Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
Nature did not come to me softly, It found me when I was already breaking, When my breath felt heavy in my chest and my thoughts dragged like shadows I could not outrun. I was low, sunken into a quiet emptiness that no voice could reach, No light could hold. And then… It touched me. Not gently, never gently. It pressed against my skin like something alive, something watching, something waiting for me to surrender. The wind curled around me first, fingers tracing along my neck, lifting my hair like a whisper that knew my name before I spoke it. I trembled. Not from cold, But from the way it felt intentional. Nature did not comfort me, It awakened me. The earth beneath my feet felt closer than it should, like it was pulling me down only to hold me deeper, to remind me I was never separate from it. And then the fire, God, the fire. It didn’t just burn, it entered in me. It moved through my veins like a slow, rising heat, curling into my chest, spreading into places that had long forg...