Set Meridian

In twilight hush, the eye unfolds, Mushroom veils where time dissolves. Breathe the glow, let thoughts unwind, Contemplation's trip, serene and blind. Explore vast chambers, secrets unfold, Discover truths in patterns bold. Understand the flow, the inner tide, Dominate the trip with mind as guide. Wander deeper, realms ignite, Unveil the core in neon light. Master illusions, claim the throne, Conquer the journey, mind alone. Third eye opens, veil dissolves, Mind's horizon calls and calls. Mushroom path ends, pure and bright; Arrived within eternal light.

We sit on the dark grass, far away from the city lights. You hold my warm hand under the bright moon. Suddenly, a shooting star falls fast across the sky. We both close our eyes and make a quiet wish. When I open mine, I do not look back up at the stars. I look at your beautiful face. My only wish is to stay right here with you.

We arrived at the beach early, when the sea still looked calm and the day felt light. We walked barefoot near the water, letting the waves reach us while the breeze carried that salty smell only the ocean has. For a while, everything felt easy. But little by little, the beach became more like itself. The sun grew harsh, sand got into everything, the wind kept blowing towels around, and the noise of people slowly filled every quiet corner. At some point I noticed I was no longer enjoying the day as much as trying to manage it. Then I stopped and looked around again. The breeze still felt good against the heat. The waves still rolled in the same peaceful rhythm. People were laughing, children were running through the water, and the horizon remained wide and open beyond all the small discomforts. That is when it hit me. A beach day is never perfect. There is always too much sand, sun, wind, or people. But it is still a day at the beach. Life can feel the same way. Even beautiful things can become overwhelming sometimes. But if we remember where we are, and what we are part of, it becomes easier to enjoy the moment instead of resisting every inconvenience that comes with it.

“Do you ever feel the wind changing before it arrives?” asked the small fern beside the riverbank. The older plant swayed gently. “Sometimes. But not always.” “I kept growing toward the morning light,” the fern said. “Then the trees above me changed. Now the light comes from somewhere else. Yesterday the rain was too much. Today there is none at all. I thought if I rooted myself carefully enough, everything would stay steady.” The older plant let a few drops fall from its leaves. “We all think that at first,” it said. “So we lean, adjust, reach again. A branch breaks, we grow around it. Too much rain, we hold what we can. Too little, we wait deeper in the soil. That is not failure. That is life unfolding.” The fern was quiet for a moment, listening to the water move past the rocks. “So we never really finish planning?” The older plant laughed softly in the breeze. “We plan with our roots. We adapt with our leaves. Then the seasons arrive with their own ideas. Little by little, through all those unfolding events, we become what we were meant to be.”

Don’t expect everything to go your way. It won’t. When things flow, ride it. Don’t overthink it, don’t try to control it, just keep flowing with it. When they don’t, don’t lose your cool. Keep going, adjust, stay steady. Don’t waste energy fighting what already happened, use it to move forward. Some days will feel slow, almost stuck, but that doesn’t mean you’ve lost direction. It just means the current shifted. The flow always comes back. Your job is to still be moving when it does.

I used to think life was about finding someone. Like there was this one moment, this one person, and everything before that was just waiting. So I rushed it. I tried to make things fit, tried to recognize “the one” before I even knew who I was. And every time it almost worked, until it didn’t. For a long time, I thought I was just unlucky. But looking back, I wasn’t ready. Not in some dramatic way, just… I hadn’t taken the time to understand myself. I was still carrying things that weren’t mine, chasing ideas that didn’t really belong to me, trying to be someone I thought would be chosen. So life slowed me down. Not gently, either. Things didn’t work out. People left. Plans fell apart. And somewhere in between all of that, I started paying attention. To what I actually felt. To what I needed. To what I kept repeating without realizing. It wasn’t a big revelation. It was small things, one after another. Letting go of expectations. Learning to be alone without feeling incomplete. Getting to know myself without an audience. And then, at some point, I met her. No fireworks. No feeling of “finally.” Just something calm. Clear. Like I wasn’t trying to be seen, and she wasn’t trying to be found. We just… met, as we were. What felt different wasn’t her. It was me. For the first time, I wasn’t looking for someone to complete the journey. I had already started mine. I knew where I stood, what I could give, what I wouldn’t pretend to be. So when we decided to walk together, it didn’t feel like the beginning of everything. It felt like the right continuation. Like all that time before wasn’t waiting. It was preparation for the one voyage that actually matters.

In the early hours, before the sun decides what the day will be, a thin layer of dew settles quietly over the garden. No one notices it arriving. It doesn’t fall like rain or announce itself like a storm. It just gathers, droplet by droplet, until every leaf holds a small, shining weight. The plants don’t reach for it. They simply receive. By the time the light touches them, something subtle has already changed. The edges are softer, the green a little deeper, the stems less strained. What came in silence now sustains everything. Love can be like that. Not like the storm that arrives loudly, declares itself, and is gone as quickly as it came, leaving little behind. But the kind that lingers in small, consistent ways. A word said without urgency. A presence that doesn’t demand. A quiet returning, again and again. You don’t always see it happening. You don’t measure it day by day. But over time, it gathers. It rests on the surface of things, then slowly moves inward. And one morning, without knowing exactly when it happened, you realize you are no longer holding yourself together in the same way. Something has been holding you. Like the plants, there’s nothing to prove in it. Only a quiet kind of gratitude, for what arrives without noise, and gives life simply by being there.

