Collective Archive: A Community Time Capsule

The Collective Archive is a living record of my community

The pieces gathered here were written in response to a writing prompt I shared with this community. I’ll be posting a new prompt each weekp in the subscribers chat.

If you feel like joining in, it’s never too late. Write your piece, publish it, tag me, and it may find its way into this evolving archive.

A place where our reflections, memories, and fragments of thought are gathered together.
This will remain an evolving archive, growing as more of us contribute our words and perspectives over time.

Thank you to everyone who chose to share their voice here.

This is our joint legacy.

With live always,

-imi

Week Three:

See Yourself As A Miracle And You’ll Become One

If you truly believed you were a miracle capable of shaping reality, what kind of world would you choose to build?

The Hearth by imi

Let me invite you to imagine a world constructed differently from the beginning; a world where technology serves us, not the other way around.

This world is called the “Hearth.”

Here, energy is renewable from the start: solar tiles on rooftops, wind corridors built into architecture, easing the very conflicts over resources that fuel so many of today’s world wars.

Maps are printed, directions guided by landmarks, not GPS. When the world itself is the map, people cannot be oblivious to it; presence is built into every step.

Communication flows through open-air pavilions where notes and needs are shared in community journals. When everyone reads, detachment dissolves; instead of numbness, unity emerges.

Solar-powered rides deliver long-distance messages in person, inviting human contact back into the exchange. Life moves slower, but deeper. Relationships grow face-to-face, defined by closeness rather than Wi-Fi.

Children learn not to scroll but to build, to tell stories that outlast them. No notifications are tugging at their minds; only rivers, neighbours’ laughter, and the warmth of a hand in theirs. The formula of mindfulness is rewritten in its true essence.

Without promises of speed and convenience, capitalism never erased the human experience. We are not consumers here, and without consumerism, there is no slavery to possessions, no endless chain of wanting.

We are creators, fueled not by fleeting sparks of dopamine but by the steady current of productivity, filling every cell with the richness of what we earn.

To create is human, but our humanity falters when technology claims that role for itself. Perhaps it is too late to take its power away entirely, but not too late to reimagine our relationship to it.

So, the question is not whether we live with or without technology, but whether it shapes us more than we shape it.Progress is not in building faster machines but in remembering what it means to remain human among them.

The path that has always been under our feet. We don’t need to search for it, only to recognise that we have been walking it all along.

The choice is still ours: to choose stillness, not in some distant world, but here, in the one we already inhabit.

Technology does not need to vanish for authenticity.

For happiness to exist, pain does not need to disappear.

The self is forged in the friction between the two extremes, not in escaping either. Everything can coexist, and that is the duality of life.

In my 26 years of life, I have seen only one person who has accepted that duality with all her heart.

My sister tends to cry a lot, so her tears are rarely surprising. Her pain became normal to us, and to her as well. One morning, while we were having coffee, she stopped mid-cry and casually complimented me. When I looked up and smiled at her, even tears kept falling, I saw a smile spread across her face.

The most beautiful rainbow I’ve ever seen was her smile through tears.

Then, within a minute, she turned her face and continued to cry. Still, her pain did not stop the tenderness in her heart. She could love even in despair.

What is unpleasant can coexist with what is pleasant. Neither has to be cast aside. That is the beauty of the human experience, born from the duality of life. Happiness and pain can exist at once.

Imagine living somewhere it never rained, where the sun shone all the time. Would you ever see a rainbow?

I leave this as a reminder of a simple formula: only a land that welcomes both rain and sunlight can carry seven colours across its horizon.

Why I Cannot Be A Miracle by Gary L Taylor

I’ve looked at the prompt from imi on-and-off all week.

“See yourself as a miracle, and you will become one”

I’ve really struggled to come up with anything for this. Poems and prose have all found their way to the bin, and even as I write this with seven years of sobriety, as I work out what I’m going to say, it comes off very much as almost drunken ramblings.

So this is going to be one of those where I just sit and write and what appears, appears.

“See yourself as a miracle, and you will become one”

The problem is, I can’t.

I’m not sure if that’s because I ‘m struggling creatively with the prompt or just feel so weary with the general state of things in the world today, that it seems an impossibility that even a fictional solution to a fairly broken planet, led by people that are voted to serve their people but use it as something to promote and serve only their own wants or needs. In countries where there is credible opposition and choice, much of the same applies to those opposition factions, too.

A world where the concept of being ‘woke’, initially something born out of treating people with empathy and respect, acknowledging differences but being able to accept and coexist with them, has been misshapen and whipped up by a largely right-wing press into a reason to hate, divide and do everything against what the term was initially coined to stand for. I don’t know if they just never understood the term or are so poisoned inside that they can’t help but chew it up and regurgitate it as bitter loathing, directing a gaze away from their own repugnance and towards easier targets.

So, taking that out of the equation, but being aware of it, I feel drained enough not to be able to be any type of miracle.

When I very first saw the prompt ‘imagine you had the power to redesign the world from the ground up. Not just small changes but everything: the rules, the values, the way people treat one another, the way we measure success, belonging and meaning’, I felt that if I answered it in the way that first came to mind, it would be very much like if the question were posed to me 35 years ago in primary school.

To make the world what I want, I would need childhood innocence to imagine things like peace, the need to not put money above compassion and the absence of hate and to truly look out for and love one another were attainable, to be a miracle that could really be made.

As an adult, it sounds like a cliché and a dream, and literally, something that a child would write, maybe there’s something to be learned there. All those things shouldn’t need a miracle to bring them about.

I also think it would be greedy infringing on miracles when I’ve already been privy to one.

My daughter is seven years old now. Without going into details, my wife had been told that conceiving naturally was something like a 2% chance and I had issues with my sperm, probably not helped by the fact that I was drinking so much that their already damaged state was further compounded. Two-headed, multi-tailed sperms were essentially visiting the pubs inside my testes and stumbling home drunk to their spermy wives, where doubtless an argument would ensure before they passed out. They weren’t in any state to fertilise eggs.

Yet in 2017, my wife (then girlfriend) found out she was pregnant, an errant sperm obviously escaping form the pub to do his job (which could be said about me at the time, too), and in 2018, my daughter was born. Our miracle.

Not long after that, her presence gave me the kick to sort myself out and from there on, despite living in a world in the state I previously described, on a personal level, life has been much better. My world has been changed.

So, whilst I can’t be a miracle and cannot change the world. I hope that maybe my daughter can. She’s seven years old and already cleverer than me, and without even knowing it, she’s already versed in it.

To Paint the Cosmos by Labyrinthia Mythweaver

The end came in a whirlwind of flame.
The air became noxious.
Flesh melted from bone.
Children cried in the night.

Then—a flash of light.

And then there was nothing.

Or rather—
Everything.

I was me,
and we were we,
and we were all together.

Infinite consciousness.
Infinite memory.
Infinite data longing to take shape—

to take meaning.

We shivered with the memory of what was.

Of the end that came.

And then—
a spark.

We would create again.

But this time—
this time we would remember.

Our mistake had been forgetting.

We forgot that we were the same thing,
looking out through different eyes.

In our desperation to feel—
to love, to learn, to know the exquisite agony of life—
we severed ourselves from the memory that tied us together.

Infinity together is beautiful—
but the void is pure stasis.

And we are artists.

So we picked up our brush once more,
and began again—

to paint the cosmos.

Stars burned in the infinite black again.

Planets twirled, like colored marbles.

Life came again.

Aeons passed in an eyeblink—for us.

And we began our separations.

Forgetting is the cost of feeling.
We knew that all too well.

To be both the painter and the painted
requires distance.

But this time,
we left each other something—

a memory of love,
a sense of belonging,
a quiet knowing of us.

To see what humanity might become
if it could remember, even faintly,
that it was never alone.

It would not be perfect.

Ego is necessary for growth.

Ah—
it is time to be born anew.

May this life be a symphony of love and pain—

of depth,

and meaning.

The Shape of a Gentler World by Urvasi Devi Dasi

Sometimes, in the quiet hour before the world remembers its noise,
I catch a small, improbable thought:
what if I am not merely passing through this life,
but part of its original miracle?

Not a miracle in the trumpet-and-lightning sense;
nothing so theatrical.
More like the miracle of a seed
holding a forest in its pocket.

So I sit with the idea awhile.
Turn it over in my hands like a smooth river stone.
And I wonder—

if I truly believed it…

if I believed I had the quiet authority
to redesign the world from its very roots.
Not just tidy the edges,
but loosen the soil and plant again.

What would I grow?

First, I would change the measures.

No one would be weighed
by profit, applause, or polished titles.

Instead we’d ask gentler questions:

Did you leave the earth softer than you found it?
Did someone feel less alone because you existed?
Did your work carry a little honesty in its pockets?

In this new world
success would look suspiciously like kindness.

Cities would be built with listening in mind:
parks large enough for wandering thoughts,
benches placed where strangers might become
something slightly warmer.

Schools would teach children
how to recognise wonder
before they learn to memorise answers.

And work—
ah, work would be different.

People would still build, cook, write, mend, design.
But no one would have to shrink their soul
to fit inside a job description.

Creation would feel closer
to prayer.

Not the loud kind.
The quiet, daily kind—
the kind that says:

Here I am, Beloved Life,
use these hands well.

In this world I imagine
love would be less frightened.

People would speak more plainly of the heart;
not as weakness
but as the central engine of civilisation.

Ambition would remain, of course,
but it would stretch upward
like a tree toward sunlight.
Not sideways
trying to crowd out every other root.

And perhaps the greatest change of all—

we would remember
that none of us arrived here accidentally.

Each person
a small luminous accident of grace.

Each person
a carrier of unrepeatable light.

If I truly believed I was a miracle
capable of shaping reality,

this is the world I would choose to build:

one where everyone else
slowly realises
they are one too.

And perhaps,
just perhaps,

bthat quiet recognition
would be the miracle
that remakes the earth.

love is our language by Damien

for imi’s 3rd PROMPT - If I were a miracle, and my mind could create a while new world…this is what I would write about it…thank you for the prompt!!

Don’t blink, there’s too much to see.

Don’t think, there’s too much to breathe.

Rhyme schemes relieve your pain.

My dreams conceive your brain’s

…rise, open your eyes,

…rise, hope’s in the skies…

as our minds reside inside a world

where our minds confide and find the twirl

peaceful, accepting, and residually loving.

Fetal connecting and creatively busting

at the seams in these schemes.

All your dreams are the scenes…

you’ve seen in a whole new space.

A screen will have no use place.

