Echoes of Queen

 We like to believe we're rational creatures. We often tell ourselves that when something or someone hurts us, we'll leave it behind. We'll walk away, close the chapter, and never look back. But the heart has never obeyed logic. Sometimes, the very place that breaks us is the place we instinctively run to in search of healing. That is the cruel irony of pain. Pain has a strange way of exposing the parts of us that logic cannot reach. It reveals that we are not merely creatures of reason. We are creatures of attachment. We don't always run toward what is good for us. More often than not, we run toward what once felt like home. Perhaps that's why healing is rarely as simple as "letting go," as we so quickly like to say. When we hear the statement, "You want to be soothed by the very fire that burned you," our minds immediately wander to romance. A broken heart. A relationship that ended. A love that became a wound. But I don't believe this iron...

Author's Note: I've always loved words. Poetry, especially, has fascinated me, not because of its rules, but because of its ability to say so much with so little. Recently, I came across a painting on Instagram accompanied by a challenge: Write a short poem inspired by this image. Something about it stopped me. The solitude. The distance. The moonlit silence. It felt familiar, as though it was speaking a language I already knew. Though poetry isn't something I often share here, I decided to answer the call. This is what the painting whispered to me. The moon hangs low, a silent witness to the distance between where I stand and where the lights begin. Behind me, ghosts of yesterday drag their weary feet, calling my name as though memory were a place I belonged. Ahead, a village glows with promises I cannot yet touch, warm windows, gentle laughter, a life still waiting to know me. And here I remain, between departure and destination, between the ache of what was and the uncer...

 Some people are still alive today because they found art before destruction. Read that again. “ How many times have people used a pen or paint brush because they couldn't pull the trigger? ” I came across this quote, and it has been sitting heavily on my chest for a very long time now. At first glance, it sounds poetic. But the deeper you think about it, the heavier it becomes. Because behind so many poems, paintings, songs, sketches, stories, photographs, and melodies... was someone trying to survive themselves. Art is beautiful, yes. But sometimes beauty is born from unbearable things. Some people did not create because they were simply talented, even if that is undeniably what we see on the surface. Some created  because they were drowning. The writer who fills page after page at 2AM trying to silence the chaos happening inside their mind. The singer pouring pain into lyrics they could never explain out loud. The artist sketching endlessly because drawing or painting felt ...

 So… I came across a post on Instagram one day, and a question sat with me for a while. It said, “Why do you write?” Of course, it seems like a simple question. One that should have a simple answer, especially for someone who calls herself a writer. But I found myself taken aback. Drawn not just to the question, but to the response that followed: “Because my heart knows things my lips can’t explain.” And somehow… that was enough. The truth is, writing was never a choice born from clarity  or from having it all figured out. It was born from overflow. Because believe me when I say this: There are truths within us that only exist when we give them ink . There are moments when silence holds too much, when your soul speaks only in feelings… and writing becomes the only language that understands, the only place those feelings can breathe. Some thoughts don’t arrive as sentences. They come as fragments. Feelings without names. Emotions without direction. Quiet realizations that sit h...

 There’s a quiet kind of war people don’t talk about enough. This one is between wanting to be close and needing to feel safe. You’ll find yourself craving connection. Something deep, real, fierce, consuming… almost addictive. The kind where you’re seen without having to explain yourself. The kind where you can rest in someone without questioning it. But at the same time, something in you pulls back. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough to create distance. You hesitate, you overthink, you stay on guard, you flinch at the thought of it, you retreat… even when it’s exactly what you asked for. You feel it. That quiet tension that builds up. It isn’t just emotional, but physical… like when your mind says come closer, but your body remembers something your words haven’t explained yet. And it’s confusing, because how do you explain wanting something so badly, yet struggling to receive it when it finally comes? It’s not pride. It’s not coldness. Sometimes it’s memory. Sometimes it’s ...

His name is Elias At 5:30 am, his phone alarm rang like it always did, and he turned it off without looking. He remembered nothing of the night before, nothing of the crash that would mark the rest of his life. It was raining hard. The roads slick, the headlights blinding. He and his father were driving home from a late meeting. Laughter had filled the car moments before. He could still feel the warmth of his father’s hand on his shoulder. Then the other car came, too fast, out of control. Metal screamed. Glass shattered. Pain, sharp and unrelenting, ripped through him. The world tilted, flipped, and became darkness. When the paramedics arrived, his father was trapped. Iron pinned him in his seat, legs broken, chest pressed against the twisted frame. He begged them between gasps, tears streaking the rain:  “My son, save my son first… please, make sure he’s okay…” Elias doesn’t remember consciousness, only flashes: the sound of the rescue tools, the screeching metal, the world movin...