I was walking like I always do, not really paying attention, just following the rhythm of steps and thoughts, letting one carry the other. There was something in my head I’d been turning over, not quite solving, but pretending I was close. Then I turned a corner. Nothing dramatic, just a normal street, same buildings, same kind of quiet. But something felt off. Not wrong exactly, just… unfamiliar. I slowed down a bit, looked around, trying to match what I saw with what I thought I knew. It didn’t match. And almost immediately, the thought I’d been holding onto slipped too. Not gone all at once, just… untied. Like a knot that wasn’t actually tight to begin with. I stood there for a second, doing that subtle half-turn people do when they’re trying to look like they’re not lost. But I was. Not just on the street, but in my own head. I remember thinking, “wait, what was I even trying to figure out?” which is a special kind of frustrating when you were just sure it mattered. A line popped in, unhelpfully cheerful:
I had a plan, or so I claimed,
turned one corner… forgot the game. I let out a small laugh, mostly at myself. It felt ridiculous, losing both direction and intention in the same movement. Efficient, in a way. I checked my surroundings again, but they didn’t give anything back. No hint, no anchor. Just streets that could’ve been anywhere and a thought that could’ve been anything. So I stood there a moment longer, not fixing it, not forcing it. Just… there. Turns out confusion doesn’t rush you. It just waits, very patiently, for you to admit you have no idea where you are.

I was just walking, nothing special, one of those autopilot moments where your body moves and your mind is somewhere else entirely. Then, out of nowhere, I caught my foot on… honestly, I still don’t know what. Maybe pride. And suddenly I was falling. You know that split second where your brain realizes what’s happening but your body hasn’t accepted it yet? That weird in-between? That’s where it happened. While I was flailing, trying to recover, hoping no one noticed, something in my head just… clicked. Not about the fall, not about how to save it, that ship had sailed. It was something I’d been stuck on for ages, something I kept turning over, making complicated, almost proudly confused. And mid-air, of all places, it became obvious. Like embarrassingly obvious. I remember thinking, “wait… that’s it?” while also thinking, “this is going to hurt.” A rhyme even popped in, completely uninvited, like my brain wanted to make sure I really got it: I missed the clue, I missed it twice, turns out the answer was painfully nice. Then I hit the ground. There was a small pause, the kind where you decide whether to stay down forever or pretend it never happened. A couple of people looked over, one trying not to smile. I got up, brushed myself off, gave a half-shrug like, yeah, sure, gravity happens. But inside, I was laughing. Not just at the fall, but at the timing of it. Years of not getting it, and then suddenly, clarity decides to show up exactly when I’m least in control. Not when I was thinking hard. Not when I was trying. Just… when I tripped.

At the edge of the clearing, where the light settles like a held breath, two paths meet. They were never meant to. For a long time, they ran apart, one bending toward shadow, the other drifting into open sun. Seasons passed over them differently. One grew quiet under fallen leaves, softened by time and distance. The other stayed exposed, worn by light, its edges sharper, its direction clearer, but lonelier for it. Neither knew if the other still existed. But something shifted. Maybe it was the way the light changed that evening, warmer, lower, more forgiving. Maybe it was the silence between the trees, no longer empty, but expectant. Or maybe it was simply that both paths, after all their wandering, had nowhere left to go but forward. And so they curved. Not suddenly, not dramatically, but with the quiet certainty of something that had always been true beneath the surface. Roots gave way. Grass leaned aside. The earth itself seemed to remember. Where they meet now, by the water, the world softens. The light reflects, doubles, becomes something you can step into without fear. There is no edge, no line where one ends and the other begins. Just a shared direction. And in the stillness of that meeting, in the quiet glow that rests on the water and lingers between the trees, there is something unmistakable, something that feels like it has always been waiting there. Your loving gaze. Not seen, not spoken, but known.

A pale path curves through a wide green park; gravel whispering under slow footsteps, tall trees lifting their branches into a loose roof of leaves. Open lawns breathe quietly between them; bicycles pass, shadows drift, the afternoon settles gently on the grass. Nothing about the moment asks to stay. Yet years later I walk those paths again, listening to the same old music that once explored drifting electronic sounds from long before. Each piece arrives one by one; brief scenes, small instrumental postcards from distant gardens and city greens, patient tones moving like slow weather. Something inside shifts. The image settles, the feeling grows. It seems clear; the music belongs here, and yet it comes from long ago. Perhaps they walked in this same park, on this same path, long ago, and somehow the sound followed them. Now I hear it again; a quiet thread between the maker and the listener. The pale path returns; the shade of tall trees, the open grass, the calm of moving without hurry beneath a long green corridor. It feels as if the music had carried the place carefully all this time, pressed between its quiet passages. The park itself has moved on; seasons folding over seasons, benches holding other afternoons. What remains travels lightly; not the hour itself, but the calm it planted, waiting for the right sound to open the gate again.

There are corners of the mind that stay unlit on purpose. Not forgotten, just avoided. They collect bad thoughts, old experiences, half-formed ideas that were never meant to grow. They sit there quietly, patient, like pressure building underground. Most days, discipline holds. Routine. Distraction. Work. Noise. The effort feels clean, controlled. But boredom loosens the seal. Feeling jaded widens the cracks. And then it happens... Something seeps up... Not all at once. A slow, dark ooze, like oil forcing its way through stone. It stains the surface thoughts, makes everything slippery. Old resentments resurface wearing new faces. Cruel ideas arrive uninvited and pretend they belong. You recognize them, and you don’t, and that is the worst part. You push back. You tell yourself you are better than this. That these thoughts are not you, just residue. Sometimes it works… Sometimes it doesn’t… Because those corners were never empty. They were only waiting.

The orchestra plays. You are there, instrument in hand, following the arrangement.
The notes begin high, careful, and you attack them with passion.
Each one is placed with intent, balanced on the edge of a tightrope. Then one slip.
Not loud, not dramatic, perhaps not even noticeable.
You panic, and the tumbling begins.
One note out of place, just enough to tilt the rest. What follows looks like failure.
A chord collapses, notes scatter, rhythm breaks.
From above, it feels like everything is gone, like gravity has won and skill has been exposed as wishful thinking. But the mountain is not judging.
It only reveals what is already true: that motion is part of learning, and that falling is learning, not a verdict. As the notes descend into chaos, something unexpected happens. They do not disappear. They linger, waiting to be answered, and with the next note, the mistake bends into intention, melting into a staff that can carry sound again. The fall was not the end of the music.
It was the moment where noise waited to be answered, and meaning emerged in the reply. Not losing my step does not mean never slipping.
It means noticing where the foot landed.
It means pausing long enough to listen to what the fall is asking for.
It means climbing again, not with urgency, but with better timing. Try again.
Not because you are certain this time will be clean, but because even when it isn’t, the music still moves forward.

