Category: Musings

Definition is a coffin, polished and precise, built to contain something that was never meant to be still. We press ourselves into its corners, into the words others have given us—daughter, lover, failure, dreamer—until the shape of us is lost beneath the weight of their meaning. But meanings rot, don’t they? They decay like fruit left too long in the sun, sweet at first, then sour, then gone. And what is left? A body unclaimed by language, shifting, slipping through the cracks of expectation.

There is a cruelty in being known, in being named. A name is a brand, seared into the skin, a promise you never agreed to make. They say you are this, so you must be this. They say you are that, so you cannot be anything else. But there is a rebellion in silence, in refusing to give yourself away, in holding your shape loosely enough that no one can grasp it. To be nothing is to be untouchable. To be nothing is to be free.

Yet, we ache to be seen. To have someone look at us and say, there you are, without turning us into something small enough to hold. But if they name you, they claim you. If they define you, they own you. So you swallow your longing, tuck it into the hollow of your ribs, and let yourself become wind, become water, become whatever the world cannot catch.

I am a planet wrapped in my own debris, a celestial body spinning in the void, my rings forged from the shards of what I could not keep. Time, that indifferent sculptor, has carved me into something I barely recognize—a mosaic of fractures, a tapestry of scars. And yet, I am told this is beauty. This is growth.

The stars whisper their cold truths: You are not what you were. And they are right. I am not the girl who once believed in the simplicity of light, who thought the universe would cradle her in its arms and sing her to sleep. I am the woman who has learned to cradle herself, to sing her own lullabies in the dark.

Saturn does not apologize for its rings. It wears them like a crown. And I? I wear my pain like a second skin, a map of all the places I have been and all the battles I have fought. The cracks in my heart are not flaws; they are the fault lines of a soul that has trembled but not shattered.

Time is a thief, they say. But I have learned to steal it back. Every wrinkle, every gray hair, every scar is a trophy, a reminder that I have outlived my sorrows. I have outlived the nights when the weight of the world pressed down on my chest and I could not breathe. I have outlived the days when I thought I would never smile again.

Still, I orbit. I move through the darkness, not because I am brave, but because I have no other choice. The sun calls to me, its warmth a distant promise, and I answer. I always answer. For even in the coldest reaches of space, there is light. Even in the deepest corners of my mind, there is hope.

I am not what I was. I am more. I am less. I am everything and nothing, a paradox wrapped in flesh and bone. Like Saturn, I am a mystery to myself. Like Saturn, I am a work in progress. Like Saturn, I know I only get better with time.

In the vast, unending expanse of the multiverse, where time folds in on itself and reality splits into infinite refrains, two souls search endlessly for one another. They are bound not by the laws of space or gravity, but by a force so profound it defies the very fabric of existence. In one universe, they might share a fleeting glance across a crowded room; in another, their hands might graze, only to be pulled apart by the cruel tide of fate. In every iteration, the stars seem to conspire against them—galaxies collapsing, dimensions folding—yet they persist, eternally attuned to the ache of something that can never fully take root, but will never fully fade.

It is said that somewhere in the multiverse, there exists a thread, a perfect alignment of moments where they are free to find each other without barriers. But in all other worlds, they are tragic echoes, missing each other by a fraction of a breath or a beat of time. She dreams of him in fragments—his voice a low hum in the static of her thoughts, his touch like a memory she cannot place. He searches for her in shadows, in the patterns of falling leaves, in the spaces between stars. Though they may never exist in the same frame, their connection reverberates across dimensions, an indelible imprint on the cosmos, reminding every universe that even the cruelest distances cannot sever the tether between two destined souls.

To simply look and not touch, to admire and not claim—this is a quiet revolution in a world that demands the consumption of everything desired. There is power in resisting the urge to grasp, in letting beauty exist as it is—untouched, unowned, fleeting. Humanity often seems burdened not by what is lacking but by the belief that desire must always be fulfilled. Yet, what if the fulfillment lies in the desire itself? To see something, to long for it, and to let that longing expand the soul rather than drive the need to possess. Attraction need not have an end; it can simply be—a spark that illuminates without burning.

