Coming Home

by Victorien Amelin

i don’t know who i am. i don’t know what i want. i can’t tell if my desires are real. i can’t even distinguish the chatter of my mind from the whispers of my soul. it’s the end of the year, and i feel like a part of me is being chipped away. i’m losing something. or maybe i’m subconsciously giving it away. i know that change is good, and evolving is wonderful, but the thing is that i’m not sure if that’s what’s actually happening to me. my hands are itching to grab a pen and write. but something’s holding me back. i’m afraid. i’m afraid of the moment when my flow of consciousness comes to a halt and there are no more words to write. and the funny thing is that i have somewhat been in that state of writelessness for the majority of the year. i’ve forced myself to carry on with a certain writing project that’s taken the joy and spontaneity of writing out of my soul. i haven’t woken up in the middle of the night with a poem bubbling to vapor into words for many many nights. i haven’t been in that timeless realm of pouring words and creating worlds in what feels like forever. words feel far away from me. i’ve somehow betrayed them by making myself stick to them in a particular manner to continue the project i’ve set for myself. and i can’t stop writing for it until the last day of the year or else i would have failed. i would have failed myself, my own promise, and i would have set myself up to the curse of incompletion for all the projects i will take on in my life. i need to finish it to show myself that i can. i need to finish it to tell the universe that i am a woman of her word. i need to finish it to have evidence in my mind that i finish what i start. it’s disrupting my usual flow of writing, and i know that whatever i’m writing isn’t authentic and creative as what i usually write is. but at this point, i am doomed to reaching the destination rather than enjoying the journey. i’m aware of how miserable and counterproductive that is, but i am learning. i’ve learned to set my goals realistically. i’ve learned to never again put myself in a system that forces me to write in a specific way every day of an entire year. it’s draining. it’s burdensome. and that just cuts the delicate thread of inspiration and leaves me breathless and lost. i’ve learned to see writing as being rather than doing — as something i am rather than something i do. and i think that all this suffering and frustration of the past months was worth it for me to arrive at this marvelous insight.



i want to cry. it feels like a mountain of pain is building up inside of me. my eyes well up with tears, but as soon as i blink they disappear. nothing falls. there’s no door to release this angst. i feel the muscles of my face tensing, i feel how my teeth are gritting, i feel the grief that’s all over my face — hell i even feel it in the way i’m walking. i’m listening to the same two songs on repeat. i feel a strong urge to talk to someone. but i have none. it’s only me, my pathetic words that no one will ever read, and nature. i just take myself on walks. i’ve been walking more than i’ve been sitting, and i’ve been alone more than i’ve been with company. i’m not okay. far from it.

there’s this strange thing that’s happening inside me though. a co-existence of opposite forces. pain and gratitude. anger and compassion. fear and love. burning rage and calming surrender. the pain speaks, it invades my body with its sensations, and then gratitude speaks and its light permeates my body. i sense both a blankness and a sparkle in my stare, both lifelessness and vibrance in my skin.

i’m both happy and sad. both angry and understanding. both lonely and whole. i don’t know what to do, and i don’t know who to share myself with. i just walk and then sit on a bench and write and then walk again and sit again. i keep going in circles, and my head doesn’t even get dizzy. i just keep going, keep experiencing opposites and extremes. i feel like i’m drowning and flying simultaneously.

i don’t know what to do. i don’t know what to do. i have no one but myself. no one but my goddamned self.

{this piece was written in july during summer vacation. i wish i can walk around in nature every time i feel sad.}

Midnight Confessions

by Andrei Lazarev

i admit i am obsessively preoccupied with worldly things that don’t matter to my true Self at all. things that my soul would be happy and free with or without. things that are only a barrier to my peace because my mind chooses to make them so. i admit that i prefer seeing myself in a place different to the one i’m currently in. i distract myself from my distressing emotions by watching or reading fictional people’s lives. i take from myself more than i give her. i punish her more than i nourish her. i tire her more than i let her rest. and i’m guilty. i’m guilty of not only doing those destructive things, but also for not saving myself in that first moment i realized i was going down an unhealthy path.

it’s unfair to point out my mind’s problems without also addressing my soul’s peace. i am both in stress and at peace. sometimes the peace outgrows the stress, and sometimes i’m plagued by the opposite. this is to say that i am not solely identified with my mind or my soul, but with both of them intricately. i am both a hurricane and a blow of wind, a tsunami and a harmonious wave, a thunderstorm and a drop of rain.

this is very vague and ambiguous. maybe one day when i’m healed from this turmoil i’ll be able to address what would be then my past issues with more clarity..


by Greg Ponthus

there’s a strange silence that comes with shock. you’re not thinking, but you’re not not thinking either. you’re not okay with what’s happening, yet this confusion is wordless. the emotions are unnamable, the thoughts are inaudible. it’s like you’re in an ocean, snuggled between the moments of a wave before and after it crashes. you become that wave, unaware of yourself as you crash. you become the voice of the water, not hearing yourself as others can’t help noticing you. you attract their attention, yet you don’t realize it and nor do you care about their eyes. you exist between existence and nonexistence. you are in silence. but not the pleasant kind, because it’s merged with chaos.

A Grateful Morning


i woke up this morning with a summer of gratitude buzzing in my body. it was like the sun was my heart, my organs were sunflowers just looking at my heart with love, and my blood was the wind, swaying the flowers gently and giving them life through their own dance. my eyes couldn’t look up at the ceiling because it blocked the sky, and so they closed and saw the sky right through the roof as if it were glass. the blanket snuggling this garden that is my body as this gratitude brought a sense of utter peace into my whole being. my mind fell completely silent. there was no sound but that of the beat of my heart.

that moment is still alive even after i got off the bed and started my day. and it just dawned on me that after bringing gratitude alive in me every single day for these past two years, it has allowed me as its friend as i held onto it all this time. it loves me as much as i love it. it enjoys me as much as i revel in it. and i couldn’t be more grateful — even though i know i will somehow be tomorrow and the day after and the day after.