At dawn, when the world is still undecided about the day, a small bird begins her work. She doesn’t rush. She gathers what most would overlook: a loose feather, a dry blade of grass, a thread dropped by someone who never noticed it fall. One by one, she brings them back to a narrow branch and fits them together. The nest is imperfect, uneven, and fragile. It is enough. She doesn’t need grand plans or certainty; only simple reasons to keep going. Between trips, she pauses. She listens. The air is cool. The light is soft. Nothing remarkable happens, and that is precisely why it feels safe. When the eggs hatch, the days become quieter and heavier at the same time. Food is never abundant. The sky is not always kind. She flies out anyway, returning with insects so small they seem hardly worth the effort. Yet each beak opens, each movement is life insisting on itself. She feeds them patiently, again and again, not because it guarantees anything, but because care is built on simple reasons repeated daily. Some mornings are gray. The wind cuts sharper than expected. The nest sways, and for a moment, everything feels temporary. But the young sleep, warm and close, unaware of the doubt that passes through her wings. Their trust is complete. It steadies her. In time, the nest will be left behind. It always is. The bird knows this, though she never mourns it while it still holds purpose. What remains is not the nest itself, but what it made possible. Peace doesn’t arrive all at once. It is built the same way the nest is: quietly, from ordinary things, held together by attention. Love is not loud. Happiness is not constant. Well-being is simply the relief of knowing that, for now, there is warmth, there is food, and there are simple reasons to believe today is worth tending. And in that enough, hope takes root, light as a feather, strong as a promise made one small act at a time.

So there we were, resting after dinner around the campfire, when suddenly the fire looked different than on other nights; and that’s putting it mildly. 
The flames weren’t just flickering; they were swirling, twisting, and dancing together in these wild, interlaced ribbons of electric blue, vivid pink, and fiery orange, shooting up from the logs like arms reaching for the sky, escaping the woodpile like they had someplace important to be. I blinked a few times, thinking maybe I was just tired… but then the fire did what I can only describe as a shimmy. A full shimmy. I whispered, “Is it… dancing?” My friends, wide-eyed and speechless, just nodded very slowly, like they were afraid sudden movement would spook it. We sat there watching the fire, the smoke, and the soft, harmonic hum the logs were making; almost like they were warming up for a concert. We all silently agreed to sit very quietly and let the universe do whatever it was doing. Let’s just say… the night got interesting, and that fire clearly had opinions to share.

The park glowed like a Van Gogh painting brought to life. Every tree wore a jacket of leaves in yellow and orange, shimmering under a sun that seemed to smile just for the two of us. The air was still, carrying only the soft rustle of leaves falling in slow motion, each one a quiet reminder of the season. You walked by my side, your steps sinking gently into the thick carpet of yellow, orange, and brown. The ground was soft, alive with color and sound, like the faint crunch beneath your shoes, and the whisper of a breeze through the branches. There was no rush, no noise, just the rhythm of your steps and your soft laughter carried by the wind. A few rays of sunlight broke through the canopy, landing on your face, lighting your smile and the strands of your hair. I caught myself smiling without knowing why — maybe because everything in that moment was exactly as it should be. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t warm. It was perfect; the kind of balance only autumn understands, a pause between endings and beginnings. The world felt clean, renewed, and the air was pure. When we reached the pond at the end of the path, I looked at you and said nothing. I didn’t have to. The silence in that moment was full of love, of peace, of the quiet happiness that only a walk in the park can give.

The city wakes like a lazy cat stretching in gold.
 Buildings yawn into the sky, their glass eyes dripping sunlight.
 You step out, and the pavement smiles back, warm, melting a little under your shoes. The air tastes like oranges, static, and a peel of daydreams.
 Someone laughs in slow motion; pigeons do pirouettes held by invisible strings.
 Every window is a mirror, and every mirror shows a different you, 
one humming, one spinning, one already halfway down the stairs, chasing the morning. Traffic lights wink in rhythm, inviting you to wander here and there,
 the world swaying to some tune only you seem to hear.
 Somewhere between the beat and your heartbeat, you beep and boop your way along. Coffee smells like adventure, like postcards and sunshine.
 Fragrances drift from doorways, whispering come in, stay a while, live a little.
 The streetlights, shy in daylight, wear halos like sleepy stars who forgot to go home. You’re walking, yet you feel you may be floating, no, gliding, 
 each step leaving ripples of sound, like sand softly echoing on itself.
 They feel like tiny sparks, sunbursts chasing at your heels, trying to keep up. And just when you think the moment can’t get brighter, 
the sun leans in, peeks around a cloud, and
 kisses your face with the warmth of a mother, 
like a friend you didn’t know you missed. 
It whispers something you can’t quite understand, can’t quite catch, 
but you smile anyway,
 because whatever it was, 
it felt like home.

[English below] A veces el alma se rompe en silencio. Te miro y entiendo que ya no estás, aunque sigas aquí. Tu risa suena lejana, tu mirada busca algo que no soy. Dame tu vida, aunque sea por un instante, para entender en qué momento la perdí. No sé en qué punto dejamos de encontrarnos, ni cuándo empezó esta distancia que ya no se mide en días, sino en miradas vacías. Me doy cuenta de que no fue el mundo el que cambió… fui yo quien dejó de ser suficiente para ti. Y ahora esta casa, que un día fue refugio, se ha vuelto un eco de lo que fuimos. Dos almas bajo el mismo techo: una que aún ama, y otra que solo quiere escapar. Sometimes the soul breaks in silence. I look at you and understand that you are no longer here, even though you are still here. Your laughter sounds distant, your gaze searches for something I am not. Give me your life, even for a moment, to understand when I lost it. I don't know at what point we stopped meeting, or when this distance began, no longer measured in days, but in empty glances. I realize that it wasn't the world that changed... it was I who stopped being enough for you. And now this house, which was once a refuge, has become an echo of what we once were. Two souls under the same roof: one who still loves, and another who just wants to escape.

