Anthony's Literary Lens

Author: Anthony Thomas

  • Reconnection

    Reconnection

    **INTERNAL. A DIMLY LIT ROOM – DAY**

    *The scene opens in a small, nondescript room. The light is weak, coming through the window in streaks, casting long shadows on the floor. It feels claustrophobic, stagnant. The only sound is a distant murmur, like the hum of a world just out of reach.*

    Honeysuckle?

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”I want you to feel lost, like you’re floating inside your own mind but disconnected from everything around you. The room doesn’t exist to you yet—it’s just a blur. Your movements should be slow, like you’re trying to find your footing but can’t quite feel the ground beneath you. We’re capturing the absence of feeling, of life. You’re here, but not really.”_

    —

    *The actor stands in the centre of the room, eyes distant, unfocused. They sway slightly, as if the weight of the air around them is too much to bear. Their hands hang loosely by their sides, fingers twitching but not grasping anything. The world is silent to them, void.*

    —

    **CUT TO: A CLOSE-UP OF THEIR EYES.**

    *The camera focuses on the actor’s eyes, wide but unfocused, glazed over as if nothing can penetrate the walls they’ve built around themselves.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”Your eyes should tell us everything, but they won’t just yet. We need to see the absence first, the numbness. You’re searching for something, but you don’t even know what it is yet. Let them feel the emptiness.”_

    —

    *The actor blinks, slowly. It’s the first real movement, subtle but intentional. As if something, just barely, is reaching them from the outside. They close their eyes, but not to shut the world out. It’s almost a surrender, an invitation.*

    —

    **CUT TO: THE SOUND OF LEAVES RUSTLING OUTSIDE.**

    *The camera lingers on the window, where trees sway in the wind. The sound is faint, but persistent.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”The sound of the leaves is important. It’s the first sign of life, something beyond the noise in your head. It’s soft, gentle. You’re going to hear it, and it will bring you back—just a little. Just enough to remind you that the world is still there, waiting.”_

    —

    *The actor’s head tilts slightly, catching the sound. Their expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a furrow of the brow. They blink again, as if testing the space between them and the noise. The tension in their shoulders loosens, but only just.*

    —

    **CLOSE-UP OF THEIR HANDS.**

    *Their fingers twitch again, this time with purpose. They reach out, running fingertips along the arm of the chair they’ve been standing beside, feeling its texture for the first time. It’s rough, worn. Real.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”This is the beginning of your reconnection. The chair represents something solid in your life—maybe a memory, maybe a part of yourself you’d forgotten was there. The sensation of touch will ground you, pull you back into your body. Let your fingers move slowly, deliberately. It’s not just the chair you’re feeling; it’s everything you’ve been missing.”_

    —

    *The actor closes their hand around the arm of the chair, their grip tightening. Their breath catches in their chest, shallow but sharp, like they’ve just remembered how to breathe again. For a moment, their eyes flicker with recognition, but it fades.*

    —

    **CUT TO: THE SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS IN THE DISTANCE.**

    *The room is still, but the actor can hear faint footsteps echoing outside the door. They turn slightly, listening. Their heart rate picks up, their pulse quickening.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”The footsteps represent the outside world—people, responsibilities, life moving on without you. It’s overwhelming at first, but you don’t shy away from it this time. You listen. Let the sound bring both anxiety and a strange sense of relief. You’re waking up, but it’s disorienting.”_

    —

    *The actor’s body tenses. They take a step toward the door, hesitant but drawn by the sound. Their breathing is uneven, shallow. For a moment, it seems like they might turn away, retreat back into themselves. But they don’t.*

    —

    **CUT TO: A BOWL OF FRUIT ON THE TABLE.**

    *The camera zooms in on a single orange, sitting in the bowl on the table. The vibrant colour contrasts with the drabness of the room, its scent faint but sweet.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”The orange is your next anchor. The colour, the scent, the texture—it represents life, nourishment, something outside of your internal chaos. You’ll reach for it, but slowly, as if you’re afraid of it. The smell will be the first thing to hit you, something real and sharp enough to cut through the fog.”_

