You…
you can call the sinking sun warm.
Even as it slips away,
its last glow can still rest on your cheek,
a farewell touch
from something that never belonged to you
yet touched you anyway.

But you…
you cannot leash the sun,
cannot grab it by the rim
and lift it
back over the ridge
into the sky.
The sun may honor your courage,
but it does not obey your wanting.

And you…
you can speak to clouds
in any language you choose.
Give them names,
shapes,
stories.
Clouds listen
but rarely change
because of a voice.

And still,
even if you plead,
you cannot summon rain on command.
A sky does not weep
before its time.
Just as a heart
refuses to shed tears
until something inside
finally shifts.

Air,
light,
clouds
may walk beside you,
but none of them
walk under your ownership.
We live by learning this.

You can tell someone
to be gentle,
but their wounds
must heal beneath their own skin.

You can beg the world
to look beautiful,
but every pair of eyes
carries a private map of old storms.

Nature keeps teaching us:
our addressing is free,
our outcomes are not.

This is why
you can call the sun warm
but you cannot call it back.
You can call to the clouds
but you cannot make them rain.

And maybe this is why
I call to the human heart
without asking it to change.
Because the heart
is just another weather system
moving at its own pace,
under its own sky.

I have noticed something.
Most people never realise
that I can break again…
and still keep walking.

Maybe that’s why
even after they’ve shattered once,
they drift around
searching for the next crack,
the next fall,
as if collapsing is the only language
they know how to speak.

And this heart of mine,
still splitting in slow motion,
keeps asking me,
“What do I tell myself now?”

So I answer:

Every fragment I’ve ever become
held a soul inside it.
A presence.
Someone or something
that completed that moment
exactly as it was meant to be.

Like a puzzle
that pretends to be chaos
until one day it doesn’t.

And the truth is,
I’m a puzzle too.
Not the easy kind.
Not the kind with a picture on the box.

Just pieces.
Just silence.
Just the slow discovery
of what fits where.

And when life turns you
into your own riddle,
you stop hunting for answers
outside your skin.

You start stepping out
from the inside.
Piece by piece,
clearer than yesterday.

This is how I rise:
not by pretending I never broke,
but by realizing
I was never ruined.
Only rearranged.

And I walk ahead.
I carry whatever pieces stay.
Even unfinished, I am still becoming.
I am becoming the whole thing I was meant to be.

My friend asked me,

what motivates you most?

I said,

nothing.

My consciousness flows like a river,

naturally.

I don’t chase words.

I let them arrive.

I write what passes through my mind,

as it passes.

If it is a divine gift,

I accept it.

It makes me blissful.

And from that bliss,

I began to write.

They arrived at the destination

without speaking,

without exchanging anything.

Because the destination

was still far away

in their minds.

But in their hearts,

they believed

they had arrived.

They set their burdens down,

felt their shoulders loosen,

light for a moment.

Then incompleteness returns.

It follows you,

pulls you downward,

deeper,

and deeper still.

Until someone shakes you awake.

And you rise,

wondering,

was I dreaming?