I have, for the sake of clarity (though clarity is precisely what continues to elude me), begun keeping a list , no, not a list, that implies completion , a ledger of every conversation that might have meant something. Every glance. Every pause too long or too short. Because surely meaning must hide in ratios: the seconds she lingered before saying my name versus the average time in which one says any name. There must be a pattern. There must be. Yesterday, I rechecked my old notebooks, the ones from before we met. I thought perhaps I could triangulate who I was then, before her laughter started echoing in the kitchen tiles. There’s something about the sound there , the acoustics, yes, but also the way it reverberates longer than it should, as though even the walls are reluctant to let her go. I counted the echoes once. Seven. Always seven. Except on Sundays, when it’s six. I haven’t found the cause. Maybe humidity. Maybe sorrow. Lately, I’ve been breaking things down , not destroying, but dividing. Every recollection into smaller elements: tone, phrasing, breath, light. I separate the gesture from the word, the word from the silence that followed it. If I can understand the parts, perhaps the whole will reveal itself. But the pieces multiply faster than I can name them, and I lose track of which belonged to which moment. When she left, she said it wasn’t about me, which of course means it was, though possibly in the way that gravity is about the apple , a constant force unchosen by either party. Still, I wrote it down: Not about you. I circled it seventeen times. That should make it true, or at least symmetrical. It’s funny , or rather, it should be funny , how much time one can spend arranging memories by weight, like stones. Some sink faster than others. Some refuse to drown. I keep thinking if I could chart everything , the sequence of words, the slope of her handwriting, the moment the air first changed its tone , I’d find the exact second life slipped from living to remembering. But every night, as I go over the data, the columns, the charts, I end up where I began: staring at the empty margin, wondering what to label it. Because that’s where she still exists. In the margin. Between what was said and what might have been meant.

It’s quiet now. Too quiet. And yet, in the stillness, I still hear you. Your laughter, your stories, they rise up from somewhere inside me, like echoes that will never fade. They’re not just memories. They are part of me, stitched into who I am. I don’t need to ask why you left. I knew, even before the end came, as someone close to me had often reminded me. We had lived the story together, and I could see its closing lines long before I was ready to read them. You were the shape of my world. And when you went, a lot of things seemed to collapse, as if some dreams had no foundation without you holding them steady. For a long time, I thought your leaving had taken them all away. But now I see: what you gave me was never gone. The stories you told, the way you taught me to look at the world, the warmth you carried into every room, all of it lives on. In me. Through me. I thought I was grieving you.
But what I’m really mourning is the part of me that still reaches for you, expecting you to answer; longing, even now, to hear your laughter break the silence. And maybe that’s the truth: you didn’t vanish. You became the silence that carries your voice. You became the life inside my life. Lyrics: No need to tell me, What's going on your mind. I know the story, We wrote it long ago. I hear your laughter, And it fills my room. I hear your stories, They're part of my life. Where did you go? And left all things like this. Why did you go? And killed all my dreams. No need to tell me, The secrets on your mind. I know the story, We dreamed it long ago. I hear your laughter, It echoes in my heart. I feel your stories, They live inside my life. Where did you go? And left all things like this. Why did you go? And killed all my dreams.

Mine, not yours. Grab it, stash it, stack it high, No reason, no season, just a hungry eye. Mine, not yours. Plates collapse, pockets roar, They don’t mean harm, but they take it all, Like it’s law, like I grab more. Mine, not yours. With hands full, scoop the loot, Olives, crumbs, the last sip too. Innocent chaos, nothing left for you. Mine, not yours. Mine, not yours. No sharing, no caring, no pause, no thought, Every spoon, every drop, gotta have the lot. The table is a battlefield, the spoils are the proof, Leave the wreckage smiling, pockets stuffed with proof. Mine, not yours. See the reach, see the claw, Take it fast, break the law. Mine, not yours. Not greedy, not evil, just blind to the core, An anthem of appetite, always grabbing more. Mine, not yours. Mine, not yours. The chant of the clueless, the gospel of hands, The buffet apocalypse, the hunger that stands. Mine in the morning, mine in the night, Mine when it’s plenty, mine when it’s tight. Mine, not yours. Mine, by default. Mine, without cause. Mine, not yours.

The road stretched far ahead quiet and unhurried. At first it seemed endless, as though time itself had folded into repetition. The surface carried a strange shimmer, chromatic stones shifting in hue with the angle of light, sometimes dull, sometimes radiant, never quite the same. A fleeting look might dismiss it as monotony, yet in stillness you could see that there was movement everywhere: shadows sliding, colors shifting, the play of light offering transient forms and subtle changes. So it is with life. We walk forward, often certain that each step mirrors the last, that days blur together. But if we pause and look more carefully, we find change unfolding in subtle tones, a conversation remembered, a kindness offered, a moment of stillness we hadn’t known we needed. The road may be long, but beneath its seeming sameness, it is quietly transforming, and so are we.

When everything around and within is in harmony, peace settles like a perfect garden, tucked between whispering trees, beside a still lake, where the fire crackles low and the air carries nothing but calm.

Nestled right at the edge of the lake, between towering cliffs and soft, rolling hills dotted with vineyards, lie old, picturesque towns that feel timeless and calm. Small boats drift slowly along the shore, rocking gently with the lake’s quiet rhythm. Here, the water never rushes or foam. It simply is, still, deep, like it is listening and telling a soft story. When I finally got to visit, the lake was just as I had hoped, quiet and patient. It mirrored the sky without a word, held the breeze close, and welcomed me like an old friend. And after a long day, it gifted the most beautiful sunsets, bright and red, glowing warmly, like the embrace of my family gathered close. Being there felt like stepping into a world where time slows down, where every ripple, every gentle sway of the boats, speaks of comfort and belonging. Spending time with my family feels just like that lake, calm and steady, full of quiet moments that speak louder than words. It’s the softness of laughter that skips across the surface like smooth stones, the warmth that settles deep like sunlight lingering on the shore, and the steady glow of love, bright and constant, like those sunsets painting the sky. And when life gets loud and chaotic, I remember that lake. I remember that peace isn’t about running away, but about coming back, again and again, to where love is steady, waiting quietly for you.

