The (Un)known
This is not a manifesto. Not a prayer. Not even an explanation. This is a witnessing.
A list, yes. But more than that, a quiet inventory of becoming.
I wrote these not to explain, but to remember what it took to stay soft in a world that often demands the opposite.
Each line is a scar turned sentence. A truth I didn’t want to learn, but did.
Sometimes in whispers, sometimes in storms.
If you’ve felt any of them, then maybe we’ve met in that quiet place where emotion turns into growth.
Either way, I’m still learning.
Still here.
And this June—my birthday month—I choose to celebrate not just surviving, but becoming.
The Known. The Carried. The Named:
Love cannot survive in silence. What isn’t spoken eventually disappears.
Needing care doesn’t mean being needy. It means being human, and it means wanting to be met, not managed.
Don’t confuse detachment with maturity. or depth with drama. They are not the same.
Raw honesty isn’t manipulation. It’s the courage to speak when it would be easier to hide.
Staying through emotional coldness doesn’t mean you have no pride. It means you still had hope. Even when it was misplaced.
Age doesn't grant you immunity from accountability and youth isn’t the opposite of wisdom. It’s just lived differently.
Feminine strength is not softness alone. It’s knowing when to yield and when to roar.
Being misunderstood doesn’t mean you weren’t clear. Some people only hear what confirms their fears.
Attention is a kind of prayer. "If one looks long enough at almost anything, looks with absolute attention at a flower, a stone, the bark of a tree, grass, snow, a cloud, something like revelation takes place."
I dream too much and I don't write enough and I'm trying to find God everywhere.
& We all dream in the same night, each his own dream and each dream with its own meaning.
Unanswered, still:
Solitude shapes character. Who are you when you are alone?
Can emptiness hold weight?
How do you know when it’s time to stop hoping—and how do you forgive yourself for still hoping anyway?
Can I be both the one who bets wildly and the one who plays the long game?
Can faith survive in fragments?
When no one asks for help, is helping still holy—or just noise?
What remains of a self when roles, rituals, and rhythms are stripped away?
Can the urge to define be more violent than the chaos it tries to tame?
Where does the body end when everything is spectacle?
When everything is curated, what becomes of contradiction?
Still soft. Still honest. Still becoming.