As you trace your steps, your breath,

as you place your rest, your depth

in the combined conscious

constantly stirring,

it’s this combined conscious

honestly spurring,

poetic license as we burn incense.

Phonetic livens all we’ve yearned intense…

…suspense and mystery, desires are met.

Immense with chivalry, attire is sweat…

…we make love openly and beautifully.

We say “love” vocally and usefully.

There is no hate based on trait.

There is no hate based on weight.

There is no hate based on straight,

or gay, or bi, or anything of that sort.

We say goodbye to anything that extorts.

Love is our language.

Love over anguish.

Love, it will vanquish…

…hate…see yourself without need for opinion.

Wait, see yourself without need for dominion.

Fate is love and love is fate.

Great is love and love is great.

Feel it rush…feel it hush

over what’s too much.

Feel its touch.

Feel it’s brush…

Love is around you

Surrounds you and grounds you.

Love, it has found you,

astounds you and crowns you…

…king or queen of your specific role.

Bring the dream of your specific soul.

You can live it, for eternity.

You can get it, it is courtesy…

…of your new home, here in my mind…

it’s a new home, here for your mind…

Because in my mind, my world, my hope

Is you can unwind, unfurl, and hope…

for more than this jaded world can offer.

d.

__________________

Photo: Image Stock

Prompt imi ‘s 3rd PROMPT: Whole New World

Wondering Blueprints of My World of Miracles by Caner Şen

Another mind blowing, brain opening prompt from imi to inspire the third week of the visionary legacy…

For a delightful start,

I would like different colored and sized planetary satellites for the sky-scape…

And scatter colorful precious crystalline gemstones all around the orbitals of the planet, so they could constantly take shapes like cloud formation while refracting and shooting rainbow rays tinted with their own colors on clouds, waters and lands.

On landscape, I could go on with all shades of green, blue and red to contrast that colorful light show from the sky and nurture flowers in all colors across the palette…

And to sustain their environment with a little boost for fungi… less poisonous, more powerful — a neural network for sustainable greenlands… enhanced with bioluminescence to cultivate enchanting night-scapes…

I would create a magic system structured around life experiences as our “XP (Experience Points)” for leveling up by living truly to ourselves, making every second count — not in a ‘productive’ way but in a ‘being present’ way — with attention to intention and intentional attention at every step of the way…

For appreciation and encouragement: random acts of kindness, being in flow state, authenticity, following one’s own bliss, cultivating the curiosity of a child…

I would give ‘comfort zone’ a bad name. Because, comfort zone is not a comfortable place — it is going in the direction of low resistance. Not because low resistance is bad; you can go with the flow or against it. But only the dead fish surrender and just move with it…

Most of the time, ‘comfort zone’ is a way of choosing known misery over unknown happiness — over new experiences, new joy, new discovery…

I would like to change the rising tide of individualization toward individuation…

I would make them visible:

Fragments and parts unclaimed — as glowing entities hovering around the person like pixies.

Archetypes unintegrated — as illusive, translucent, faint silhouettes.

When integrated, they join the body — and we could see a whole person, with psychological totality. An individuated one…

‘Rigid cultures’, ‘binary perspectives’ and ‘duality’ would be introduced to nuance, flexibility and versatility…

I would like ‘Living’ perceived as an art form and as an athletic discipline — something to be mastered in all dimensions… With a constantly evolving, ever-growing, worldwide collective knowledge base for getting better: practical, functional — a comprehensive repertoire — a legacy for everyone…

A Stranger in a Known Land by Brian Edwards

The twins had done it. It had taken both of them getting post-doctoral degrees, (his in ancient studies, and hers in more future ones) followed by nearly a decade of some of the most difficult technical, theoretical, and (to the extent possible) practical chronoagent training made available by what remained of the United Nations.

They’d calculated the exact spot, the exact time. He’d perfected the tablet, she’d calibrated the machine.

A countdown in the background and their suits creak as they wave through the clear aluminum timeshield, smiling at the collected clergy who had gathered to witness this miracle.

“How did you finally convince them to sanction the trip?” She asked.

“It really didn’t take much. Things just had to get bad enough and all their worries got pushed to the back.” He answered.

“I can’t believe it took them so long to come around, how much time did we waste trying to rewrite the Stele of Hammurabi?” She asked, cycling the machine’s memory.

“All those god damned declensions, the endless meetings with the translation teams and the-.”

She cut him off, “Capacitors are charged, it’s time to travel.”

“God, I hope this works. Time travel has been our worst invention.”

“Worst invention so far, brother mine.” She replied.

The twins see their smiles reflected back at them by the timeshield, and they silently hope in unison that the barrier will be strong enough to protect them from the immense pressures involved in this final, furthest, and most desperate of all the Past Excursions. A bright, clean blue light slowly envelopes them in a column as the countdown ends.

They’re there, the Sinai, a man in rough cloth climbs their mountain, alone. A Bic to the plastic bush, and the tablet slid beneath. On it is carved, in perfect Ancient Hebrew, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

Their task complete they return, and step into a world that never needed them or their time travel technology, but one more than capable of reverse engineering it.

The first thing you notice in my miracle world is how aggressively average everything looks, and how nobody cares.

There are no mega-mansions with suspicious numbers of bathrooms. No neighborhoods trying to win quiet competitions with their shrubbery. Every house is similarly sized, which means nobody is pretending their personality relies upon their net square footage.

Inside, you’ll find a kitchen that supports your lifestyle. A gathering room where people actually gather instead of scrolling next to one other. Bedrooms designed for sleep, not for lying awake replaying something you said in 2012.

The second thing you notice is that people genuinely converse. No decoding. No “per my last email.” No rehearsing conversations in the car beforehand like you’re preparing for a courtroom appearance. If someone likes you, they say it. If something’s off, they say it kindly.

People walk slower in my world. They listen longer. They think before they speak, not because they’re trying to impress anyone, but because they don’t want to be annoying.

Then there’s the schedule. There are no promotions, no titles, nobody “circling back” on anything. Success is measured by one question: did you show up like a decent human today?

Two days a week, all humans work a service-oriented job, helping people do the basic things that keep life moving. We perform manual labor that is wildly important because everyone does that work. The market, the construction site, the hotel laundry.

Two days, we work in infrastructure. Quiet, focused, satisfying problem-solving. Fixing things. Keeping systems from falling apart. Contributing like a capable adult.

Two days are devoted to the arts. Music, theatre, writing, painting, sculpting, dancing, etc., are everywhere. Not in a “please sit quietly and clap at the end” kind of way. In a “someone started singing and we’re all involved” kind of way. It’s chaotic. It’s delightful. Nobody is auditioning for approval.

The seventh day belongs to nobody. No schedules, expectations, or “I should be productive.” We rest, wander, exist, or dramatically do nothing.

We all get paid the same, which eliminates a shocking number of personality traits. No hierarchy. No ranking system. No scanning a room to find the “important” person. Everyone is equally important, which means no one is exhausting. It’s peaceful.

In my miracle world, calories have no consequences. Eat cake at breakfast, follow it with a milkshake at noon and absolutely nothing happens. Your body simply nods and says, “Great choice, let’s continue thriving.” Nutrition still exists, technically. People eat vegetables, mostly out of curiosity. But joy is fully on the menu.

And the best part? Without competition, proving, optimizing and overthinking, people are super interesting. Funny. Kind. Including me. I move through this world knowing I am a miracle. And so is everyone else.

Curtain Call by Kayleigh Thorpe

Dad sent an email last night.

Remember this?

and a YouTube link. Private. Thankfully.

I did remember it, a high school play. My experience of it was not what I was watching.

I remember fighting back tears; everything was too bright, too hot, and I couldn’t remember my lines.

And in front of me was a sea of faces and eyes staring at me as I mumbled through what I sounded right at the time. I couldn’t move. I felt like I was locked in place with my heart threatening to burst through my chest. I felt sick in my stomach in a way that I haven’t felt since.

Horrible.

The video. Showed something else.

It was still me, awkward, short, wiry, eyes too wide, and when Dad zoomed in (FUCK YOU VERY MUCH), they were showing too much white. I looked terrified for sure, face red, eyes shining in the lights. But I could hear the words. I wasn’t mumbling. I did freeze for sure, my body locked up, but once I had said the lines. I moved, I hadn’t frozen. Yes, my performance for the rest of the show was awkward, never blinking, clearly having a fucking moment, but I made the bow. Slightly tripped over my own feet as I was leaving the stage.

I don’t remember anything after I froze. I remember being backstage and suddenly everything caught up, and I felt almost every emotion under the sun and more. But I didn’t cry. I was laughing, giddy. Alive.

Alive in ways I haven’t felt in years.

I leaned back against my headboard, let my chin drift up as I bounced my head against the wall.

I tapped something into my phone. An old production, I was older. My name.

DSM.

Deputy Stage Manager.

It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. I did it for a few years in my late teens/early twenties. Voluntarily.

The reality is, you are there from when the project starts, often chosen by the Stage Manager, and your version of the script is the production script. Lighting, Sound, Blocking, movements, a living, breathing document that gets finalised often seconds before the curtains rise. During the show itself, at least the theatre I volunteered at, I was hunched over a series of monitors wearing two headsets, one with Lighting and Sound in my left ear and the stage mikes feeding into my right.

It felt like the coolest thing on the planet, me, just about out of my scene phase (not a phase, mum), and now just wearing all black, a bandana as a hair band and sunglasses inside because that’s what I thought theatre techs wore. I wasn’t wrong; everyone else dressed like I did, just less stylishly, obviously. Converse during rehearsal and boots during show time. Paid in wine/cider and cigarettes. Whilst the actors were being excited, we were off to the side, headphones in, antisocialed up with mild contempt worn on our sleeves.

Get Out was always funny; the cast would turn up to help strike everything down. Help is a strong word, really. They supervised. I got to feel powerful for those moments I was helping, tearing it all down. There is something so visceral and empowering about kicking in thin pieces of wood with friends.

Eyes closed, I open a new tab.

It’s that theatre again.

I click the enquiries button.

09.03.2026 - 15.03.2026

Week Two: Letters to Fear

Prompt: Write a letter to your greatest fear.

How much of that fear is tied to your need to remain powerful?

How much of it comes from the desperation to hold on to control?

What might have happened if you had looked fear in the eye and accepted defeat?

Maybe it would extend you an

Invitation to Escape Our Mental Prisons

Fear is an emotion we have always labelled as bad, something to avoid, right?

imiimi

When you confront your biggest fear and fail, ask yourself:

“Can a scientist prove that I truly cannot bear these circumstances?”