I was looking through some old photos the other day, and one of them stopped me. There, in the background, almost forgotten, was the old toy box. The same one we used to crowd around when we were kids. It was scratched up, the lid always a bit crooked, but it held everything that mattered back then, tiny cars, mismatched action figures, a bear with one eye and a heart that somehow made us all feel safe. I hadn’t thought about that toy box in years. But seeing it again, even just in a photo, brought something back. Not just the toys, but the noise, the laughter, the feeling of being completely lost in our own little world. I could almost hear my friends’ voices again. Some of them I haven’t seen in over a decade. It’s strange how certain things stay with us, even quietly. They wait. Little ones. Wind-up robots, old figurines, small wooden animals. At first, I thought it was just a small thing. But then I saw more come in my mind, gently, almost like yesterday's memories. And I get it now.
It’s not really about the toys. It’s about the moments they carry. The stories. The people.
Sometimes, a small thing, a photo, a plastic soldier, a soft bear, can pull something warm to the surface. A part of yourself you thought time had buried. That’s when I realized: toy boxes don’t belong to children.
They belong to memory. And memory… memory belongs to everyone, no matter how old you are.

A story of deception, sadness and awakening told in a somewhat progressive form. Masterfully selling potions and charms Carefully picking herbs to fuel the harm Pitiful creature born of spell and ash Regret now stalks you, rising with the crash Cleverly weaving symbols in the dust Chanting the words with eyes so cold and just Power through envy, drawn from cursed desire And silence falls like smoke from hidden fire Now the storm rises, breaking through your spell Echoes will follow every step you tread Chains forged in secrets drag you down to hell The fire you sparked now burns the life you led Did you believe the curse would miss your name? The shadows wait, and always play their game Even in masks, the guilt will find your face Your soul was spent to win a hollow race Masterfully selling potions in disguise Carefully choosing how to spin the lies Pitiful magic buried in your thread Regret now haunts the things you left unsaid Quietly carving sigils on the floor Whispers of lies slip through a hidden door Driven by hunger nothing could appease Now all is still beneath the poisoned trees Now the storm crashes through the lies you cast Shadows awaken everywhere you tread Whispers you buried echo from the past The flame you fed now scorches all you fled I sought the power, chased the cursed embrace Intentions black beneath a borrowed grace But you arrived and claimed what I had planned And left me trapped inside the spell I’d manned Now the storm howls beyond your broken veil Footsteps are haunted by the words you bled Truth wrapped in silence drags you down to fail The fire you lit consumes the path you led I never should have answered to your flame A hunger drove me far beyond my name Your beauty masked the venom in your soul And now I wear its mark, no longer whole

I once tried stacking river stones to build a small tower. No matter how carefully I placed them, the pile always collapsed. Eventually, I noticed something simple: each stone had a flat side and a round side. When I didn’t pay attention, I placed them however they landed in my hand. But when a round side met another uneven surface, the whole thing became unstable. So I began flipping each stone, taking a moment to find the side that fit better, more balanced. The difference was immediate. The tower stood taller, stronger, more stable. It made me think: relationships can be like that. Sometimes, just a small adjustment in how I show up, just turning a little, softening an edge, being more aware, makes all the difference between a connection that holds… and one that tumbles. Just like turning stones.

English texts below: Habían pasado semanas desde la última vez que nos vimos, pero en mi mente, el tiempo no obedecía calendarios. Lo sentía aún presente en las pequeñas cosas: una canción vieja que sonaba en la radio, el eco de una risa que no era precisamente la suya, pero que lo era todo. Yo me pregunto si habíamos sentido lo mismo, si en algún rincón del pensamiento, escondido detrás de mil otras cosas, por un segundo imaginamos un futuro compartido. Pero la vida, con su forma silenciosa de avanzar, nunca espera a que las dudas se aclaren. Esa tarde, mientras el viento cálido empujaba las hojas del parque donde solíamos caminar, cerró los ojos. Ya no dolía. No del todo. Solo quedaba esa pregunta flotando entre el pecho y el recuerdo: ¿Y si todavía podemos ser lo que alguna vez quisimos ser los dos? Letra: Prodria ser, mas de una vez Lo que pensamos los dos Tendria pensar después, lo que quisimos ser los dos Mirando al frente, sintiendo el viento. Pensando fuerte en lo que viene. No siente nada de tu distancia, no siento nada mas Quedate, acércate Ven a ver lo que pasa aquí Ven a ser mas feliz Tienes que estar aqui Sintiendo que aqui se va Sientiendo que la felicidad Me puede me dar algo mejor De lo que tu no sabes mas Prodria ser, mas de una vez Lo que pensamos los dos Tendria pensar después, lo que quisimos ser los dos Mirando al frente, sintiendo el viento. Pensando fuerte en lo que viene. No siente nada de tu distancia, no siento nada mas English (mostly google translate ... I was a bit lazy :D): It had been weeks since we last saw each other, but in my mind, time didn’t follow calendars. I could still feel you in the smallest things: an old song playing on the radio, the echo of a laugh that wasn’t exactly yours, but somehow it was everything. I wonder if we felt the same, if somewhere deep in our thoughts, buried under a thousand other things, we each, just for a moment, imagined a future we could share. But life, in its quiet way of moving forward, never waits for doubts to clear. That afternoon, as the warm wind brushed through the leaves in the park where we used to walk, I closed my eyes. It didn’t hurt anymore. Not completely. Only one question remained, floating somewhere between memory and heart: What if we can still become what we once dreamed of being—together? Lyrics: It could be, more than once, What we both thought. I would have to think later About what we wanted to be, the two of us. Looking ahead, Feeling the wind. Thinking hard about what’s coming. I don’t feel anything from your distance, I don’t feel anything else. Stay, come closer. Come see what’s happening here. Come be happier. You have to be here. Feeling that it’s slipping away, Feeling that happiness Could give me something better Than what you no longer know. It could be, more than once, What we both thought. I would have to think later About what we wanted to be, the two of us. Looking ahead, Feeling the wind. Thinking hard about what’s coming. I don’t feel anything from your distance, I don’t feel anything else.