Perhaps this was the wisdom Eve sought but never found. Her act in the Garden of Eden was not merely one of disobedience but humanity’s first attempt to collapse the distance between beauty and possession, knowledge and control. She reached for the fruit, driven by the same restless hunger that still defines human nature: the belief that to truly know something, it must be consumed, made one’s own. But what if the original sin was not the act of eating the fruit but the inability to marvel at it? To admire its perfection, the shimmer of its skin in the light, and feel the sweetness of desire without needing to taste it? What if the true test was to learn that simply beholding beauty without grasping is a sacred act—a bridge to the divine?

Eve, in her reaching, set humanity on the path of endless grasping, of always seeking to fill the spaces of longing with action. Yet redemption might lie in the reversal of this impulse: the cultivation of the art of looking without devouring, of letting the fruit of desire remain on the branch. In the rare moments when individuals let beauty exist without pulling it into their grasp, there is a profound sense of freedom. It is as if beauty itself turns back to acknowledge the act of restraint, as though to say, “Thank you for seeing me as I am, not as something to conquer.”

Freedom is a word that carries weight, but rarely clarity. It suggests boundless opportunity, the ability to make choices, to shape one’s path. Yet, what does it mean to be free when the world itself is not designed to accommodate your existence? What does freedom look like when every road you travel seems to end at a wall you did not build?

To be free in a world that doesn’t exist for you is to move within a space that was not made for your survival, much less your flourishing. It is the freedom to speak in a language no one is willing to understand, to reach for possibilities that are deliberately placed out of reach. It is the freedom of the outlier, of the excluded—the freedom to dream, but only within the confines of an architecture that refuses to recognize your dreams as valid.

This is the paradox of the invisible: you are free, but your freedom is spent navigating a labyrinth where your presence is both unexpected and unwelcome. You are free, but within systems that cannot see you except as an anomaly to be managed or an error to be corrected. You are free, but this freedom does not come with a place to belong.

And yet, this strange, empty freedom carries meaning, if only because of what it reveals. To live in a world that does not exist for you is to notice its cracks and fractures, its injustices and omissions. It is to feel the sharp edges of what others pass by without a second thought. You become attuned to the unseen, the unsaid, the unspoken rules that govern lives and shape fates. In this, your alienation becomes a kind of insight.

Consider those who have walked this path before: the thinkers, the dreamers, the dissenters. Freedom for them was not the absence of constraints but the ability to see beyond them, to understand the world’s indifference and to persist in spite of it. The artist painting in colors the world refuses to name, the writer crafting words for stories no one has told, the visionary building bridges where others see only rivers—these are the ones who transform the void into something tangible, not because the world offered them a way but because they made one.

To be free in a world that doesn’t exist for you is a quiet rebellion, one that does not announce itself but works in slow, deliberate ways. It is the kind of freedom that reshapes not only the self but the world around it. Not through grand declarations, but through the simple, persistent act of being. Of living, thinking, creating. Of refusing to let the void be the final word.

There is no triumph here, no neat resolution. The world may never exist for you, not fully. Perhaps that is the point. The measure of your freedom is not in the world’s recognition but in your ability to exist within it on your terms. It is the realization that the world’s indifference is not your defeat. It is merely the canvas on which you begin.

If the soul is destined to wander through lifetimes, how cruel it is that we are left to feel the faint echoes of who we once were, always just out of reach. How many stand before a painting, their chest tightening with an ache they cannot name, not knowing that the hand that created it once trembled with their own longing? How many hear a melody that splinters them in places they thought long healed, every note a ghost of a song they composed in a life they’ve been forced to forget? How many clutch a book so tightly it might crumble, its words carving into them like a blade—because they once bled to write them?

Imagine the unbearable agony of recognizing pieces of yourself scattered across time, knowing they can never truly be yours again. And then imagine love—how many times have we found them, only to lose them again? How many lifetimes have we spent searching for a face, a voice, a touch, with nothing but the hollow ache of their absence to guide us? And when, by some miracle, we find them once more, does it ever fill the void? Or is the joy only a fleeting balm, a momentary reprieve before the weight of every lifetime spent apart crashes back down?

And what of the poets? How many stand trembling before a line of verse that feels like it was torn from their own soul, unable to comprehend why it leaves them breathless? How many find themselves in graveyards, drawn to a name they do not know but cannot bear to leave, their fingers tracing the letters like a wound they can never heal? Is the pain one of longing, of pride, or of mourning for all the pieces of themselves that lie buried there?

