offered cast a longer shadow. Every whispered "forever" fed another ghost sleeping beneath my ribs. The thought of love is a clever liar. It builds cathedrals from broken mirrors, then asks us to kneel before our own reflections, calling the illusion destiny. How eagerly we obey. We water flowers that grow from graves, write poems to people who never truly existed, and embrace memories still unborn. Love watches. Silent. Patient. Like a spider waiting in the center of a web woven from hope. It never forces us inside. It simply lets us believe the silver threads are rays of morning light. By the time we understand, the sky has forgotten our ...
Horrible things might happen, because of the people around you— words like stones in their mouths, thrown without care for where they land. Do not let irritation find a home in your chest. This, too, is part of living, a chapter written by fate with ink that tests your patience. When they speak badly of you, choose distance over defense. Silence can be a shelter, avoid them for the sake of your sanity, for the calm your spirit deserves. If they blame you for every shadow, every crack they refuse to fix, do not stay and bleed explanations. Walk away. Peace is not cowardice. One day— quiet, unannounced— The truth will rise on its own, untouched by anger, undeniable as light. © 2025 Gloria Penelope