I used to think of blight as something that takes. A rot, a ruin, a creeping thing that spoils. I’d heard the word used in gardens, in news reports, in quiet conversations about things gone wrong. But then it happened to me. Not the decay. Not the withering. The other kind. It began slowly, like most disasters do. A touch, a glance, a sentence that stayed too long in my head. Spinning. Love. I think that’s what it was, though even now, the word feels too simple for what it did to me. It didn't arrive like light. It came like floodwater. It drowned me. It surged past logic and tore down the brittle structures I’d built in my keep. It was a blight. Not one of loss. One of abundance. Overgrowth. Uncontainable beauty. It spread in me, until I couldn't think straight. I forgot how to be afraid. I forgot how to stay small. My routines cracked. My solitude crumbled. I let someone in. And suddenly, my carefully kept inner world was overrun. Reclaimed. I was devastated by joy. Ravaged by tenderness. Uprooted by something I hadn’t known I was starving for. I needed more. So now, when I hear the word blight, I smile in secret. Because I know what it can mean. Love, wild unreasonable love, too much to manage. Would I ever go back? No need to ask, I'll stay in my blight.

Love doesn’t stop where it starts. It begins with a splash, a single, brave moment, and then moves onward, carrying kindness, joy, and the growing echo of that first encounter, ever expanding, ever deepening. Love is just like a ripple in water. Once the surface breaks and that splash begins, a chain reaction unfolds. Waves expand outward, dancing across the stillness in soft, choreographed concentric harmony.

(Below English text)Español: Hace más de veinte años que me alejé de la ciudad donde crecí. La vida me llevó lejos, a otros lugares, otras costumbres, otros silencios. Y aunque aquí encontré mi hogar, y me gusta estar donde estoy, a veces una foto, una voz, una llamada, me devuelve, como un suspiro lento, a aquel lugar donde todo comenzó. No es tristeza lo que siento, es melancolía, es afecto. Un recuerdo cálido que me envuelve sin pedir permiso. Me doy cuenta de que no he perdido ese lugar… sigue ahí, esperándome. Y yo también lo espero, porque sé que volver, no es regresar al pasado, sino reencontrarme con una parte de mí, que aún me pertenece. English: It's been more than twenty years since I left the city where I grew up. Life took me far away, to other places, other customs, other silences. And although I found my home here, and I like being where I am, sometimes a photo, a voice, a call, brings me back, like a slow sigh, to that place where it all began. It's not sadness I feel, it's melancholy, it's affection. A warm memory that envelops me without asking permission. I realize I haven't lost that place... it's still there, waiting for me. And I hope so too, because I know that returning isn't returning to the past, but rather reconnecting with a part of myself, that still belongs to me.

A bundle of cables sat in a box, tightly tangled and full of knots. At first glance, it looked like a mess that would take forever to fix. Every time I pulled or shook it, the knots tightened, and it seemed even more hopeless. But then I approached it with calm and patience. As I looked at each twist closely, a small loop revealed itself. With a gentle pull, it loosened. Then another knot followed, and slowly, the whole thing began to come apart with little effort. What once seemed impossible started to unfold on its own. Sometimes, thoughts feel the same way. They pile up, twist around each other, and form problems that feel bigger than they really are. The more pressure we add, the worse it gets. But with a quiet moment and a softer view, things begin to make sense. Most of the time, the problem isn’t the knot — it’s how tightly it’s being pulled.

I still hear your stories Carried softly to my ears, Like summer whispers drifting Through the rustling leaves. The birds still sing your songs, Spreading wide across the hills, Filling valleys, touching rivers, With light and sound that lives. The wind still hums your laughter, Weaving echoes through the trees, A fleeting warmth upon my skin, Like dusk that never fades. And when the stars awaken, Their shimmer feels like home, A quiet glow upon the earth, As if you never left.

The seesaw teetered under the weight of love and hate. She sat on one end, he on the other, the air between them thick with things left unsaid. Up. A lingering touch. A whispered apology. The warmth of something that once felt like home. Down. A cruel word. A shattered promise. The weight of all the ways they had broken each other. The trees twisted around them, gnarled and endless. The path out had long since vanished, swallowed by the dark. She pushed higher. He sank lower. The rusted bolts screeched, as if the seesaw itself wanted to end this cruel rhythm. One shift. One moment. She could let go. Let him fall. Let herself rise. But instead, the seesaw creaked on, repeating an endless motion of a love that refused to die. Lyrics: Tonight we speak about, all the things we said. Tonight we sing about all the things we said. I wanna speak to you, I wanna touch your life, direct my heart to you, make with you my life. Hiding in plain sight. Dreaming that I can. I don't think matters to me. I like to say a word. That makes you understand. There is nothing else in my life. Then leaving you alone. I want you to realize, that I'm alright. I want you to complete, and leave by the door. Flying, I'll be flying when you leave. Flying, as you scream and shout. Flying, living life at large.

The eagle soared high above the valley, its golden eyes scanning the land below. The wind was strong, but its wings knew the currents well. It had spent months away, hunting in distant places, testing itself against storms it once feared. Now, with a branch in its talons, it turned toward the mountain where it was born. The nest was still there—weathered but strong, the foundation holding despite the years. The eagle landed gently, placing the twig among the others. It wasn’t just a branch. It was a piece of the journey, a piece of everywhere it had been, now woven into the place it truly belonged. Resting for a moment, it looked at the sky, the same sky it had once left in search of something more. And yet, here, in the familiar air, on the sturdy nest, it felt whole again. Some journeys take you far. The most important ones bring you back.

The world moves in loops, steady and predictable. The tides obey the moon, the seasons circle back in their familiar dance, and the stars return to their appointed places in the night. Yet, just like life, the pattern is never perfect. A wave surged too far, like an unplanned meeting that changed everything. A late frost nipped at spring’s first bloom, like a missed chance that led somewhere unexpected. A star flickered oddly, like a fleeting thought that refused to fade. It is the ripples, the hesitations, the odd little stumbles that make both nature and life more than just a pattern. And that is why life, in all its imperfections, its patterns, surprises and tedium is full of beauty.