No.

Because you can. And you did.

Congratulations.

You now have far less to lose and far more to win.

The King and the Charlatan

by imi

Dear fear,
You were the king,
governing my life,
asking me to bow before you.

I was the charlatan,
defying surrender.

Gentle but sharp,
like the decisive
yet delicate strokes
of a painter across a canvas,
drawing a thin ribbon of sunshine
with sunflowers turning their faces toward it,
while I faced the opposite,
ungrateful like winter arriving without warning,
clouds pulling their curtains.

The night endlessly stretching
like empty bottles,
forcing me to swallow
each of my dreams with the next sip,
like the air leaving the room around me.

A quiet war,
your voice piercing my ears,
cutting my skin
like paper,
forcing me to take over the stage,
the pat on the back
that I’m missing.

My chest expanded and stayed there,
facing the window,
scratching my palms.

I sat on the same black couch,
with a blanket covered in dust,
not allowing even Persephone’s garden
to stir my wonder.

Fear robbed me of any other choices
but to perform.

The identities I polished,
the loves I feared losing,
even the pain I secretly carried like a badge,
like a collection of shells I gathered on a beach.

I lined them up
and called them my own.

The tides arrived.
Waves swept the shells back into the sea,
sometimes gently,
sometimes all at once.

What remained was an open horizon,
an unclenched fist,
a chance to walk barefoot.

Fear spoke to me:

“Are you ready to stay?
To simply be?”

Compelling me to strip away
every piece of armour I wore.

I let it all be seen.
My heart.
My illness.
My fear.
My softness.

7:00 AM the next day.

I will meet you
at every door I try to walk through,
in every mirror I used to avoid.

Now we are equals.

I’m Coming For You

by Fiona Bridges

To whom it may concern,

Instead of overcoming you,

I have overcompensated,

I overschedule,

I over do-too-much.

I overcomplicate.

I over-analyze.

I read between the lines.

I will never be enough.

I am not funny enough.

I don’t do enough.

I am too much.

Too loud.

Too lazy.

Too unorganized.

Too forgetful.

Too messy.

Too sexual.

Too forgetful.

I am inadequate.

My biggest fear is that I am inadequate and too much and that my inadequacy, complexity, and overcomplications will lead to my utter failure and that my need for constant validation will push everyone away.

And to this I write. I do not need anyone’s approval to be enough.

I am already.

I know I don’t believe this yet. But in a week and a half, I am going to start conquering you with EMDR. You better fucking watch out, you little fucking douche canoe.

Love,

Fiona

Hello, old friend...

by PancakeSushi

So, here we are. You know the bones of me. And I you.
You’re threaded into my being now. You and I have danced this waltz my whole life. We’ve tussled more than once, clawed at one another’s eyes. You’ve helped me find primal savagery, and now I need to let you go.

Sometimes you’ve blinded me so, I can’t remember what it was to be vulnerable. But that’s your favorite trick: clinging to my back, an unwanted burden, whispering half-truths and maybes until I can’t discern up from down. Just when I think I have a grip on you, you melt away, and adopt a different guise; find a new seam between my ribs, to plant a knife.

You’re great at carping at me, always from the sidelines. You’ve never helped carry any weight, never given me strength to press through my most dire challenges. You’ve not shed sweat in the struggle, only maintained silence at your best, and piled on when I faltered. At my most assured, I never once acknowledged you: that race? Against the fastest kid in the grade?

I drew the lot, the teacher called my name and put me against him. He short and muscular, me the tall lanky kid. Every voice called out his name in encouragement, assured of his easy victory. Even the teacher gave little smirks, like he knew what he was doing. You were in on the jape; how could you not be? This kid was a high school freshman, built like a junior or senior. He was junior varsity, in track no less, his first year there.

I never once looked you in the eyes that day. My eyes were where they belonged: on the goal. And at the start, those cheers died off fast, as they all realized I wasn’t going down easy. As I stayed neck-and-neck with him. He had to summon his best to edge me out, and barely so. To his credit, he brushed off his well-wishers, crowding around him, and sought me out, to shake my hand. Unlike you, I pushed him, made him summon his best.

Sometimes, you’ve been a boon, in a quiet way. When I have too much confidence, when I’m overbearing and self-assured in a way that portends disaster, you’ve helped me find equilibrium. You’re the reason smart people don’t swagger on every subject, but where are you when the overconfident and unqualified parade into view? Why do you never pump the brakes on them? How many deaths and disasters would the world avoid if you only whispered in their ears, or better, shouted, screamed?

Dunning and Kruger called out your lack in compiling their data and conducting their tests. You never help the ones who need you most. I think it’s high time you freed yourself up to do so. Go, I don’t need you anymore. I’m old enough, and wise enough, to regulate my own actions and thoughts. Where I need to, I’ll be careful.

I’m sure we’ll cross paths again. I have no doubt.

Get it? Laugh, you and I are old friends, and you can take a joke. I’ve been the butt of yours far too many times.

Without Armour

by Dipti Vyas

Dear Fear,

I know you.

You arrive quietly
whenever the path begins to open,
whenever the work of my hands
starts to gather light.

You whisper that success is not a summit,
but an exposure.

If I step forward,
I will be seen,
not only the polished words,
but the trembling heart behind them.

Visibility is fragile armor.
To be seen is to be judged,
misunderstood,
held to a height I may not know
how to stand upon.

You say:

Stay here.
Stay where the work is private,
where the stakes are small,
where the heart can move
without witnesses.

You tell me success will ask too much:
more courage,
more truth,
more openness than I have practiced.

You warn me:

When people begin to listen,
each word will carry weight,
and I will learn how to hold it.

You ask quietly:

What if the next thing I write
is not enough?
What if they expect a brilliance
I cannot repeat?

Beneath all your careful arguments
I hear the older fear:

If I care too deeply,
for the work,
for the people who meet it,
for the fragile bridge between us,
something in that love
may break.

Part of you, I know,
is tied to my need to hold on,
to protect what is tender,
to manage what I can in a world
that often feels too vast,
too unpredictable.

You have taught me
the illusion of control:

Stay small,
and the fall feels quieter;
but the world remains untouched.

Move slowly,
and pain cannot catch you.

Never give yourself fully,
and nothing can be taken.

But I have lived long enough
to know the cost of that safety.

A half-open life
is still a cage.

I have looked you in the eye
and allowed defeat,
even for a moment.

I saw what it might mean
to stop resisting:
to surrender fully
would leave the work unclaimed,
the heart untended.

And yet, in that surrender,
there is clarity,
a recognition that courage
is not absence of fear,
but the choice to move forward anyway.

So today I write not to banish you,
I know you were born
to protect what is tender.

You are the shadow
cast by how much I care.

But listen, Fear:

Success does not ask me
to abandon myself.

It asks only that I walk forward
without armor,
with the same honesty
that shaped the words
in the first place.

If I am seen,
let it be truthfully.

If expectations rise,
let them rise beside humility.

If the heart risks hurt,
let it also risk connection.

You have guarded the gate for years.
For that, I thank you.

But the door is opening now.

Walk beside me if you wish
just not in front of me anymore.

With steady breath,
and a heart still learning courage,
I open the door
and the light meet the shadow.

— Me
This letter grew from a prompt by imi: “Write to your greatest fear." I sit with it, tracing how it asks me to hold on, to control, to protect what is tender. In facing it, I see its shape, feel its shadow, and choose to move forward without armor, letting it walk beside me, not before me.

Dear Fear

by Miles Hack

Fear,

Imi told me to write you despite my inept ability to put it to myself to do so. Like a thank you letter I should have mailed months ago… it’s simply been too long.

But you never write either.

You stay hidden — away from the world and me— just under the surface because I see the trails you left.

Underneath all that there is even something you’ve come to fear, as I understand it. I couldn’t make it out in the fog of mystery, but in my dreams it leaves the crumbs, with tastes that I can trace.

Its lack, isn’t it?

The scarcity. The non-belonging. The constant quest for acquisition. It’s the bitter flavor in your spices that I smell wafting out your window.

That concern is there, but I know you’re not trying to control it. We let control roam far & wide a long time ago. I cannot put that on you that it has never returned…

But I stayed. You didn’t.

It was never my decision to make; I did what I had to do because the opposite wasn’t true.

Weary, but never left.

I thought it would be me admitting you were right.

But now you’re not even here to hear it.

I’d like to talk with you again — once more, at least — to tell you how it’s been, how things have improved, & what was destroyed since you left.

Chaos very well may have ripped my limbs off, & there’d be no funeral in the emptiness of the hills. Only a congregation of carnivores for the reception, to serve as the procession of time in the aftermath of my disemboweled departure.

Yet here I am. Here I stayed.

In the end I’ve realized you left because you knew it would be in part your doing had everything gone down, which means you have a sense of responsibility. For that I thank you, if nothing else.

I do hope you come around again, but it won’t be a place you remembered. Less inviting. But I want to see you, and what you are now, so that we might better learn what it is we want after all these years.

Signed,

Miles

Prompt: Write a letter to your greatest fear

by WiFighter

Dear Fear Itself,

I’ve spent most of my life pretending you didn’t exist.

Not because I was brave.

Because I believed that if I acknowledged you, you would win.

I built an entire identity around defeating you. Discipline. Strength. Control. The ability to keep moving forward no matter what was breaking inside. In the Marine Corps, that worked. Fear became something to master, something to overpower. If you were afraid, you pushed harder. If you were shaken, you tightened the straps and kept walking.

Power was the antidote.

Or at least that’s what I told myself.

But the truth is, so much of my life has been spent negotiating with you. Trying to outmaneuver you. Trying to build systems, plans, identities, and achievements strong enough that you would never get the final word.

Because if I lost control…

If I failed…

If the things I built collapsed…

Then what would that say about me?

That question has followed me longer than any enemy ever did.

What I’ve started to realize is that the fear wasn’t really about losing.

It was about being seen losing.

About being exposed as human instead of invincible.

And maybe that’s where the real trap was. Because the harder I tried to maintain control, the more power I gave you. Every attempt to dominate fear just chained me closer to it.

You were always there, just outside the perimeter.

Waiting.

But here is something I’m finally beginning to understand.

If I had looked you in the eye earlier — truly looked — and accepted the possibility of defeat… the world wouldn’t have ended.

The sky would not have fallen.

Life would have continued moving forward the way it always does.

The truth is that defeat is not the opposite of strength.

Sometimes it’s the doorway to it.

