Three Things That Keep Me From Disappearing

Maybe the cure for anything isn’t grand. Maybe it’s not found in redemption arcs or second chances. Maybe it’s just this—

Music. Coffee. Smoke.

The holy trinity of the broken who still try to feel.

I don’t go a day without them.

Music drips through my veins like morphine. It doesn’t ask anything from me—just lets me be. I keep Korn on repeat—yeah, I know, not everyone gets it. Their sound is abrasive to the polished, but to me, it’s a mirror. Every note, a scream I’ve been too tired to let out.

They’ve kept me alive longer than some people have.

Angst.

That beautiful, shapeless thing.

It doesn’t tell you whether you’re okay or not. It just sits with you in the in-between. You’re not sad. You’re not fine. You’re a suspended breath. A body between pulses. It’s not even pain, not really. Just the haunting suspicion that you’ve felt too much and nothing all at once.

And when that feeling builds—when it claws up my spine and fogs my thoughts—I write.

Not for applause. Not for people. Just… to spill. To drain. To disarm the ghosts.

Poems, fragments, little tragedies. Things too raw, too cringe, too "me" to share.

I’m not a writer. I’m a vessel. A sponge soaked in memories and unnamed aches.

There’s this thing about memories—they never arrive gently.

They crash in. They don’t knock. They wreck the stillness.

And then I’m thirteen again. Or seventeen. Or yesterday.

I can write about those things. I have to write about those things.

I think that’s how I survive.

And yes, I have friends. Or people I’ve called friends. And I’d die for them, if I’m being honest. But I don’t know if they see friendship the way I do. I don’t need payback. I don’t tally kindness. But I can’t help but wonder if they ever really see me. Like, the real me. The unfiltered, untidy one.

Is friendship just proximity? Laughter over drinks?

Or is it something deeper—like silence without discomfort, presence without reason?

I’m tired of attachments.

They always end in ash.

Give me coffee instead.

It stays warm if you hold it close.

Give me smokes.

They burn with you, then disappear. Honest in their exit.

Give me music.

It doesn’t pretend. It doesn’t forget.

When the world goes mute, I sit in the cold. December breath on my window. A mug in one hand. A cigarette in the other. A bassline threading itself into my bloodstream. And I talk to myself like I’m still someone worth saving.

Kristoff had Sven.

I have smoke trails and caffeine highs.

I laugh at my own analogies. But there’s something comforting about fictional friendships. At least they don’t leave.

And if each note, each sip, each puff awakens a memory—then maybe what I need isn’t more music, more coffee, or more cigarettes.

Maybe I need something stronger.

Something that can make me forget.

Because it’s the remembering that kills me.

Not the loss.

Not the ache.

The remembering.

A Blank Verse Poetry

I ran this morning. Gray sky, nothing special. Weather that doesn’t force you to feel anything. Usually, I wander without purpose. Today, something stopped me. Time is a trap. We pretend it’s limited, but it isn’t. So we rush through it—steps, choices, life—until it all blurs. The small things disappear. The smell of earth, the quiet air. Gone. A song got stuck in my head. “I’ll stop the world and melt with you.” Unwanted. Persistent. How did it get in? Maybe fate. Maybe nothing. I don’t believe in destiny, but here I was—stuck in the sound, stuck in a loop. The world paused inside me. I didn’t move. The day went on. Hands trembled—not from connection, but from the weight of existing. Scars on skin—maps of past failures. Nothing clean, nothing clear. I touched a cheek. No softness. Smoke? Habit? Grip loosened—like sanity slipping. Wanting to let go, but afraid of the emptiness that follows. I kissed a cheek. A stupid move. A laugh broke the silence. A glitch. A mistake. Coffee a...

The Slow Death of the Familiar Lie

The 2025 elections just ended. Not with fireworks, not with riots—just the quiet unraveling of yet another chapter in our nation’s long and complicated dance with democracy. There’s something different in the air this time. Something subtle, like the way dusk falls before you even realize the day is gone. You feel it before you name it: a shift. Not seismic, perhaps not even visible to the untrained eye. But there, like a whisper at the edge of a crowded room. People have grown wiser. And no, this isn’t naive optimism. It’s not the kind of blind faith that wears campaign colors and chants slogans. It’s the kind of wisdom that comes from repeated heartbreak—from choosing hope too many times, only to be betrayed by men in suits and smiles. From believing in change only to see it morph into the same old trapo politics dressed in newer fonts. “Pain is a brutal but effective teacher—especially in a country where memory is often the first casualty of every election cycle.” But maybe ...

The Tension Between Hope and Despair

This is w here the light breaks just to drown. Hope isn’t some pretty thing. It’s a slow burn that keeps you awake at night, fooling you with a whisper, “Maybe this time.” It digs its claws in, even when everything screams you’re done. Hope’s the hook you can’t shake, even when it’s tearing you apart from the inside. Despair doesn’t wait politely. It crashes in like a storm, cold and sharp, and it doesn’t care if you’re ready or not. It doesn’t dance with hope—they fight. It’s brutal, ugly. Despair wants to swallow everything whole, leaves no room for mercy. There’s no peace between them. It’s a war you didn’t sign up for, but you live it every damn day—grasping for that fragile flicker, even as the darkness tightens around your throat. You hold hope like a lifeline but feel despair pulling the knot tighter. No balance. No graceful dance. Just a mess of broken promises and shattered dreams. Hope keeps you chasing ghosts; despair waits, patient, knowing it will win. And the worst p...

Fragments of the Quiet Mind

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