I received your call, and it surprised me, I had to rush to you. The distance was long, and getting there on time felt almost impossible. My mind raced as I ran, thinking of everything I wanted to say, rehearsing the words over and over. But then, a thought struck me! I couldn’t arrive empty-handed. I spotted a small flower shop just as the owner was closing. Out of breath, I managed to grab the only thing left, a small bouquet of lilies. No time to think, no time to choose. Just grab and go. I kept running, my heart pounding, my breath short. Every second felt like it slipped away too fast. When I finally reached your door, I barely had time to catch my breath before it opened. All the urgency, all the words I had prepared, suddenly vanished. Without thinking, I just lifted the tiny bouquet in front of my face, as if it could somehow explain everything. No grand speech, no perfect delivery ... just me, breathless and holding out a handful of lilies, hoping they could say what I couldn’t.

The soft hum of the airport filled the space between them, a quiet symphony of departures and arrivals. Hands clasped tightly, neither wanted to let go, as if the strength of their grip could hold time still. Outside the towering glass windows, planes climbed into the sky, their distant rumble echoing through the terminal. “Don't worry, you have everything?” My voice was soft, trembling just enough to betray the emotions behind it. “I do,” came the reply, steady and warm. “We made sure of that.” The night before had been spent in preparation—packing bags with care, folding familiar comforts into small spaces, and gifts for the family. It was a quiet ritual of love, the kind that spoke louder than any words. “I’m proud of you,” my words came slowly, heavy with meaning. “He needs you, and you’re doing what’s right.” A hand reached up to brush against a cheek, the touch gentle and full of reassurance. “I’ll miss you.” The speakers crackled with the call for the flight, and the world seemed to pause. The moment felt impossibly fragile, as if it could shatter under the weight of what wasn’t being said, yet clearly conveyed with their glances. “I’ll miss you more,” came the reply, a weak attempt at a smile accompanying it. A soft laugh answered, but the eyes lingered, as though trying to memorise every detail before the inevitable separation. “It won’t be forever.” Steps away from the gate, she turned back one last time, a fleeting wave and a smile that carried so much more. Watching until she disappeared, I stood motionless, arms aching with emptiness, heart heavy but resolute. Letting go was an act of love, perhaps the most difficult kind. Later, the house felt unnervingly still. The shoes left at the entrance, and the faint scent of perfume lingering in the pillow, brought some tear to my eyes. Yet even in the quiet, her presence remained, woven into the fabric of home. Our home.

O fairest damsel, thy visage doth linger in my mind as the morn’s dew upon the leaf. Though mine heart be sworn to this holy quest, it heaveth with the weight of thy absence. Each step I taketh upon this barren path doth stretch the gulf betwixt us, and mine soul doth pine for thy gentle voice, thy tender gaze. Pray, let not thy spirit falter, for though the miles be many, my love for thee remaineth steadfast, as the stars that keep vigil o’er the night. Withal mine heart’s affection and utmost reverence, Thine ever-devoted servant, Set Meridian

Life is like a swing hanging from a sturdy tree branch. Some days, you soar high, feeling the joy and freedom as the wind brushes past your face. Other days, you sink low, weighed down by heaviness, wondering if you’ll ever rise again. Emotions are like the unseen hands that push and pull you—sometimes gently, sometimes with more force than you’re ready for—but they keep you moving. And just like on a real swing, sometimes you have to lean in and push yourself. It’s not always easy—kicking your legs forward and back takes effort, especially when you’re low—but that’s how you build the momentum to rise again. If you hang on and keep moving, the swing will always arc upward. And in between the highs and lows, you might just find yourself laughing, enjoying the ride after all.

Lying on the soft, sun-warmed sand, you feel the gentle rhythm of the waves as they kiss the shore, their soothing sound a natural lullaby. The salty breeze carries the scent of the ocean, mingling with the warmth of the sun on your skin. In this peaceful haven, the beach feels like an embrace shared with loved ones. Each wave that rolls ashore mirrors the comfort of their presence, steady and soothing. The golden sand beneath you is their steadfast support, grounding you in safety and belonging. As the breeze brushes past, it's like their laughter, light and uplifting, carrying joy to your heart. The endless horizon reflects the boundless happiness of being together—a timeless connection as natural and enduring as the sea meeting the shore.

We lingered at the café door, clutching notebooks and nerves alike. Inside, a gentle strum of guitar mingled with the low murmur of conversation and the rich aroma of coffee. It was a space brimming with ease, but for us, every step forward felt unsteady, like toddlers daring to walk across an unfamiliar room. Our years didn’t make us immune to fear; they only made it easier to hesitate. When our name was called, the impulse to retreat was strong, but then we noticed a toddler at a nearby table, stacking sugar packets with clumsy hands. Again and again, they tumbled to the table, and each collapse was met with laughter and another attempt. Inspired by the simple courage of that child, we walked to the microphone, our steps faltering but resolute. Words stumbled out at first, shaky and uncertain, but like a child finding rhythm, we gained steadiness with each line. The applause that followed felt less like validation and more like belonging, a reminder that trying mattered more than succeeding. As we sat back down, the toddler's joy lingered in our thoughts, their persistence mirroring the lessons we were only now learning to embrace. Life, we realized, was a series of toppled towers, rebuilt with care and laughter; proof that we, too, were still fairly new to it all.

The molecule drifted upward, breaking free from the confines of the droplet. As it rose into the air, it marveled at the vastness around it, each shift and swirl a new discovery. It passed through clouds, watching other molecules stay anchored in familiar formations, content in their stillness. But this molecule sought something more: freedom, movement, the unknown. It glided past trees and buildings, each new view a revelation, each gust of wind a reminder of the endless possibilities. Somewhere below, another molecule lingered, perfectly at ease in its place. The molecule wasn’t interested in settling, it wanted to explore, to expand, to see how far the world could stretch. It moved not just to go somewhere, but to understand everything in between. Then, as a cold front approached, it felt itself drawn back, returning to the drop. Yet, in that brief journey, the molecule had learned that discovery isn’t a place; it’s the act of moving through the unknown.