    —

    *The actor approaches the table, their movements still tentative. They hover over the bowl, staring at the orange like it holds some kind of secret. Their hand moves slowly, shaking slightly, before they finally pick it up. They lift it to their nose, inhaling deeply. Their eyes close, and for a moment, they are somewhere else entirely.*

    —

    **CLOSE-UP OF THEIR FACE.**

    *The actor’s lips part slightly, as if they are about to speak, but no words come. They roll the orange between their palms, feeling its weight, its texture. Their fingers sink into the peel, releasing the scent more fully.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”This is a moment of reconnection, but it’s bittersweet. The orange symbolises vitality, but also the realisation of what you’ve been missing. You’re feeling again, but with that comes an ache—an awareness that you’ve been absent from your own life.”_

    —

    *The actor peels the orange slowly, their fingers sticky with juice. They take a small bite, savouring the taste. A slow smile flickers at the corner of their mouth, but it fades almost as quickly as it appears. They’re not ready to fully embrace the world yet, but they’re closer. The taste reminds them that they’re alive.*

    —

    **FINAL SHOT: THE WINDOW, FULLY OPEN NOW.**

    *The wind blows through the open window, rustling the curtains. The light is warmer, softer. Outside, the trees sway, and the hum of the world feels closer, more tangible.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”The window is open now. You’ve let the world in, but only a little. There’s still distance, but you’re beginning to rejoin life. This moment should feel like the first real breath of fresh air you’ve had in ages. You’re not healed, but you’re healing. It’s tentative, fragile, but it’s there.”_

    —

    *The actor moves toward the window, standing just at the edge of the sunlight streaming in. They pause, breathing deeply. Their shoulders relax fully for the first time. The sound of the leaves, the wind, the distant life outside—it’s all there, waiting. And for the first time, they’re ready to step back into it.*

    —

    **Director’s Final Notes:**
    _”You’re still on the edge, but you’re not lost anymore. The world is starting to make sense again through the sounds, smells, and textures around you. Let this final scene be about hope—quiet, uncertain hope. You’re feeling everything now, but you’re okay with it. You’re starting to trust the world again, piece by piece.”_

    —

    **FADE TO BLACK.**

    Its a mist-tree
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  • Grafting Tomatoes:

    Grafting Tomatoes:

    The Art of Combining Flavours and Strength

    Last year, I decided to dive into the world of grafting tomatoes, eager to blend the best qualities of different varieties. With a passion for gardening and a bit of curiosity, I chose Alicante for its exceptional flavour and Estamino for its sturdy roots. Little did I know that this hands-on experience would not only enhance my garden but also deepen my appreciation for the art of growing tomatoes. Join me as I walk you through what I did.

    Visual Steps of the Grafting Process

    If you’re looking to elevate your home gardening game, grafting tomatoes is a fantastic technique to explore. Not only does it allow you to combine the best traits of two different varieties, but it also gives you the chance to experiment with flavours and resilience. In this guide, we’ll delve into the essentials of grafting, focusing on the popular Alicante variety for its delicious fruit and Estamino for its sturdy root system.

    So, what exactly is grafting? At its core, grafting is a method that involves joining two plants together so they grow as one. The top part of the graft, known as the **scion**, is where the desired fruit variety comes from—in this case, Alicante. The bottom part is the **rootstock**, which provides the roots and is often selected for its hardiness or resistance to diseases. By combining these two, you can create a plant that boasts the fantastic flavour of Alicante tomatoes while benefiting from the robust nature of Estamino roots.

    Begin by selecting a strong Estamino plant, about 10 to 15 cm tall. Using your knife, make a clean cut V, about 5 cm above the soil line. This cut should be smooth, as it encourages healing. Next, turn your attention to the Alicante variety. Look for a stem that matches the rootstock’s thickness and cut it at the same angle. Aim for a length of about 5 to 10 cm, ensuring you have a couple of leaf nodes.