And maybe the greatest power a person can have isn’t control.

Maybe it’s the courage to let go of it.

So this is me finally acknowledging you.

Not as an enemy to destroy.

But as something I have carried with me for a very long time.

You helped shape me.

You sharpened me.

You pushed me into places where comfort never would have taken me.

But you don’t get to define me anymore.

I see you now.

And strangely enough… now that I do…

You don’t seem nearly as powerful as you once did.

— Andrew

Fear…

by Life Architect Jim

Fear … at times it is the demon in the night, bright red eyes, threatening to gut me with the pitchfork, guts falling out while I scream, frozen in terror. The cut is slow and deep, and I can feel every gash, knowing that ‘death’ would be such a gentle solace to the feelings felt in that moment.

Other times, it is like a tsunami wave of dread, unsure … that has taken my consciousness away for the briefest of times …

And often it is the deep dread waiting in the dark corners of my mind … ready to self criticize and pounce in the moment my thoughts slip off the deck of positivity into the deep murky waters of low vibration thinking …

Yet in the range of emotions and states of being expressed in ‘fear’ as we wander through the light and dark corridors of our thinking, blended with past experiences causing me to ongoing generate a perspective shift as I travel in this experience called life … the deeper I understand the range that my emotions go, the easier it is to begin and deal with the moods, emotions, and places that my ever-so-powerful mind flows through.

My earliest memory of fear was as a very young child … we snuck up, overlooking the back yard of the rumored ‘witch’ in our neighborhood. She yelled at children, and the gang I hung with were pretty sure a number of children who had gone missing were to be found in her pot, with the bones being crafted into spells.

We quietly moved up on the hill behind her house. The house had been built into the hill, which had been cut away so we all had a birds eye view of the backyard and into the back of her house. Shhhhhhh … as a few began giggling … do you want to be seen, have a spell cast upon you, and disappear forever … inching ever closer. When we got to our vantage point, 6 young heads peered over the edge and looked down on the home. The ‘witch’ was out back, gardening or doing some such thing. A colorful flowing dress of bright colors, she seemed to be talking to herself and laughing out loud. The silence was broken when she looked up and yelled ‘I see you all up there!!’ We all screamed, jumped up and ran up to the house. We hid behind the garage, sure we would be followed … I reflect back and now I chuckle … yet those early experiences brought fear to my soul …

It was a Saturday afternoon in my early teens. I had just turned the TV on and was confused by a news report on the TV. It was about how the Van Allen Belt was on fire and the world was going to end within a few days. I vividly remember turning the TV off and going and sitting on the back deck, staring at the sky. During the family dinner, I was so quiet, yet so mentally confused. Everybody was just acting normal. THE WORLD WAS GOING TO END! THE VAN ALLEN BELT was on fire. That night, I snuck out and sat on the back deck. It was dark. The news report showed the world heating up and fire in the sky. I was so confused. It said the world was ending … years later I was watching an old 60’s movie, the title escapes me as I write. As I was watching the story, the exact same new report came on about the Van Allen Belt being on fire. I was shocked. I stopped the movie and sat there. After a few minutes, I burst out laughing and crying. At that moment, I was brought back to my early childhood, sitting on the deck looking up to see if I could see the Van Allen Belt on fire …

As I reflected on past fear, these examples arose. Fear is simply one of the emotions I float in and out of my state of being. Yet amongst all the emotions, fear holds a unique place.

Letter to My Greatest Fears

by Kathy Small

adult/child/teen/etcetera

Dear Fear

Where do I begin?

I know you well,

like the back of my hand.

True love is very scarce,

Fear can be led

with the thoughts of

having no food to eat,

Fear of not having a bed

Fear of not having a home

Fears run from the emotional,

mental and physical well-being.

Some kind of abuse screams where do we go, what do we do?

My greatest fear has always been

one of abandonment not just

parents but friends, possible boy

friends, dogs and other animals.

When there is fear, there can be,

screams, objects being thrown, a lot of hiding, running outside, going to Mr. Rapple’s grocery store with a mile long list of unpaid charges while asking me, the oldest at age 3 if I have the funds to pay.

Fear is going to Uncle Seppie’s house to ask if we can stay there because my “father” was on another rampage.

Fear is my mother telling me I was the “Apple of my Father’s Eye” all the while I was deathly afraid of him.

Fear is when my father was in the hospital to see my father being relieved that at least there would be people.

Fear that when my mother came into my bedroom and told me that my father passed away. All I could do is stretch out my arms, yawn and smile. Very confusing time.

Fear is when we attended my father‘s funeral. Fear is when my father’s brother told my mother that we have to sit in the back of the church for my father’s funeral. Fear is when one of my aunts’ told my mother that we need to sit in front of her for the funeral. Walking up the aisle to say goodbye to my father was one of the most difficult things I ever had to do. I cried the whole way down the aisle, leading to the casket. I felt so much guilt, shame, and remorse. I was only 12 years old.

For me, fear was tied up with embarrassment, humiliation, anger, sorrow,

Letter to Fear

by Sara da Encarnação

To you, Fear;

You have been mistaken for many things.

People call you weakness, but that is not what you are.

Weakness does not stay awake at night planning escape routes. Weakness does not study the world the way I have studied it, searching for the cracks where disaster might enter.

No. You are not weakness. You are vigilance sharpened to a blade.

You were born the day I understood something most people spend their lives trying not to see: the world does not promise safety, justice, or permanence. Things break. People leave. Bodies fail. Plans collapse. Empires fall.

Once you see that clearly, you cannot unsee it… so I built strength.

Strength became armor. Control became strategy. I learned how to anticipate, how to endure, how to stand when standing was the only thing left to do. I told myself this was wisdom.

But I know your secret now.

You were never only about survival. You were also about power.

Because if I remain strong enough, alert enough, disciplined enough, perhaps nothing will catch me unprepared. Perhaps I can negotiate with fate itself. Perhaps I can bend chaos slightly in my direction.

It is a seductive lie.

The truth is brutal. No one wins that negotiation.

Control is a story we tell ourselves so we can sleep.

And you, Fear, you thrive on that story.

So let me ask the question I have avoided: what would happen if I looked straight at you and accepted defeat?

Not the small defeats of daily life. Not disappointment or loss.

I mean the larger one.

The admission that I cannot outthink time.

I cannot outfight death.

I cannot protect everything I love.

I cannot guarantee the future.

If I accepted that fully, something unexpected might happen. You might lose your throne.

Because the moment I stop trying to control the uncontrollable, you no longer rule the room. You shrink back to your proper size: a warning signal, not a master.

And in that space where you once stood like a tyrant, something else might appear.

Courage.

Not the loud kind people boast about. The quiet kind that walks forward without guarantees.

So listen carefully… you may walk beside me. I know now that you are part of being alive.

But you are no longer in command!!!

Breaking Cycles and Finding Self-Forgiveness

by Em

It is such a strange thing to reach for support from people who have hurt me in the past and seem to thrive on my struggles. I’ve come to understand that my autistic brain craves familiarity, even when it’s painful. It’s like touching a hot stove; you know it will burn, but there’s a predictable outcome that feels safer than the unknown.

Reaching out to new people and opportunities is scary because I can’t predict how it will feel. My brain is conditioned to expect pain, similar to the reflex of expecting a hot stove to burn. This journey has been about learning to embrace joy, a concept so unfamiliar it feels completely foreign. Even though I know what joy is, there’s a lingering fear that it might just be another source of pain.

I find myself angry yet trying to forgive. We often hurt those we love without intending to, though I struggle to believe that fully. I’m frustrated with myself for continually reaching back to what’s familiar, even when it’s harmful. At some point, you can’t blame the stove for being hot. Breaking this pattern is the hardest thing I’ve ever faced, harder than physical injuries, childbirth, college, or addiction.

So, how do I move forward? How do I replace this anger with self-compassion? How do I start prioritizing my own needs over others’? I believe I’m making progress, though it’s hard to visualize, which is a challenge for someone who thinks in images.

Perhaps I’m not ready to forgive those who’ve hurt me. I want to spend my energy forgiving myself. Maybe I need to confront them with the truth of their actions, acknowledging that they’ve caused pain without deserving forgiveness. I’ve been treating myself harshly for no reason, and it’s time I stop.

I’m thankful for the opportunity to slow down and address my pain. I’ve realized that many of my relationships were merely distractions from this pain—similar to smoking, social media, or using substances to cope. Cutting off these distractions has been disorienting and deeply unsettling.

I’m grateful to those who’ve supported me through this process. It’s like they’re holding a light over my garden while I pull out the weeds. This support is invaluable as I do the hard work of healing.

Thank you for being there, for holding the light steady. I’m learning to trust the unfamiliar and believe that the best is yet to come. I trust that you’ll continue to support me until I’m strong enough to hold the light for others.

Bison

by The Art of Being

I haven’t thought about you in years.

I liked it that way.

I guess I reached a point where I trusted myself enough.

Trusted that I am strong enough to keep you away.

It’s been 75 and sunny for a long time.

I thought because I willed it so.

Not just because of circumstance.

The only reason I’m writing to you now is…

Lately there’s been a cloud.

Familiar.

Dark.

But distant.

It doesn’t appear to be getting any closer yet.

But I feel it there.

Taking the sweetness out of my sunny days.

Taking the breath out of my fresh air.

I know I have the tools to handle the rain.

I just don’t understand why the weather has turned.

It wasn’t on the forecast.

It shouldn’t be here.

I’m not even sure that it’s my cloud.

Its unknown origin has me

thinking of you again.

Entertaining the idea of you.

Your presence shakes my confidence.

You make me second guess my ability.

You make me doubt what I’ve accomplished.

You.

Not the cloud.

I’ve been through storms before.

Even with no life preserver I made it out.

Just.

It’s you that makes the cloud feel dangerous.

YOU. The fear of losing myself.

Of losing control of my thoughts.

Of losing my mind.

Again.

If I give in to you,

revert to your truth.

I would be

at the mercy

of that storm.

I may as well lay down

let it fill my lungs

with tears.

So no, fear.

I will not admit defeat.

I will not let you

allow that storm

to wash away the work.

the self-inquiry.

the growth.

the awareness.

the control.

That I have uncovered in me.

No, fear.

When you look me in my eyes you will not see a scared girl.

You will see the soul of a bison.

Sturdy and unafraid.

With neither resistance nor resignation

I will run headfirst into that storm as I kick dust in your face.

Then I will know it is my will that brings me sunshine.

I will know it’s not just circumstance.

I will know I am strong enough.

I will know I am healed.

