I didn’t mean to explain it that seriously, but my hands decided otherwise. It’s funny how they start doing their own choreography when I talk. Maybe that’s my version of passion—unplanned, a little dramatic, but mostly harmless.

Art you can eat always wins, especially when it comes with soy sauce. There’s something peaceful about pretty food—it looks perfect, disappears fast, and never argues back. Maybe that’s what balance actually tastes like.

Sweet, fizzy, and a little too dramatic for something that isn’t real. But maybe that’s the point—some things only taste this good when they exist in a story. Butterbeer doesn’t ask questions, judge, or talk back. That’s rare enough to toast to.

Airplanes have a strange way of making you feel both alive and invisible. Everyone’s going somewhere, but no one’s really here. You just sit still while the distance does the work. Maybe that’s why I like flying—it’s the only time silence feels earned.

Moving forward feels easier when you don’t overthink the destination. Maybe travel isn’t about arriving—it’s about pretending you know where you’re going until the scenery starts agreeing with you. At least the motion feels honest, even when the map doesn’t.

I told myself to stay serious, but the reflection didn’t listen. Some days your face acts before your thoughts catch up. Maybe that’s what makes it fun—when you stop editing the moment and just let it be ridiculous. Unfiltered honesty disguised as a joke.

Airports always feel like in-between spaces—half goodbyes, half beginnings. Everyone’s moving fast, pretending they’re not rushing. I guess that’s what travel is: acting calm while your brain’s still double-checking whether you packed your charger.

Cities glow differently at night. Maybe it’s the lights trying to convince us we’re not tired yet. You walk, look up, pretend it’s cinematic—and somehow it is. The noise fades, the air cools down, and the world finally stops feeling like a race.

Some pictures catch you mid-thought—half here, half gone. Maybe that’s fine; clarity’s overrated anyway. There’s comfort in being a blur: no pressure to perform, no need to explain. Just a quiet way of existing for a while.

P

The light moved once, then stopped. I almost blinked, but it felt wrong to interrupt. Perhaps the moment didn't need to be celebrated, just witnessed. A flame, a breath, a name that fades more slowly than it should. That's all it ever was.

It wasn’t a dream, but it didn’t feel real either. The earth hummed beneath the white, pretending to keep secrets. I stayed still long enough to forget where I ended and the wind began. Maybe that’s enough—for now.

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The mirror blinked first, not me. I sat there, counting the seconds until the air forgot my name. Perhaps time learns patience by watching me stay still. Nothing moved, yet everything felt heavier than before.

The fruit remained untouched and the glass remained silent. Outside, the world looked soft enough to disappear. I lifted the chain just to see the light hesitate. Maybe that pause was the point. Maybe that's all I needed to know.

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The room was quiet, as if waiting for me to speak first. I didn’t. I just watched the light slide down the wall and thought about how silence sometimes conveys truth better than words ever could. Maybe rest is just another way of listening.

The flowers didn’t need a reason to exist. I held them anyway, as if holding onto something that already knew how to leave. Beauty fades, but not always with sadness. Sometimes, it simply chooses to whisper instead of bloom. I think I understand that now.