    With your scion and rootstock prepared, it’s time to join them together. Align the cut surfaces so they’re touching; this is vital for the graft to take. Secure the graft using a grafting clip or tape—make sure it’s tight enough to hold them in place. If you want to give your graft the best chance, consider placing a plastic bag or humidity dome over it to maintain moisture. If you’re doing multiple grafts, don’t forget to label them to avoid confusion later on!

    After you’ve set everything up, place your grafted plants in a warm, sheltered spot but keep them out of direct sunlight for a little while. This helps reduce stress on the graft. Within a week or so, check the graft site for signs of new growth. If you see some, congratulations! Your graft has taken. After about two to three weeks, you can gently remove the grafting clips or tape.

    Once your grafted plants are looking strong and have a few leaves, they’re ready to be transplanted into larger pots or directly into your garden. Watching them grow and produce delicious Alicante tomatoes, all thanks to the sturdy roots of Estamino, is incredibly rewarding.

    As with any gardening technique, a bit of patience and observation goes a long way. Grafting is an art that takes practice, but the rewards—vibrant, healthy tomatoes with fantastic flavour—are well worth the effort. So why not give it a go? Happy grafting, and may your garden thrive

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  • Wild dog seeks love

    Wild dog seeks love

    **African Painted Dog**

    Painted promise
    I took this at Chester zoo

    “Adventurous spirit seeking same! I’m an African Painted Dog from the savannas of Africa, with a coat as unique as my personality. Love being part of a pack? So do I. We’ll howl, bark, and whine our way through life’s adventures together. Ready to run wild? Join me.”

    **Dhole** 

    Dynamic Dhole

    “Dedicated partner wanted for thrilling adventures. As a Dhole hailing from the forests and grasslands of Asia, I thrive in a tight-knit pack, working together to bring down large prey. My red coat and bushy tail add a dash of charm. Ready to join a loyal family? Let’s embark on this journey together.”

    **Maned Wolf**

    Majestically Maned

    “Seeking unique and independent soul. I’m a Maned Wolf, the largest wild canid in South America, with my long legs and reddish-brown coat. I’m a hunter with a great sense of smell. Value independence? Let’s explore the wild together.”

    **Bush Dog** 

    Bush Dog Bliss

    “Fun-loving partner sought for water adventures. I’m a Bush Dog from the tropical forests of Central and South America, with a distinctive black and white coat and a love for swimming. My pack and I play in the water and hunt together. Looking for adventure? Dive in with me.”

    **Raccoon Dog** 

    Am I a raccoon? Am I a dog? I’m a raccoon dog

    “Night owl seeking quirky companion. I’m a Raccoon Dog from the forests of East Asia, a nocturnal explorer with a distinctive black and white mask and bushy tail. Excellent at hunting and scavenging, I bring a unique touch to every adventure. Fascinated by the unusual? Let’s explore together.”

    **Side-striped Jackal**

    Jackal Joy

    “Loyal, adaptable partner seeking same. I’m a Side-striped Jackal from the woodlands and savannas of Africa, living in small groups and thriving in various habitats. With my black and white stripes and bushy tail, I’m both a hunter and a scavenger. Ready for versatile adventures? Join me.”

    Ready to run with the pack? 🐾💫

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  • Ghostly Swan

    Ghostly Swan

    In moonlit silence,
    A swan glides on still waters—
    Peace found, then it fades.

    Chasing fleeting dreams,
    A willow weeps by the lake—
    Life’s truths left unshared.

    For as long as anyone could remember, Thomas had been searching for the perfect image. He had wandered through cities and across open fields, scaling mountains and drifting through forests, camera in hand, eyes ever searching. It wasn’t fame or fortune he sought, nor was it even artistic acclaim. He simply wanted to capture something that spoke to the deepest part of himself—a vision so complete it would silence the restless hum in his soul.