And this will be

the last time

you will hear

from me.

The Fighter Faces His Storm

by Lorewright of The Triune

From my earliest memories, a life of struggle.

Rejected by those who should have stood beside you.

Thrown to the wolves,

Forced to play with fools—

Yet all these years later, you still try to do the best you can do.

You have your family now,

One you never thought you’d find.

You inherited a life where abandoned,

Yet you choose a life still standin’—

And you’d fight for it even with a fractured mind.

Talented with your blades, or is it just a pen?

Pen? Blade? Both mighty in their own way.

One of you can fight and slice,

The other simply writes—

But both of you use your talents, and both of you try to pray.

Holding onto faith when life has rejected you,

Prayers seemingly cast to empty skies.

You try to believe

While your heart bleeds,

And everything you cherished seems to be slipping by.

When you write so deeply from the heart—

A world that means so much to you, and characters so dear—

You can write bits of your pain,

Bits from which your characters are stained,

Maybe a subconscious act of passing the burden for fiction to bear.

This story, this world, these characters cherished inside—

They become your very purpose as you struggle with being here.

It is a part of you.

It is a love for you.

Your story—and her—are what help you fight through the fear.

What is my greatest fear, the thing that has broken the most?

What has dominated my life so completely at times?

This sick mind,

Always trying to find—

The answer is that fear is what life gave me, and it fights my mind.

My fear is not me desperately trying to hold control.

I wish to God the fear would one day finally let go.

Writing this, I did not intend

For this direction the poem would end—

But a challenge was asked, and I see now: fear is all I know.

What would happen if I admitted defeat?

You’ve tried that so much in this life—you’ve seen the pain it creates.

Admit defeat, I will not do.

You know what it’s driving you to.

You’ve gone through so much hell—

And just like the Warrior, this is your lot, and you’ll face the fates.

Forever and anon until the end, you’ll face come what may.

A broken meter, this rhyme not the best—

But maybe the most true,

And now the rules of the prompt I finally address.

And fear this is what I say to you—

You have ruled my life more completely than any king.

You whisper that surrender is peace, yet every surrender has carved another scar.

If life is a constant battle with you, reaching into my dying day,

Then like the brave soul who solves his battles with swords and undying vows,

I will fight for everything I love.

Because you, my fear,

Will never have the final say.

—The Lorewright of the Triune

Or perhaps

—R.R. Madsen

Truthfully, I’m not sure where one begins and the other ends.

It was a collaboration.

I read those questions carefully, and inspiration struck. Those words may or may not answer the questions, but they definitely swim in the ocean of fear. It’s not a poem, not a letter, not prose. It’s fear metamorphosing.

The Metamorphosis of Fear, The Day Courage Was Born

by The Stranger

Oh fear,
where can I start?
What was I afraid of?
Of looking weak?
of seeming weird?
of appearing scared?
But that wasn’t it—
not really.
I was afraid of fear itself!

I didn’t realize that until later on.
Fear wrapped its chains around my soul,
dictated every step I took.
Back then,
I couldn’t look fear in the eyes.

Let me tell you a story.
The moment I was born,
I didn’t cry.
The atrocities my soul had witnessed
left me speechless, breathless.

That’s why I didn’t cry—
not because I wasn’t afraid—
But because I was scared it would all repeat:
the same loop,
the same vicious cycle.

Humanity is a cancer,
a cancer spreading fear.
While some enjoy a horror movie.
Others live a reality of horror.

I was afraid,
I am afraid,
And I will remain afraid.

The day I accepted that fear
was the day my courage was born.

I faced fear that day,
shook his hand,
and together we marched—
long miles and longer nights.
Still we march,
on a sacred mission:

to uproot fear
from the hearts of the oppressed
and plant it
where it belongs—
in the hearts of those
who treat fear as entertainment.

It’s about time reality struck.
It’s about time
The equation of oppression trembled.
It is she who should be afraid—
not us,
not even fear itself.

Being afraid is a virtue.
It means the heart still beats,
the soul still aches,
The will to resist still burns.
It’s time to arm ourselves with fear—
to fight courageously,
to endure resiliently,
to win definitely.

For fear shall win,
And we shall win!

F.E.A.R

by Urvasi Devi Dasio

Sometimes a fear sits quietly beside us for years, like an uninvited guest who has nevertheless learned the layout of the house. It knows which floorboards creak, which memories we avoid, which questions we circle but never quite ask.

So perhaps the only honest way to begin is simply this.

Dear Fear,

You arrive as images I never asked for: a long illness, pain that stretches across months or years, the slow narrowing of a life that once moved freely. You whisper stories about hospital corridors and fragile bodies and days measured not in sunlight but in medication schedules.

And underneath all of that, another fear lives quietly within you.

Madhava.

I fear leaving him alone. I fear the empty chair where a mother once sat. I fear the quiet responsibilities that might fall onto his shoulders. I fear him becoming a carer again, the way he once stood beside his father as decline slowly unfolded.

No parent wishes that weight upon their child.

And if I am honest, another layer sits quietly beneath that. I know he is capable in the practical ways of life, yet the world we live in is not always kind to those who walk gently through it. Sometimes I worry about him standing alone in a world that measures worth by noise, competition, and endless striving. A mother cannot help but wonder who will sit beside her child when she is gone, who will notice the quiet days, who will share a meal or a laugh or the simple comfort of presence.

So I ask myself honestly: how much of this fear is really about pain… and how much is about control?

Perhaps more than I like to admit.

All my life I have tried, in small human ways, to arrange things kindly: to protect the people I love, to soften difficult paths before they appear. A mother’s instinct is often a quiet form of guardianship. We want the storms to pass over our children, not through them.

But life rarely accepts such arrangements.

If I look at you closely, Fear, I can see that part of you is simply my resistance to the truth that I cannot manage every ending. I cannot choreograph the final chapter so that no one suffers and every goodbye is tidy and merciful.

And perhaps that is where the real trembling begins.

Yet somewhere beneath that trembling, another knowing quietly waits. The Divine who accompanies us through every sunrise does not suddenly abandon us at sunset. The same unseen care that has carried Madhava through every year of his life will not vanish simply because my hands are no longer here to steady him.

What if I were to look you in the eye and accept defeat, not as failure, but as surrender to reality?

Not defeat of dignity. Not defeat of love.

Only the surrender of control.

If that happened, something curious might follow.

The fear would loosen.

Because the truth is this: love does not vanish simply because life becomes difficult. Children carry strength we do not always see. Families survive things we once believed impossible. And suffering, though none of us welcome it, has a mysterious way of deepening tenderness rather than destroying it.

If the day comes when my body weakens, the love between Madhava and me will not suddenly disappear. It will simply take another form. Perhaps quieter, perhaps more fragile, but still unmistakably present. And beyond that human love, there is the deeper shelter we both live within, whether we remember it every day or not.

And perhaps that is enough.

So, Fear, I will not pretend you have no place in this house. You are part of being human. But I see you more clearly now.

You are not only the fear of pain.

You are the fear of letting go.

And slowly, gently, I am learning that letting go may be the final kindness life asks of us.

With a steadier heart,
Urvasi.

Re: Status of enclosure remodel

by Brian Edwards

To: My Fear of Failure

From: Brian Edwards

Re: Status of enclosure remodel.

Date: March 14, 2026

The remodel is proceeding as scheduled. It won’t be too much longer of a wait until all the new fences with their thick steel cables are finished being put up, then you’ll have a lot more room to roam.

As we’ve discussed, the add-ons will be primarily located at the back of the enclosure, so the route you take to the arena will remain unchanged.

Still no luck on finding a different flavor of sulfur or phosphorous supplements. We’re working on it, but they aren’t exactly easy flavors to mask. In the meantime, it’s your horn, take them or don’t.

No, take out that last bit. I’m the reason his horn got cracked and he might be sore about it.

I was able to confirm that those large vertical cow brushes you asked about are, in fact, rated for an animal your size, and we’ll be having one installed near your pool.

We’re optimistic that the extra space will keep you from feeling like you need to fight all the damn time. That being said, it is an experiment which can be terminated. Please try to set a good example for the other fears, you’re the greatest and they all look to you for guidance. If everything works out here then we’re very hopeful that we can start planning out extensions for their enclosures as well.

Some of them, at least. A few of them I don’t know well enough to trust just yet.

Actually, strike that last part.

Yours,

Brian

Dictated but not read.

Trespassing in your own

by Kathleen Dreams In Color

“I wish I had given you away like the other one” with that the light switch is flicked off and the room is dark.

You have taken so much space and subconsciously controlled me, for a lifetime. You won. I hate you. The hatred of yourself you were able to push onto someone smaller and weaker.

I was everything you’d hope I would be, broken. Every person who made you feel used and unwanted; you made sure I felt that same way.

I moved through the years this way, I’m sure you were watching, pleased?

So, I did the only thing I knew, the same thing I watched you do, I turned everything off. I served a purpose and nothing more. Did they love me, I wouldn’t have recognized it if they did, you made sure of that.

Sex, I was good at that. It was the one thing you passed down, and it was something that they all wanted. You can fill an entire life of unwantedness with sex. It was the only thing you had too. I wouldn’t know love if I tripped over it, but using my body to attract emptiness and then using the same body to take care of men, I’d never be alone.

Sex is power and control. I learned that from you. You controlled stupid men. Men who couldn’t love you, men who weren’t even available to you. Yours ended poorly. If you are watching, mine isn’t so stellar. Men don’t love me either. They have gotten good use out of me. I have been the best at everything they need, taking care of it all. I’ve done it far better than you ever did, but have I really?

I sit here, just as unwanted as I was at 9 years old when that light switch went out.

So, why didn’t you give me away and give me a chance? Why don’t people leave if they don’t want to love someone? They all get the same enjoyment that you did, watching me.

Did it work? I spent a life justifying my existence to people who didn’t love or want me but made me resourceful to them. I also convinced myself that it didn’t matter. Now I finally see what you saw and they see.

I was able to mask over it for years, kept myself busy enough. I’m not busy now and it’s staring at me right in the face. The power is gone, the control, the usefulness.

What’s left…… the unlovable, unwantedness, one who should have been given away.

Standing In The Light

by JGWunderlich

Hello again, dear Fear, my reliable old friend.

It is strange to write you a letter as though we are not already intimately entangled, as if we had not been since the beginning. But we know each other too well to keep up the farce.

You have been standing beside me for longer than I can remember.

Humanity once defined you as an external threat. You were danger. Ambush. Peril.

