Fragments of the Quiet Mind

They said it like scripture, soft and rehearsed. "Things will grow if you just believe. Just stay. Just wait." So I did. I stayed. I bled into the dirt. I broke skin for something that never sprouted. The sun never came. And the soil? The soil was already full— of bones. Of memories with teeth. Of things I was never meant to uncover, but did anyway. They didn’t plant flowers. They planted ghosts. Carefully. Aesthetic. Like trauma could be arranged in rows and called design. They built a graveyard and named it “opportunity.” Hung fairy lights over decay and dared to call it “safe.” And I—I knelt like a fool, watering phantoms, thinking it was love.  Thinking it was growth. It was rot. Ritualized. Systematic. Here’s the truth no one wants to speak out loud: The worst betrayals don’t scream. They whisper. They wear your tone, echo your values, mirror your hopes until you’re too far in to crawl back. It wasn't an accident. They knew this place was hollow. They han...

There’s a quiet cruelty in beginnings without ends. Books left to gather dust, their pages folded in half like promises I couldn’t keep. Poems that start with fire but die in silence, suffocated by my own hesitation. Plans drawn in the dirt, erased by the wind before they could ever root. It’s not laziness, exactly. It’s more like a slow unraveling—each unfinished thing a wound that never fully scars. I wonder if the weight of what I never finish is heavier than what I see through to the end. Maybe it is. To start is to hope, but to not finish is to understand your limits—your fractures, your quiet surrender. I’m an expert at the halfway point, the “almost there,” the shadow of completion that never quite arrives. Because finishing means facing what I’ve become—a mosaic of broken intentions and fading dreams. Sometimes I think the parts I abandon tell more truth than the polished whole. The silence between chapters screams louder than any ending ever could. I’m not afraid of failu...