    Decades passed, and Thomas’s pursuit became an obsession. He had taken thousands of photos: sweeping landscapes, crumbling ruins, the faces of strangers who carried entire lifetimes in their expressions. Yet none of it stilled the ache. The perfect image remained elusive, a dream slipping just out of reach. With every new shot, the feeling that something was missing gnawed at him.

    He was nearing the end of his life. His once-strong hands had begun to tremble, and his eyes, once so sharp and clear, had grown tired. Still, the search went on. One evening, while wandering a quiet countryside, Thomas stumbled upon a hidden lake. The air was cool and damp, the world around him bathed in a soft silver light. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of a willow tree that stood by the water’s edge, its branches cascading toward the lake like a weeping figure. And then, as if conjured by his longing, he saw it—the swan.

    The bird glided across the still water, pure and graceful, as if composed of moonlight, its reflection rippling beneath the willow’s branches swayed gently, framing the moment as if it had been waiting just for him.

    Thomas stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat. This was it. This was the image he had been searching for his entire life. His heart raced, but he did not reach for his camera. He knew that no lens could capture the perfection of what lay before him. The stillness of the night, the way the swan moved, the timeless serenity of it all—it was beyond what words or pictures could convey. It was something that could only be felt.

    For the first time in years, Thomas felt whole. The relentless urge that had driven him for so long fell silent, replaced by an overwhelming sense of peace. He smiled, tears welling in his eyes as he watched the swan disappear into the shadows, its light slowly dissolving into the encroaching darkness. In that moment, he was complete.

    But just as he sat in the embrace of the weeping willow, breathing out a sigh of contentment, his body betrayed him. As the swan’s light faded, so did his strength and energy, his eyes still fixed on the shimmering water, on the memory of the swan. His world grew dimmer, the edges of his vision fading to darkness, but he did not feel fear. Thomas closed his eyes, knowing that he had finally found what he had been looking for.

    And then, he was gone.

    In the end, perhaps the meaning of life is a truth so deeply personal that it eludes expression. It is a fleeting moment of beauty, a profound realisation, or an experience that resonates within us, yet remains impossible to convey. Thomas had found what he had been searching for, a glimpse of perfection that was his alone, a secret forever held within the quiet of his heart.

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  • Grounded

    Grounded

    alone, I watch the sky
    birdsong fades, a mournful cry
    lost, I stand and wait

    The wind whipped through the reeds, carrying with it the mournful cries of my flock. They were long gone, their V-formation etched into the fading light of the sky. I stood alone, an orphan of the skies, in a vast, empty landscape.


    I had always been a bit of an outlier, a dreamer who preferred the quiet solitude of the marshes to the boisterous company of my kin. But now, as the chill of autumn crept into the air, I felt a profound sense of loss. The warmth of their companionship, the comforting rhythm of their wings beating in unison, had been a constant in my life. Without them, I felt adrift, a leaf torn from its branch and carried by the currents of fate.


    I watched the sun dip below the horizon, casting long, dancing shadows across the water. The sky was ablaze with hues of orange, pink, and purple, but I found no beauty in it. It only served to highlight my isolation, a stark contrast to the vibrant spectacle that unfolded above.


    As the night fell, a cold wind began to blow, carrying with it, what sounded like, the distant howl of a lone wolf. I shivered, my feathers ruffled by the icy blast. I longed for the warmth of my flock, their bodies pressed together against the biting cold. But I knew that I was alone now, and that there was no turning back.


    I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but my mind was filled with images of the past. I saw myself as a young gosling, learning to fly under the watchful eye of my mother. I remembered the thrill of soaring through the sky, the wind rushing past my face. I recalled the joy of finding food, the camaraderie of sharing a meal with my flock.


    When I finally drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of a world where I was not alone. I dreamed of flying alongside my flock, their honking filling the air with a joyous chorus. But when I woke, the dream was shattered, and I was once again alone in the cold, dark night.