The sky stretched endlessly, and the air was light, as if the very act of flying could erase all the weight of the world. Memories surfaced—perfect, fleeting moments—first kisses, late-night laughter, summers that felt infinite. Everything is exactly as it should be. The future seemed clear, a continuation of this peace. Days filled with joy, love, and adventure. This is how it’s supposed to end, the thought lingered, warm and reassuring. But then, a strange sensation. Wait... A flash of recognition. The weight of déjà vu hit like a sudden gust. I’ve been here before. The realization struck quickly—this wasn’t new. The feeling of falling, the rush of wind, the absence of a parachute. It’s happening. The ground grew closer, fast. There was no time to prepare. No safety net. Just the endless pull of gravity. But then, just before impact, everything shifted. The fall softened, and the earth beneath was no longer rushing up. Instead, there was a gentle landing—on something light, something soft. A cloud. A perfect, soft cushion. And with a deep, relieved breath, the smile appeared. Because sometimes, a fall is just a reminder of how much flying is truly loved.

The night is quiet, but the waves are alive, crashing rhythmically against the shore. You walk along the coastline, your feet sinking into the sand with every step. The air is warm, filled with salt, and there's a sense of something timeless hanging in it—something you can't quite put into words. With each step, you move closer to the ocean’s embrace, the world around you slipping away. The horizon is a canvas of fading light—lavender, gold, and deepening blue. The breeze picks up, moving around you, carrying whispers of the sea, secrets only it knows. The sound of the waves blends with the rhythm in your chest, and you feel lighter with each passing moment, almost weightless. It’s as if everything slows down, but you’re still moving forward. The pull of the ocean is soft but constant, like a melody you can’t escape, and you don’t want to. The world beyond this moment doesn’t matter anymore. The noise, the rush—it’s all fading as the rhythm of the sea matches your own heartbeat. The night stretches on, but you feel a peace settling in. Each breath is deeper than the last, as if the breeze is carrying away all the clutter in your mind. The air around you feels fresh, new, and you can almost feel it clearing away the weight of everything else. And for a moment, you’re free—free like the wind, free like the ocean.

Hit the ground like it insulted you. Let your boots smash the floor, your fists pound the air. The music isn’t just sound—it’s a challenge, a battle cry. Jump until the rage boils over, until your legs scream for mercy. Let the sweat drip, let the fire burn; this is your war zone, and you’re here to conquer. Every stomp sends a shockwave through your soul, shaking loose the chains of whatever held you down. Clap like it’s a fight, shout like it’s a riot. Let the beat rip through you, jagged and raw, as the rhythm takes control. You’re not just dancing—you’re tearing apart the tension, breaking open the cage. Anger becomes power, and power becomes freedom. When the track ends, and you’re gasping for air, you’ll feel it: alive, invincible, unstoppable. Dance angry. Own the chaos.

At dawn, a flock of starlings sweeps across the sky, weaving patterns that seem almost rehearsed. Each bird watches the others, borrowing the angles of their turns, the timing of their dips, and the rhythm of their flight. None flies alone, yet none follows blindly. Instead, they adapt, blending what they see into their own unique path through the air. It’s not just movement; it’s a silent dialogue, a shared wisdom passed from wing to wing, creating something greater than any single bird could achieve. Life works much the same way. We all watch and learn from those around us: parents, friends, strangers, even heroes we’ll never meet. Their triumphs and mistakes, their resilience and creativity, are fragments of a vast, ongoing melody. By observing, reflecting, and adapting, we sample bits of their experiences to compose our own lives. It’s not copying; it’s inspiration. We take the heartbreak someone overcame or the courage they showed and fold it into our own story, remixing their lessons into something that resonates with who we are. Like a producer piecing together a track, or a starling finding its place in the murmuration, we craft meaning from what surrounds us. Every person we encounter leaves an echo, a sample, that shapes how we navigate the world. And just as the flock’s fluid dance or a well-sampled song creates something greater than the sum of its parts, so too does life become richer when we draw from the wisdom of others, blending their notes into our own distinct rhythm.

I walked her to her car, the night air still humming with our laughter and conversations. The parking lot was quiet, stars barely visible overhead, but she lit up everything around her in that beautiful yellow jumper. She leaned against her car and turned to me, her eyes lingering like there was something left unspoken, something waiting between us. My heart pounded so loud I was sure she could hear it. I took a breath, trying to steady myself, but every step closer felt like I was moving into a moment I’d been waiting for all my life. I looked at her, caught in that warm glow from the streetlight, and before I knew it, I leaned in. She met me halfway, her lips soft and warm, her hand resting gently on my shoulder. It was simple, sweet, but it felt like the whole world had paused just for us, holding its breath. Everything faded, and all I could feel was her, standing there with me, wrapped in this gentle, heart-stopping magic. When we pulled back, I looked at her, and she smiled, that quiet, knowing smile that said everything. My heart still raced, but I knew I’d carry that moment with me—the glow of her yellow jumper, the taste of her first kiss, and the feeling that something beautiful had just begun.

Gravity’s like life’s own bind, An unseen pull you’re sure to find. No matter how you leap or fight, It holds you steady, keeps things tight. Some forces can’t be swayed or bent, They’re markers of where time is spent. So let them shape the path you take, For even bounds help dreams awake.

Collaboration with https://soundcloud.com/travelingflwr In a quiet valley, two glowing circles floated in the sky. One was bright and warm, but its light seemed scattered. The other was dark, pulling in shadows but showing nothing. The people below watched them, puzzled, as neither circle seemed to serve a real purpose on its own. One day, the circles began to overlap. As they did, light and shadow blended perfectly, revealing the valley’s hidden beauty. The rivers sparkled, and the trees stood tall. Together, the circles made everything clear, showing that only by joining forces could they make the world below truly shine.