The Needs of The Soul

by Nirav Patel

i need to start prioritizing myself. especially at night. especially on the days i come back home from traveling. i need to make doing the things that make me feel peaceful my number one priority. i need to make meditation more important than having a meaningless conversation. i need to make silence more “me” than talking. i need to observe my surroundings and watch their effects on my internal world. and i need to instantly correct and customize any programmings that enter my mind through my senses from people and experiences that i encounter in my life. i need to keep my attention in, not out. my ears towards the stillness inside, not the clamor outside. i need to hold my happiness, my worth, my peace, my forgiveness, my confidence, my love, my joy and sadness all in. i need to experience it all by myself. and when there is something that i am guided to share, i share it without losing any part of myself, my tranquility and my joy. i need to not rely on anything or anyone for the things i need in order to live a good life with a peaceful inner home. i need to take responsibility for every single thing that has to do with me and my wellbeing. more silence, more meditation, more connection, more listening, more following my intuition, more loving and forgiving myself and others. more bettering myself so that i can give little pieces of this goodness and peace to everyone i encounter without risking losing sense of it myself.

The Turmoil Of Creating and Sharing


many ideas are always looming over me with equal intensity, enthusiasm, persistence and passion to be created and tangibly born and held in my hands.

i start working on them but it always and unfailingly takes me ages to complete or just add the final touches to a project. it’s so frustrating. i’m very consistently interrupted by my own new ideas for new projects — which, in retrospect, is a blessing, actually. not complaining. i work on a handful of things at the same time and it takes tiny steps and more time to bring a project to full fruition due to my being distracted by the other projects that i’m working on.

you see, i’m good at starting things, filled with excitement and buzzing with inspiration, but at some point along the way, i lose my flare and the project just dies until its necessity to manifest suddenly takes over my mind probably months or years later.

i write for many different books — each its own concept and personality. yet none of those books is actually coming to life. it all remains in my head or frantically jotted down on a piece of paper that ends up lost between a pile of unread books or hidden in old notebooks.

yet, in reality, i do actually wake up at sunrise (or sometimes not even sleep at all) to work on these ideas. i write and i collect the pieces for this project into one place and the pieces for that project into that place. i organize and edit and keep all my files updated.

i create books knowing that there are people that would actually want to read them — perhaps some would even cherish them so much as to request a copy for themselves — but i also make these books for no one but my self; no one’s eyes, no one’s thoughts, no one’s heart but my own..

it’s selfish. it’s incomprehensible. but these words composed into poems and then put into books are my creations, my babies. i can’t risk their misunderstanding.

and it’s confusing. distressing even. because i do want my work to be read and loved and related to — even critiqued or taken out of context — but i also want it to stay as it is: unread and untouched by another but my own secretive self.

i fear it fleeting out of my head, out of my world, my bones, and not belonging to me anymore. that’s what’s stopping me . .

The Incomprehensible


it brings me a feeling of unease thinking that the room i claimed as mine is a tiny square, too spacious for one person, in a vast planet that is a tiny dot in a limitless universe.

and it astonishes and frustrates me how an organ in my head can grasp part of the Truth but not fully fathom it.

i feel genius and invalid in the most inextricable way.

485 days later.

by Tomasz Mrozkiewicz | via

there was once a time when a sun abandoned its planet. nature was engulfed and drowning in the darkness for immeasurable times; living beings died of thirst for light, for day; sadness overshadowed and covered the whole planet like a blanket wholeheartedly wrapped around a tiny baby’s body.

that’s what happens when a deeply, deeply loved soul leaves their cherished vessel and unfolds back to their source. that’s what happens to the souls left behind; they die too. a death so slow, so painful, so dark, so unnoticeable, that their bodies remain present and alive in the universe as their souls have long left. they live a dull, mournful life, in a broken, dying body, as a weary, shattered, wretched soul.

(does this go close to describing the insane amounts of waters rushing down to flood endless oceans for my missing and longing for you?)


by Tomasz Mrozkiewicz | via

i wonder what is the reason that makes every human on this earth that gets off bed in the morning get off the bed every morning..

the answer is probably different for every soul.

but, my question is: is the thing that gives us the tenacity to wake up and get through the the day on our bad days the same thing that gets us up on our good days? does it have the same power as the reason that makes us want to start our days in our pleasant, lively days? or are they the same thing? the same exact reason, passion—perhaps hidden, unknown reason—that walks our feet through the day on our bad and good days..?

is it the thing we’ve always loved doing, even if we’re too far from doing it in the present phase of our lives? is it ardency, love, inspiration, passion, a burning desire that we’ve let the sorrows and stresses of life overshadow?

and if it is… lets mull over how strong it truly is. how its potent light still shines bright enough through our sorrows and leads us through until we finally open our eyes and hearts wide enough to see and hear it. it’s there. your purpose is here. your life has a meaning even if it feels absolutely meaningless. it ought to. a life can’t be lived, a soul can’t exist without a purpose. and a purpose’s sole purpose is to be found and lived by its individual. so dive in and dive deep. look. search. even if it takes years. you will find it. for it’s endlessly waiting for you in absolute and utter admiration to shower you with the joy that you’ve always deserved; the joy that was always present in your life; the joy that was always yours to feel.