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  • Musings on Man and Nature

    Musings on Man and Nature

    Human heart connects,
    With nature’s rhythm, a bond,
    As one, beauty shines.

    The sun, a golden orb, painted the sky with hues of orange and pink as we strolled through the dew-kissed meadow. Blades of grass, tall and emerald, swayed gently in the morning breeze, their tips shimmering with tiny droplets of water. The air was filled with the sweet scent of wildflowers and the distant chirping of birds.

    See on TikTok

    As we walked, we pondered the complex and often contentious relationship between humans and the natural world. We discussed the ethical implications of our actions, from the exploitation of resources to the destruction of habitats. It was a delicate balance, we agreed, one that required careful consideration and a deep respect for all living things.

    Yet, amidst the challenges and complexities, there was a profound beauty to be found in nature. The intricate patterns of a spider’s web, the majestic flight of a hawk, the vibrant colours of a butterfly – each and every aspect of the natural world was a demonstration of  the wonder and diversity of life.

    We marvelled at the way the sunlight danced upon the blades of grass, creating a mesmerising spectacle of light and shadow. We listened to the symphony of sounds that filled the meadow, from the buzzing of bees to the rustling of leaves. And we felt a sense of peace and tranquillity as we connected with the rhythms of nature.

    It was a moment of profound reflection, a time to appreciate the fragility of our planet and the importance of preserving its beauty for future generations. As we continued our walk, we carried with us a renewed sense of wonder and a commitment to living in harmony with the natural world.

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  • The Legend of Super Kitty

    The Legend of Super Kitty

    In the quiet town of Whisker Falls, there was a cat named Miko. Miko wasn’t like the other cats who roamed the alleyways or lounged lazily in the sun. Ever since she was a kitten, she had always been fascinated by the tales of ancient feline warriors—legendary cats who once defended the world from danger, using their sharp reflexes, clever tactics, and most importantly, their mastery of Cat-Fu, a long-lost martial art.

    Every night, while the other cats were fast asleep, Miko would sneak out to the old dojo at the edge of town. It was abandoned now, its walls crumbling, and its training dummies worn out by time. But inside, Miko found ancient scrolls hidden behind the crumbling walls. The scrolls contained drawings of cats in powerful stances, their paws delivering swift punches, their tails striking like whips. They spoke of the *Fist of the Feline*, a mystical technique that only a true protector of the realm could learn.

    Determined to master Cat-Fu, Miko trained every night under the moon’s glow. She practised her balance by walking along the narrowest of fence posts. She sharpened her reflexes by dodging falling leaves and sparring with her shadow. Slowly, she began to grow stronger, her moves becoming quicker and more precise. The dojo, long forgotten by everyone else, became her sanctuary. But as Miko trained, a dark force was stirring beyond Whisker Falls.

    An evil tomcat known as Kuro had returned. Once, Kuro had been a student of the very dojo where Miko now trained, but he had been consumed by greed and hunger for power. Legend said he was banished after trying to steal the secrets of the Fist of the Feline to dominate the world. Now, he had returned with an army of stray cats, bent on conquering every alley, park, and rooftop. One by one, the neighbourhoods fell under Kuro’s control, and soon, Whisker Falls would be next.

    One evening, as Miko meditated in the dojo, she heard the distant sound of yowls. The stray army had arrived. She darted to the highest point in town and saw the chaos unfolding below. Kuro himself led the charge, his yellow eyes glowing with malice.

    Realising she was the town’s only hope, Miko knew it was time. Her training had led to this moment. With a deep breath, she tied on her black belt—earned through hours of practice, dedication, and an unshakeable belief in justice. Then, like the warriors in the scrolls, she leaped into action.

    Miko dashed through the streets, her paws light on the ground, her eyes locked on her goal: Kuro. Along the way, she skillfully dispatched the stray army with swift jabs, quick kicks, and dazzling spins. The townsfolk watched in awe as the once-quiet cat defended them with moves they had never seen before. But she wasn’t done yet.

