Writings

In the fleeting beauty of cherry blossoms, I find solace and reflection. Their delicate petals, painted in hues of pink and white, whisper tales of splendor, reminding me of life's transient nature. How I adore cherry blossoms. Like the cherry blossoms, I've witnessed the passage of time, allowing countless opportunities to slip through my grasp. As these blossoms bloom and fade with the changing seasons, I can't help but ponder the moments I've let slip away — the dreams left unfulfilled, the connections left unexplored, and the chances left untaken. Yet, amidst these reflections, there's a certain grace in embracing ...
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The stories once brimming with excitement now lay dormant between us, overshadowed by the silence of our growing disconnect. It's a strange sensation, navigating the bittersweet terrain of a relationship outgrown. Fond memories flicker like distant stars in the night sky, illuminating the path we once walked together. Yet, as we traverse the present, our footsteps falter, unable to find common ground amidst the chasm of our evolving selves. There's no bitterness in this realization. Only a quiet acceptance of the ebb and flow of life's currents. We were once kindred spirits, bound by shared experiences and laughter. Now, like ...
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It's not so much that she wants to run away. She just wishes she could feel better — no, she could be better — in a place which isn't here. Wherever here is. It's always the wrong place anyway. She's afraid of the sky. And when you ask her why, she'd always say "it just looks so heavy. I'm afraid that one day it will fall down on me and crush me." You could never figure out what she stared at when she propped her pretty bony elbows on that white windowsill and stayed that way for hours on end ...
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I shudder when you speak; Your words are cold when they touch me ...
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I have been trying to give this site a fresh, new look these past few days as you can see from this pink and gold thing I have going on. You know that with every major change I do, I also update my pages. Today, I got stuck on my About pages... again. By stuck I don't mean I don't have anything else to say about myself, but rather I don't know how much to tell. This has always plagued me. I wanted to keep it short. I really did. I wanted to be somehow discerning about what I spill ...
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I think I could probably write a book of all the weird things men do or love that make absolutely zero sense to me – farting under the covers, the attraction to girl-on-girl action, and naming body parts (just to name a few). But what has continued to blow my mind more than anything over the last several years is why men feel the need to hoot and holler things to women on the street. Why do they think it's socially acceptable to objectify and disrespect women in the guise of — what they think is a — compliment? I'll ...
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