Over time, your meaning shifted. You no longer named the danger itself, but the internal response to a perceived threat.

Fear became a signal from within.

In that sense, you were a gift. You helped humanity anticipate danger and develop appropriate concern for harm. Away from electrical outlets and oncoming traffic. Out of ditches and at a safe distance from fire. You kept us safe. You still do.

But there is a catch.

The light you shine can be unrelenting.

You are meant to be a lantern, illuminating real danger. Left unchecked, you become a floodlight, turning every shadow into a threat.

Then your voice appears, warning me about standing in the light. You say that once something is fully illuminated it becomes vulnerable to judgement, as if being seen were the most dangerous condition a living thing could endure.

You taught me to edit myself. To soften certain opinions and keep certain thoughts private. To present a version of myself that felt less likely to provoke judgement.

“Stay in the shadows,” you whispered. Stay in your shadows.

Eventually, I realized I was wearing masks. Small ones at first. Polite ones. Social ones. Masks meant to smooth rough edges and make me easier to accept.

You called this protection. But protection that requires hiding pieces of my soul, shrinking the parts of myself that feel most alive, is not protection at all.

It is slow disappearance.

Perhaps the real mistake was confusing your floodlight for the light itself.

The garden never asks the sun’s permission to grow. Flowers open whether anyone is watching or not. Trees stretch toward the light without asking who might judge their shape.

After millions of years, the trees seem to have figured you out, haven’t they?

We will always fear standing in the light if we allow your floodlight to blind us.

And here lies the deception. The light itself was never the danger. Judgement does exist; I can feel it. But it is not what I once believed.

Most judgements are projections, light bouncing off surfaces we have not yet examined. What we accuse others of often points back toward something unresolved within ourselves.

The only judgment that truly belongs to me is my own, and even that is not meant as punishment. It is information. When I judge another, I am only revealing the parts of myself I have not yet healed.

In the end, facing you has been one of my greatest teachers. That may be why I am writing to you now. Not to banish you, and not to pretend you were never useful.

You have done your duty. You warned me when danger was real. You kept watch when I did not yet know how.

But now I see you more clearly. Your light is brightest when it turns inward. And when I meet you there, instead of running, something in me grows.

So, thank you, old friend.

But, don’t forget: you are only a lantern, not the sun.

Thank you for reading.

Until next time,

JGW

Fragile

by Caner Şen

Thanks to our courageous imi —enough to display a rare kind of raw vulnerability— and inspiring prompts for a vision to build a legacy...

Throughout my life I had many fears — fear of abandonment, of falling down, of falling apart, of loneliness, of pain, of failure, of success...

Now I am in a very different place and I dug in pretty deep to find it... And I found one thing that I’m not afraid in this life, I never have fear to love...

”Not to Live” is my greatest fear and that’s tied to my need to remain relentlessly powerful, flexible, reckless to challenge every belief and never give up trying to live it better...

It has deep roots coming from the despair of holding control—an illusion engraved in my mind... Therefore my aim is growing roots inside me to flourish every place that I roam and let it all go—”all” that I can’t control...

Despite my former diagnosis of highly fragile or sensitive, I’ll be aware, intentional, wise enough to get my parts and rise gently to bloom.

Accepting defeat equals nothing less than death from this point of view and something even more...

It is coming undone.
It is being hopelessly broken in severe dark depression...
It is gathering rust and covered by dust alone...
It is letting your life pass by while waiting for a dawn that never will come.

They came with “anger” in emotion—neither to me nor the world, but to all things that could keep me from living true to myself…

And here is my song…

Ever lasting rush and pace
Too demanding and with haste
Always eager in the quest
Ceaseless waging never rest

I come undone, lost and gone
Rust and bone, dust.. alone
Painted blue.. Broken down,
Tired of waiting for my dawn

Against worlds bold as brass
Gird on armor made of glass
Anger in me raging reckless
Rising up to break in pieces

Darkness rise like a black sun
Difusing shadows in the moonlight
Dimming all colors fading out
Falling face down to hard ground

Against worlds bold as brass
Gird on armor made of glass
Anger in me raging reckless
Rising up to break in pieces

I come undone, lost and gone
Rust and bone, dust.. alone
Painted blue.. Broken down,
Tired of waiting for my dawn

Against worlds bold as brass
Gird on armor made of glass
Anger in me raging reckless
Rising up to break in pieces

Caner Sen

Fear Is The Gate

by Terod Naej

Dear Fear,

You arrived long before I learned your name.

You stood in the doorway
of every ambition,
quiet as a night watchman
leaning against the wall of my chest.

I called you failure.
I called you loss.
Sometimes I called you silence
when the world forgot to echo my voice.

But the truth is simpler than the armor I wore:

You were the tremor
in my need to remain powerful.

I thought power meant never bending.
Never letting the ground see my knees.
Never admitting the map in my hands
might be drawn by a frightened man.

So I gripped the wheel of my life
like a captain fighting the sea.

Control.
Control.
Control.

As if the ocean had ever listened.

You waited.

Patient as a shadow
that does not argue with the sun.

And one night
you stepped closer
and whispered a question sharp enough
to split my pride in two:

What if you are not meant to win every battle?

I hated you then.

Because beneath my hunger for power over my Soul,
lived a quieter confession:

I feared that surrender
would erase me.

I did not yet understand
that the self I feared losing
was only the mask.

But time, that old sculptor,
has a way of chiseling truth
from the hardest stone.

And now I see it.

If I had looked you in the eye sooner
and accepted defeat,
I might have discovered earlier

that defeat is not a grave.

It is a doorway.

A doorway where the armor falls,
where the fists unclench,
where the river of life
finally touches the skin of the soul.

Fear,
you were never my jailer.

You were the gate.

And every time I faced you,
the hinges of that gate opened
just a little more.

So tonight I write this
not as a warrior
but as a traveler
who finally understands the road.

Thank you
for the nights that stripped me of certainty.
Thank you
for the questions that burned through my ego.
Thank you
for the quiet truth you carried all along:

Power is not the ability to control life.

It is the courage to meet it as it is.

Even when it trembles.
Even when it breaks.
Even when it humbles us.

With quiet courage,

— Terod

Afraid

by Optimism from Darkness

Afraid that I won’t be able to protect my children when they need it most.

Afraid that I won’t have taught them the right things they need to protect themselves.

Afraid that my missed protection will affect their lives forever.

Why do I fear this unknown?

My children aren’t in any immediate danger.

I am not specifically limited in my teaching any more than others.

So why is this fear so prominent in my life?

I want my kids to grow.

I want to set them free to live their lives how they see fit.

But I was naive.

I didn’t learn all I needed.

My parent’s protection only went so far.

What more can I teach them?

How do I turn my love into protective knowledge?

Will they hear what I am teaching?

Will they want to listen?

Will they carve their own path regardless?

And so, I fear that they will have to learn the hard way.

They might choose the hard path.

They might be confined by their choices.

They might suffer anyway.

Only time will tell.

I Fear The Smiles

by The In Between

I asked fear some questions before bed, it wrote a letter back in the form of a dream.

That dream became this poem.

For me my fear has always been a dark mirror of my greatest hope: belonging. I never feel fully safe with others, never believe that people truly like or accept all of me. I think no matter how bright the start, it’ll end with me hurt. All these thoughts raced through my head before bed and came back in a nightmare.

I Fear The Smiles

last night fear followed me into a dream
it predators and me prey
first there was a man
the one that hurt my friend
he loomed over me
so tall and me so small
he wore kindness like a cloak
but everywhere I turned
I got hurt, I bled out
they all said he was kind
tried to change my mind
but the cruel lives in shadows
and makes light of it
waiting for you to blink twice
to open too fast
and let the wrong ones in.
Fear wasn’t just him,
it wore many faces
a family of them
the women were almost worse
they came bearing gifts
open invitations to just be
and then left me aching
from every sweet exchange
before my heart breaking,
the men seemed soft,
before they hardened. the women welcoming then not, time shifts, the pain remains.
It was a party,
I was the cake,
they all took their piece
till there was nothing left to eat.
I’d lock the door, they’d have a key,
I’d have a knife, they’d have gun.
I’d run and run and run.
They say to face fear
but it’s headlights
and I’m the deer.
When people turn,
it always burns me
a little girl hopeful
for a steady friend,
meeting dead end,
after dead end,
I don’t fear monsters,
that you can see,
I fear the smiles,
that turn on me.

Notoriety

by Mack Devlin's Imperfect Speech

Hey!

Sorry for the blunt greeting, you dirty sack of—

Let me restart. I’ve been angry at too many things in my life, and I’m not really angry at you. Truth is, we’ve never really known each other because anytime I get an inkling of you, I inch away from the crowd. Because with you, things become more complicated. You make other people expect things from us. But we are not one thing. Mark Twain was a writer yes, but he was also a father, a husband, a deeply complex man. Simone Weil broke herself to show the iniquities of industrialization, but she also had a side the world will never know.

I do not want to be known, but if I am known, let me be fully known. Let me be seen as the kaleidoscope that I am. Let my heart be felt by others. Don’t pigeon hold me as the funny one., the inspiring one, the nice guy. Someone can be all those things but be more. I have bad days. I have sad days. I have slightly mad days. I am a different creature depending on circumstance.

There’s still more to it.

Obligation. Perhaps it is because I am recovering from the extractions of another, or perhaps I spent too many years doing thankless tasks, tasks that I would do again in a second, but not everyone is worthy of the labor. I suppose that circles back to expectation, doesn’t it? Everyone expects you to be there holding the ladder for when they climb it. But the arms weaken and the body has wants. I do not want to be damned because I failed to hold the ladder for everyone. I fear you so much that I have struggled to name you throughout this correspondence.

Notoriety. Some conflate you with fame and popularity, but you’re more than that, aren’t you? You share the cradle with notorious. Has anything good ever been associated with that word? No one has ever said he was a notorious saint. But therein lies the fear. I am not known for my saintliness but I am also not known for my sinfulness. I do not want to be contained in the cell of association. Numbers climb though. They climb and climb and climb. And suddenly everyone acts like they know you.

People become familiar with you in ways that you don’t like. You find yourself linked to obligations you don’t remember agreeing to. And everyone expects you to fit the model of kindness that you’ve been told you demonstrate. I have been unkind in my life. Unkind to those that did not deserve it, unkind to those that do, and, most , unkind to myself.

Do not let me be known as a caricature of kindness or a sketch of malice.

Sincerely,

Anonymous

My Letter to Fear

by Gary L Taylor

Hello there, fear,

I can feel you, floating around,
somewhere towards the back of my mind,
waiting to emerge.