    She reached the town square, where Kuro stood, smirking at her. “So, you’re the one they’ve been whispering about,” he hissed, his tail flicking behind him. “The so-called guardian of Whisker Falls. Let’s see if you’re worthy of those ancient scrolls.”

    The two circled each other, tension crackling in the air. Miko knew this battle wasn’t just about her town—it was about defending the honour of the dojo, and the legacy of the feline warriors who came before her. Kuro lunged first, his strikes quick and wild. But Miko was faster. With perfect precision, she dodged and countered, her paws moving like lightning.

    As the battle raged on, Kuro grew desperate, unleashing his most powerful attack, the *Shadow Swipe*. But Miko had trained for this. She channelled everything she had learned, tapping into the Fist of the Feline. With a deep breath and the strength of the ancient warriors behind her, she launched into the air, her form graceful and her resolve unbreakable. The wind rushed around her as she prepared her final strike…

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  • Trapped in a red dream

    Trapped in a red dream

    In a world of red;
    Fragments of a dream undone,
    Nowhere leads to home.

    Red rose
    Whispers of Scarlet

    I’m… somewhere, though I can’t tell where. Black. Red. That’s all there is. Not a sound, not really, just the echo of my own footsteps… or are they even mine? It doesn’t matter. I blink and—there it is, again—the red rose. Again. Too perfect, too bright. It shouldn’t be here, but it is. Silky petals, so soft they must be fake, almost glowing, bleeding their colour into the air around them. No thorns. Why no thorns? A rose should have thorns. It feels wrong… out of place. Is it floating? I can’t tell. Maybe it’s me who’s floating. My hand stretches out to touch it—wait, no. That’s not right. Something shifts, jerks my focus.

    Red rose without thorns;
    Floating in the blackened air,
    Too soft to be real.

    Hawthorn red berries
    Nature’s Crimson Cascade

    Red berries. They dangle, sway just slightly, so red, like drops of blood frozen mid-fall. They don’t belong here. Hawthorn berries? Yeah, yeah that’s what they are. Why are they here? Hanging. Waiting. I want to pluck one, taste it maybe, but—no. Not safe. They look like they’d taste like iron. Bitterness. Do berries even taste like iron? I don’t know. I think… maybe they do. They shimmer in the dark, this glossy red, almost inviting. A trap. Gotta keep moving.

    Hawthorn berries hang;
    Blood drops frozen in the dark,
    Bitter in the night.

    Crimson red silk cloth
    Veil of Crimson Dreams

    Something brushes past me—smooth, too smooth. It’s red too. It’s silk. A cloth, red silk, draping down from… from where? Can’t see the top. It’s just there, like a curtain, but no stage, no audience. It shifts, barely. Touching it feels like slipping into a memory I can’t quite catch. I try to hold onto the thought, but it slips away, just like the cloth. It’s gone. It’s still here, but gone. Don’t ask me how. My fingers are empty now, though.

    Red silk softly falls;
    Whispers of a fading dream,
    Slips away from touch.

    Red maple leaf - acer
    Autumnal Ember

    The path, if it’s a path, dark, black, empty. Then… then there’s this leaf. A red maple leaf. Still, like it’s been pressed flat between the pages of a book I can’t read. But I see it. I see it clear. The veins in the leaf look like cracks, tiny, sharp cracks splitting through the red. Red. Of course, it’s red. That’s all there is. But why this leaf? Why now? It’s autumn, I think. Or maybe not. I forget. It’s too perfect, like the rose, but this one feels colder. Fragile. It’s waiting for something. For me? I don’t know.

    Maple leaf in red;
    Cracks spreading through quiet veins,
    Fragile autumn waits.

    I’m still walking, I think, though maybe I’m not…

    What kind of dream world would you like to visit?

