Echoes of Queen

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...