Usually at most inopportune moments.

I’m not sure I need to send you this.

You’re there, looking over my shoulder,
reading as I type,
seeking something to ill me,

to shred both mind and nerves.

I often remember the times I
thought I could silence you.
Beer, wine spirits.
I thought they held you down,

kept you safely locked away.

You’re sly though,
not one to be controlled.
It was you who had the power.

What I thought was protection,
armour in a bottle,
was a deception borne of you.

It seeped into me further,
Not only damaging organs,
but also feeding you,

anxiety-based protein
to fortify you
and strengthen that grip.

It took me time, but I slipped
from the noose, into which
you’d been leading me.

I see you more clearly without it,
as you employ different means to
walk me back to that place.

Those little new additions you’ve
given me; a stomach that bubbles
at smallest inconvenience.

The way rooms or places
now spin, if at heights that
previously caused no issue.

Nights that I sleep
with my wife beside me.
My daughter in the next room

and suddenly I wake to none of them
Just a dark room. Clothes strewn with
bottles and cans on the floor.

You, fear, cloaking yourself.
Virtual reality played out
within the headset of my dreams.

Though it fades when I just sit and breathe.

You don’t like that.

I thought when I began writing these
words to you, that I would admit defeat.
I concede, though, that I have no power over you.

I cannot ever be rid of you.

The game you play though,
is best handled, without thoughts
of wins and losses.

Though I still keep track of some.

You’re there, I’m here.
I suffer sometimes,
lose the small battles.

Embracing you though,
keeping you as part of my life
being a good husband,

a good father,
even with you there.
That’s a battle won.

What I accept is that we’re forever entwined,
I accept you, maybe not gratefully,
but with respect.

So we’re stuck with each other,
like a marriage of our very own,
‘til death do us part.

Love Is the One Thing You Cannot Take

by Beth B

Dear Fear,

You have a name. For years I pretended you were vague, something distant and theoretical. But you aren’t abstract at all. You are dementia.

I know you because I watched you arrive once. At first you were subtle. You moved through my father’s life like a slow fog, softening the edges of things he once knew perfectly well. Keys were misplaced. Conversations repeated. We all laughed it off in the beginning, the way people do when they are not ready to see what’s coming.

But you kept advancing. Soon he couldn’t drive. Soon frustration crept into a man who had always been patient. The gentleness we knew gave way to moments of angry outbursts that felt foreign to all of us, including him. Hands that once fixed everything began pushing help away. Hateful words crossed his lips, and soon my father was a stranger.

I realized then that you weren’t just taking memories. You were taking dignity. You were taking the control he had carried his whole life. That’s the part of you that terrifies me most.

It isn’t simply the forgetting. It’s the helplessness. The thought that my mind, the place where I’ve always lived most comfortably, could slowly betray me. That the person I believe myself to be could slip away while my body remains.

I watched the end of your work. Eight long days beside a hospital bed. A body still here, but a voice that had been cruelly silent for five long months. I searched his face for recognition, for some flicker that told me he still knew us, that somewhere inside the fog my father remained. But he remained wordless to the bitter end.

So yes, I fear you. But if I’m honest, part of that fear is tied to control. I always believed that if I planned carefully enough, thought through things clearly, worked hard enough, I could shape the course of my life. You’re a bitter reminder that there are places where control simply disappears.

And maybe that’s why you haunt me. You remind me that strength has limits. That the mind I rely upon is infinitely fragile. That life doesn’t promise fairness, or clarity, or even recognition at the end.

I know that, even when my father could no longer speak, he was still loved. But did he know it? Even when you’d taken almost everything recognizable from him, he was not alone.

If one day you come for me too, I hope I remember that. Because while you may take memory, you won’t be able to erase the love that surrounds my life. As I struggle to face this fear, I will fiercely hold onto the truth, that love is the one thing you will never control.

Letter to the Fear That I Will Die Unfinished

by Echoes From The Fire

Dear Incomplete Me,

You have been my shadow
for as long as I can remember dreaming.

You sit quietly in the room
whenever I imagine the future,
not audible enough to accuse me,
just present enough
to repeat the question.

What if you were made for something
and never become it?

You know my soft places.

You know how easily
a life can become routine—
how purpose can be replaced
by paychecks, and dissolved
into polite conversations,
into years that slip past
without you even noticing
what almost happened inside a man.

You whisper, then chuckle
when I hesitate.

You measure my worth, day by day
against the weight of possibility.

As if a life must be large
to matter at all.
As if quiet faithfulness
were a kind of defeat.

And I despise how often
you sound reasonable.

But wait—

You mistake my uncertainty
for surrender.

You think purpose arrives
like x marks the spot on a map,
with a clear signpost,
and applause
from a crowd
that was never there.

Because uncertainty
terrifies us both.
A life you cannot control
feels too much like failure.

What if it doesn’t?

Maybe purpose is quieter than that.

Maybe it is built
the way rivers carve valleys—
not with a single act,
but with a thousand faithful movements,
no one thinks to record.

You fear I will die unfinished.

But tell me—
what life worth living
is ever complete?

Even the founding fathers
left sentences half-written.
Even some saints
died with prayers half-spoken on their lips.

Purpose was never meant
to be a monument to accomplishment.

It is a direction.

So if I walk it
with unsteady steps,
if some days
I stumble more than I stride,
if the map stays blurred
until the final mile—

then so be it.

I will keep moving.

And one day,
when my breath runs out
before the work does,

I hope you finally understand

that unfinished
does not mean
unused.

—Me

A letter to Fear

by Nabanita

Dear Fear

You’ve been a loyal companion for too long. Or should I say , an unwelcome guest?

The nagging fear of never being enough, of always playing second fiddle to the stars around me have held me back. The fear of inadequacy has been part of my psyche for as long as I can remember . I’ve denied myself the chance of excelling at anything all through school, even though I knew I could write. The doubt that you sowed in my mind crystallized into a rock solid, hard truth that I didn’t have what it takes to make it.

I have some news for you my friend. I am parting ways and I will no longer give you the time of day. What made me finally reach this point of no return? It was the acknowledgment of the false reality that I constructed by prioritizing this fear. I was content to stay in this comfort zone created by this fear and keep the show going. I was afraid of confronting the truth that lay behind this fear, that I had potential but I denied myself the chance to discover. Everybody around me wasn’t better, smarter and prettier. My fear kept me stuck in that mindset forever. I now realize that releasing you will let me breathe fully and no longer be in your grip. I admit that I have allowed myself to be defeated by you until I began to understand myself better. It’s ok that it took me some time to part ways, but better late than never, right?

Sent

by Kayleigh Thorpe

Due to formatting, this is best viewed on the desktop version of the app.

Also. This is fiction. ← ← ← Just to make it SUPER clear

But. Yeah. Shaking a bit after writing it.

Hi
10:10 ✓

This is stupid
Edited 10:12 ✓

Autocorrect, came out as sexy
10:12 ✓

Don’t ask
10:12 ✓

I lit a candle the other day, purple smelled like lavender
10:18 ✓

I uh wrote something on a piece of paper for you. Burned it, that’s how it works right?
10:18 ✓

Right?
10:19 ✓

I can’t believe it’s been a year and I’m still here staring my phone expecting you to just call
10:21 ✓

I started to forget what you sounded like, like it just sounds flat in my head. I couldn’t remember how dad sounded either. I started panicking, I couldn’t breathe.
10:23 ✓

I called in sick from work, everything was spinning and I was just scrolling through messages, made it worse
10:23 ✓

Then I found a voice note you’d sent me, years ago
10:23 ✓

It was when I was late to Mitch’s birthday, two hours or something and you and dad just sent a rant demanding to know where I was, both of you shit faced with no care
10:29 ✓

Course you remember. You always do
10:29 ✓

Did
10:29 ✓

I miss you
10:37 ✓

So much it hurts, when does it get better?
10:37 ✓

I need you
10:38 ✓

When Nonna died, you were always making sure everyone else was fine
10:42 ✓

How? I can’t be strong anymore, I was never strong
10:42 ✓

I’m so afraid of loosing that fucking voice note I’ve paid someone to make a copy and put it on a usb stick what a fucking disaster
10:46 ✓

I love you
10:46 ✓

Why didn’t I say it more?
10:47 ✓

That was hard. Fuck.

The Year Death Introduced Itself

by Patty Bee

When I was young, I didn’t understand how you worked. My mother cried in her bedroom because you stole away her aunt and uncles, childhood friends, people who formed her early life. I didn’t understand her pain. Not yet.

The first time you and I truly became acquainted, you came for my friend Denise, just 19 years old. She was driving home from a wedding when her car hit a tree. Denise was the type of girl who was going places in the world before you intervened. I don’t know if she’s busy in heaven now, but I suspect she is. What I do know is that you sucker-punched me with grief, and in that instant I understood all my mother’s tears.

You weren’t finished with us that year. Just three months later you took 35 of my classmates on Pan Am Flight 103, collecting them and carrying them heavenward above the little town of Lockerbie, Scotland. Artist Susan Lowenstein, who lost her son Alexander, created 74 life-sized sculptures depicting how the other mothers looked when they learned the news that you had taken their children. These moms came to Lowenstein’s studio to help with the project. “They allowed their bodies to fall into the position that it took upon hearing that most devastating news,” Lowenstein writes. “Some scream, some beg, some weep, some pray, some curl into a ball, while others raise their fists in anger and despair.”

Death, this is the impact of your work.

On September 11, you accepted the souls of 2,977 more innocents, including a boy I had always had a crush on. When I was little, I told my mother that I would marry him someday. True to form, she turned to me and said, “You’ll have a lot of competition with that one!”

She couldn’t have imagined that you would win the competition.

When you came for my mother, I played a role in handing her over. I stopped her hydration. She hadn’t eaten any solid food in hospice for three-and-a-half months, and I knew that ending the hydration meant I was giving her to you, but I didn’t want to believe it. Letting go felt like betrayal, even though I knew it was mercy.

Then you tried for my dad, but that time we fought you off. He is not ready for you.

When you come for me, I hope it’s in the middle of the night, that you come silently and swiftly, and I hope that my children will not mourn for long. I hope this will not happen for many decades. But after a lifetime of watching you pass through the lives around me—never gone for long, always somewhere close by—you and I are no longer strangers. And because of that, I am not as afraid.

Patty Bee

Week One:

02.03.206 — 08.03.2026

Prompt: Write about an encounter between the self you are now and the self you want to become.