    Hi, anyone still with me to the end, can you let me know if my feature image of the silk cloth appears at the top of the post. I think I’m having problems with it being displayed.

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  • One Love

    One Love

    Morning storms through us,
    Midday scorches, hearts ablaze,
    Nightfall kills the flame.

    In the blue birth of dawn, when the world’s breath first stirs, 
    Our love was born, trembling, a whisper in the darkness. 
    The sky yawned, stretching its arms across the sleeping hills, 
    And in that still moment, our hearts were sewn together 
    With the silver thread of morning’s first light, 
    A bond as fragile and fierce as a spider’s web, 
    Glistening with the dew of promise and desire.

    The sun climbed higher, a golden god upon his throne, 
    And our love grew bold, laughing in the face of time. 
    We danced in the fields of youth, wild and unafraid, 
    Our bodies a blaze of summer’s fire, 
    Burning with the heat of a thousand stolen kisses. 
    Each touch was a spark, each glance a flame, 
    And we roared with the lion’s pride, 
    Believing the day would never end.

    But the sun, weary with its labor, began to sink, 
    And shadows crept across the landscape of our hearts. 
    The light softened, turning gold to amber, 
    And in that quiet hour, we spoke of dreams 
    And fears we’d hidden in the noonday glare. 
    Our love, once a roaring river, now slowed to a stream, 
    Gentle and wise, knowing the path it must follow.

    The evening fell, and with it came the cool embrace 
    Of night’s velvet cloak, wrapping us in its quiet. 
    We lay beneath the stars, our fingers entwined, 
    And the world, once so vast, shrank to the space between us. 
    Our love, now a whisper, echoed in the silence, 
    A lullaby sung to the fading light.

    And in the final moments, as the night claimed the sky, 
    Our love, having lived its day, sighed into sleep. 
    The moon smiled down, a mother to the dreaming earth, 
    And we, two shadows merged into one, 
    Became the night itself, 
    One love, one day, 
    Forever written in the stars.

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  • Wasted in Stagnation

    Wasted in Stagnation

    River flows away,
    Yet I linger, bound by sludge,
    Wasted, still, unseen.

    How do I even begin to explain it? I feel like a boat—one built to cut through waves, to explore uncharted waters, to sail under the open sky with the wind pushing me forward. I was designed to move, to journey, to experience life in all its unpredictability. But here I am, rotting in the mud at the side of the river, stuck in the stagnant shallows while the current of life rushes by without me.

    It’s infuriating. I’m meant to be out there, feeling the pull of the tide, facing storms and basking in the sunlight on my deck. But instead, I’m trapped in this pit of muck, with nothing but decay around me, sinking deeper into the filth. My hull was once sleek, my sails full of promise, but now? Now I’m just a forgotten vessel, rusted and brittle, abandoned to the elements.

    The river flows past, mocking me with every ripple. I should be part of that, navigating its twists and turns, but I’m stuck on the sidelines, watching as life carries on without me. Every day that passes is another day lost, another opportunity wasted, another inch deeper into this miserable sludge.

    I feel the weight of it all, the heaviness pressing down on me, and it’s suffocating. The dreams, the plans, the purpose—they’re all still there, buried deep inside, but they’re smothered by this mire that’s holding me back. It’s not that I’ve lost my will; it’s that I’m being choked by this godforsaken mud, this unrelenting stagnation.

    I wasn’t made for this! I wasn’t built to rot away in some forgotten corner, becoming part of the landscape of failure. But here I am, powerless against the relentless drag of this miserable place. It’s like being betrayed by your own potential, knowing you were meant for so much more but being held back by forces you can’t control, by circumstances that refuse to let you go.

    I’m angry—angry at the mud, angry at the river for carrying on without me, and most of all, angry at myself for not finding a way to break free. Because I know I was meant to sail, to thrive, to conquer the open waters of life. But instead, I’m left here to decay, to watch the world pass me by while I waste away in this stagnant, suffocating bog.

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