Perhaps this is the tragedy of existence: to leave remnants of ourselves behind, scattered like shards of glass, so sharp and painful that even in finding them, we bleed. To be both the seeker and the lost, forever chasing fragments of a whole that will never exist. To ache for what we once were, to grieve for the lives we’ve lost, to carry the weight of a thousand selves we can never reclaim. And in those moments—when a painting breaks us, when a melody shatters us, when a name leaves us undone—we are reminded of a truth that cuts deeper than any blade: we are not just searching for meaning. We are searching for pieces of ourselves we will never fully find. And no matter how far our souls wander, how many lifetimes we live, that emptiness will remain.

Late each evening, once the lights in every window have been extinguished and the streets empty with a suddenness that borders on the disconcerting, I feel compelled to wander out into the city. Out there, at that hour, even the streetlamps seem apprehensive, casting their beams as though they wish to remain unnoticed, while the buildings behind them loom in uncertain shapes. It’s as if the entire urban expanse, animated during the day by endless clamor, were reduced at night to its truest form: silent, watchful, and vaguely conspiratorial, as if it has secrets that remain hidden even from those who built it.

I have tried, more than once, to resist the pull of these nocturnal rambles. The day’s demands, the pressing obligations of work, the trivialities that collect like dust on one’s conscience—these should be enough to keep a person indoors. Yet, in the moment just before midnight, something shifts within me. The very atmosphere changes its texture, and I become consumed by a restlessness that neither slumber nor forced discipline can quell. So I rise, dress, and venture out, propelled by a vague sense of duty I have never fully understood.

Strangely, I am not alone in this inclination. Like silhouettes cast upon a hidden stage, there are others roaming through the narrow lanes—at a distance, always just out of reach, disappearing around corners as soon as I glimpse them. Their presence, though faint, confirms that this watchfulness is no mere eccentricity of mine. Often, a hurried figure will pass me, wearing the same half-startled expression I suspect I wear myself. We exchange glances, fleeting and uncertain, as if to say, “Yes, you too are called to wander the night—but for what reason?” We do not linger to find out.

It reminds me of a theory I once heard, of a sentinel tradition handed down through eras so distant no one living quite remembers their origins. Our ancestors, so they say, would take turns keeping guard around the smoldering fires of a small village. By night they would pace the perimeter, ensuring no sleeping soul was imperiled by the hidden predators lurking just beyond the encampment. This legacy of vigilance could be etched into us as deeply as our own fingerprints. But in a city so large and so inscrutable, what are we guarding against now—if indeed we are guarding anything at all?

There is a disquieting familiarity in these hushed streets. Each building, drained of its daylight purpose, resembles a fortress. The shadows cling to corners, and whenever I approach, they twist away, leaving behind only the conviction that I was on the verge of witnessing something important. Occasionally, my footsteps echo back at me in ominous repetition, as though I am being trailed by a double of myself who is equally compelled to continue walking. It’s impossible to tell where the boundaries of this watchfulness end, or who might be the real observer in these silent transactions—the city or me.

Yet, for all the night’s unease, there is also an inexplicable sense of peace in carrying out this solitary patrol. If I pause to gaze up, I’ll see a faint scattering of stars peering between rooftops. I wonder if they, too, are participants in this unspoken contract, shining distantly upon my wandering as if to reassure me that I am not as alone as I feel. They are watchers across unfathomable distances, mirroring the smaller vigilance I perform here below.

So I persist, night after night, suspecting but never quite confirming my purpose. Perhaps I am performing a vital function so natural that its details can only be discerned by others, not by myself. Perhaps my meandering through deserted streets in the small hours only underscores the futility of seeking explanation in a world that refuses to provide it. Either way, I keep walking, quietly watchful, until the first glimmer of dawn begins to steal across the skyline. By then, the city stirs, and that special stillness recedes, leaving only the faintest trace of its power—enough, at least, to beckon me back tomorrow.

The Sentinel Hypothesis

The story behind maps
is that they were meant to guide,
but often only show us
where we cannot go—
lines drawn by hands
we will never touch.

The story behind clocks
is that they don’t count time—
they measure loss.
Every tick a moment leaving,
every chime a memory too late to hold.

The story behind stars
is that they are already gone,
their light traveling across years
just to remind us they were there.

The story behind us
is that we built something
without knowing how to keep it,
held it in hands
that didn’t know how to stay still.

The story behind fire
is that it consumes.
It warms, it brightens,
but in the end, it leaves ash.
And still, we light the match.