It wasn’t real, that connection you held up like something rare. It was only your restless emptiness reaching outward, never inward where truth lived. There was something in you, a rare kind of wrongness, not loud, but steady, growing in the quiet corners You refused to clean. Your habits sank deep, roots of neglect and excuse, feeding on your comfort, tightening around any chance of becoming better. Inside your chest, something lingered, not wounded, but slowly rotting from everything you chose not to face. Your words carried weight, but not wisdom, dirty with judgment, falling on others as if they owed you effort You would never give yourself. You dreamed wildly, expected greatly, Yet moved nowhere. Laziness sat in you like spring, fresh, alive, growing stronger each day You chose not to change. And so you became a tree, Not shaped by storms, but by stillness. Not broken, but unused. A tree that stands alone, roots deep in wasted time, branches stretched with empty wants, leaves gree...
Life broke open as thunder above my name, skies splitting, truth roaring without mercy. Each step I took was argued by the wind, certainty torn into fragments mid-stride. My mind walked in parallels One version of me knelt in fear, the other searched the dark for meaning. They spoke in echoes, and tears became the only language both understood. Misfortune poured without restraint, a relentless baptism of loss and doubt. It drowned my plans, tested the architecture of my faith, asked how much ruin a soul could house and still remain. I stood beneath the noise, undecided, hands trembling, vision dim, asking the heavens not for answers, but for permission to endure. Then the storm began to loosen its fists. Not in mercy, but in timing. Light seeped through the fractures, and change arrived unnamed a quiet strength learned from standing too long in the rain. In the aftermath, gratitude rose slowly. Not for the breaking, but for the breath that remained. I lifted my eyes with a wounded reve...