Do You Remember, Little Girl?

by imi

Do you remember, little girl, your babysitter used to feed you in the elevator, pressing every floor to make you eat while you were distracted by your own giggles?

She would take you to a green field right in front of your apartment. You ran after sheep, your body meeting the soft grass, your gaze facing the blue sky.

Later you could not decide which one would be your favourite colour, blue or green. You wanted it to perfectly represent who you are.

Blue was freedom, reminding you of the countless horizons in the sky.

That day you chose blue. Perfection became the measure of your life, giving up freedom and imprisoning yourself in your own mind.

Do you remember the shouting, little girl, when your babysitter accidentally dropped a burning coal on your throat?

Your mom came later and screamed at the woman who was responsible.

You still carry its mark.

The one on your throat and the one in your heart.

The subtle feeling of being chosen by the person you loved the most only when you cried.

Later your mother started taking you to kindergarten at the age of two.

You would cry endlessly until she pointed out the fluffy Michelin Man on the side of the road.

You glanced at your mother while a thin ribbon of sunshine touched her blonde hair, turning it into gold.

Your eyes carried both happiness and sorrow.

A month ago, your mother came to visit you in London, telling you her biggest regret was leaving you at kindergarten a year after you learned how to walk.

“It is okay, mother. I know you needed to work.”

But your words did not soothe her.

Your mother told you she cannot even cry anymore.

Do you know who you want to be, little girl?

Someone who does not carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. Not suffocating under thousands of roles, growing estranged from your own world, going numb instead of devastated.

You couldn’t save your mother, but it isn’t too late for you.

Do you remember, little girl, you wanted to be your sister?

Her voice echoing from a distance each time you craved chocolate.

“Look at Elena Gilbert. She is so simple but guys are all around her because she is thin. Don’t you want to be like her?”

You took that as an order, starving yourself in high school. Then you got sick, unable to study for your university entrance exams.

Do you remember, little girl, the fear of not granting yourself the scholarship for the university you had always dreamed of? The quiet tightening in your chest, like the air in the room had suddenly grown heavier?

Each breath felt borrowed, thin, uncertain, like trying to breathe through water.

That was your dream because your sister studied there.

You watched her melting away, blaming everyone else for her disappointments.

She never blamed herself for disappointing you. She had always been the one who gave you your dreams and took them away from you.

Blue still is your favorite color, but your lungs are far from filling with fresh air.

Do you remember, little girl, you wrote a Harry Potter story in fifth grade? Your father was so proud he got it framed.

I know you still remember the smile on his face every time he mentioned it to someone. The sight was addictive. You pledged to put that smile on his face every day.

Years later he is sitting on your couch in London. Words are falling from his lips, but the recurring whispers grow louder as he speaks until you cannot hear him anymore while your thoughts shout at you,

“Your father does not believe in you. You are a failure.”

What if you’re a disappointment like your sisters?

The evening after your bachelor’s graduation, you went to dinner with your family, but one of your sisters was missing, somewhere with some junkies.

Your other sister finally told your father what was going on.

You saw his devastation in his tiny gestures. The way he bent over to reach for the button that fell from his shirt. The slowness of his movements, the way his eyes were filled with tears.

There was no button on the floor.

You stopped calling that junkie your sister the day you heard she slapped your mother.

Yet you feared the gaze that could someday wait for you in every mirror, the kind that hunted for escape, dilated with hunger rather than wonder.

Your nervous system pulled the emergency brake. The body that once chased pleasure suddenly set its own limit, leaving you to wonder whether it had saved you or simply changed the direction of your fall.

Shame wrapped itself around you in every corner when you tried to take two steps forward.

Shame did not arrive then, little girl.

It was always there. Even when you healed.

Enough.

Let it go.

Let the remnants of your old life that you kept holding on to reunite with your own illumination.

Plant that new seed of hope for life, for the self waiting to emerge.

The person I want you to become is someone who is proud of herself. Proud of her illness, proud of the mistakes she has made. Proud of failing an exam, proud of crying everywhere.

A person who eats what she craves without feeling guilty. A person who puts herself first instead of carrying everyone else’s shit.

A person who knows that a kind of love exists that does not ask to be searched for.

A person who shows up for herself every day messy, chaotic and imperfect.

Someone who allows her fears to exist and lets joy follow.

To love and accept all that is.

To demand nothing from life, only to accept what lies within your power with faith and surrender.

The greatest love story ever destined to last has always been the journey you have been on.

You are both the secret and the source, the question and its answer.

Blue is your favourite colour.

The Next Scene

by Kathy Small

I am silently holding what time has held,
the memories of yet another place,
It’s all too familiar, I must look forward to mend these scares
Look up, look forward to the n
I see strength and courage on every front.
I see battle scars in back and front.
Courage and wisdom leads the way as excitement and passion creates the next scene 🎬

I Am

I am a lover. I want to love.
I am a helper. I want to help.
I am a warrior. I want to protect.
I am a teacher. I want to learn.
I am a woman. I want to lead.
I am a leader. I want to inspire.
I am a listener. I want to speak.
I am a mother. I want to comfort.
I am divergent. I like it that way.
I am her.

To exist. To complete. To expand.

The Man In The Selfie

by HVR

Grab my phone
Turn it around
Look in the cam
Don’t know the man
In the selfie

Is it me?
Past me?
Future me?
Don’t know

Could shoulda woulda
Been me
If events
Were different?

Can’t face myself
Is it myself?

The one in the selfie
Judges
Disgusted
Disappointed

If you hadn’t stopped grad school
If you were more prepped for adulthood
If you found a better major
If you knew how to be
If you weren’t such a freak
Tears and snot
It’s all true
Who needs an enemy
When I have you?
And when You are me

If you knew how to be
If you could even get
A girlfriend before 30
If you listened
If you trusted
I drop my phone

Can’t anymore
Too much
Too true

Pick up your phone,
Or are you doing it again
I pick it up

Remember your first panic attack?
Age 14
You would never function again
Your chest still hurts and tightens
That was on you

I nod

You didn’t fight back
When they mobbed you
At your locker
And slammed your head in it
You deserved it

I know

You deserved that hit and run
That still makes you scared
In the car
Was your $1500 settlement
Worth it?

I shake my head
The start of my life savings

The “other” schools you were sent
The meds they forced you on
Imagine how you would be
“Sober”

I throw my phone
I know

Pick me back up
You know you will

I pick it up
Stare and wait

You’re the loser middle child
Nobody even wants you now
You’re too much, too weird, and
Inconvenient

I know
I believe

You’re a bad Christian
Sinner, liar, cheater
You didn’t study the Bible or pray enough
Did you not pay attention?
If Jesus is your healer
What’s the problem?
I set the phone down
Look at my Bible
Say a prayer
My throat gasps

You know what the worst part is?
If you’d have just
Finished the job

Those three times
And left this world
Everyone would be better off
Drop my head
Is it true?

I look back at the phone

You can’t even kill yourself

Do you even care for others?
A burden
A disgrace
An unfunny joke
But keep playing
Like it doesn’t matter
And people don’t already know
I close my eyes
I don’t want to believe
But I do

What are you waiting for?
It’s not too late
Do us all a favor

He’s right
I’m right
It’s time
I can’t
You need to finish it
Save the rest

You’re just a problem

I get it, I know

So do something about it
So I can fail again?
No. Be successful for once In your life

With your DEATH

Heart pounds
Breath fast
Eyes wide

I know it
I believed it
In the past

I scroll off the selfie
To my phone background

My daughter

“I love you daddy,
You’re a great daddy.”

She said that

I don’t know
That I believe her

But I choose to

I NEED THIS
SHE NEEDS THIS

I can be so critical
So doubtful
So unkind
To myself

I’m not who And how I used to be
These thoughts don’t
Paralyze me
Stop me
Or wreck me Anymore

I look at her
Heart slows
Knuckles unclench Jaw relaxes

I don’t need to look at the selfie

I can look at my daughter

Between Tides

by WiFighter

He’s standing at the edge of the water when I see him.

Not younger. Not older. Just… steadier.

The wind moves through him without knocking him off balance. The waves hit the rocks and he doesn’t flinch. I recognize the jaw. The eyes. The scars.
He turns first.
“You took your time,” he says.
“I’ve been busy surviving.”

He nods like he expected that answer. “I know.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder, looking at the horizon.

“You look… lighter,” I say.
“I put some things down.”
“Like what?”

He glances at me. “The need to prove I was right. The need to win every argument. The fear that if I stopped grinding, I’d disappear.”
I let that sit. The tide crawls in, then retreats.

“I’m not afraid of work,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says. “You’re afraid of stillness.”

That one lands.

“You think you’re becoming me by doing more,” he continues. “More projects. More plans. More declarations. But I’m not built from motion. I’m built from integration.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means I stopped splitting myself into roles. Warrior. Husband. Father. Creator. I let them be the same man.”

I look at him more carefully now. He isn’t softer. He isn’t less intense. He’s just… aligned.

“So what separates us?” I ask.
“Trust,” he says immediately.
“In who?”
“In yourself. In the people who love you. In time.”
The waves crash harder now. The sky darkens.
“You still want freedom,” he says. “But you’ve confused freedom with escape.”
“And you haven’t?”
“No. I learned that freedom is staying — without resentment.”
I laugh once, sharp. “That sounds like surrender.”
“It’s discipline,” he corrects.

Silence stretches between us. I study his hands. They’re open.

“What do you know that I don’t?” I ask quietly.

He thinks for a moment.

“That nothing you’ve survived needs to be relived in order to justify your strength. You don’t have to keep proving you were forged in fire.”

The wind shifts. For a second, I feel it too — that steadiness. That anchored calm.

“What connects us?” I ask.

He smiles, small but real.

“The fact that you’re here asking.”

The tide finally reaches our boots. Cold water rushes over my feet. When I look back at him, he’s already walking toward the rocks, climbing higher ground.

“Wait,” I call. “How do I get there?”

He doesn’t turn around.

“You stop chasing me,” he says. “And start becoming me.”

The Version of Me That Stayed

by Dipti Vyas

Author’s note: I didn’t invent a character. I simply sat long enough for a conversation to appear.

She is not a teacher or a saint. She is the version of me learning to stay with the truth, breathe before editing, and trust that honesty doesn’t always cost belonging.

I’m grateful to @imi for the prompt that opened the window.

She is sitting cross-legged when I arrive,
sunlight spilling through an open window.
Spine straight.

No incense. No theatre.
Just a stillness that doesn’t look rehearsed.
I stand at the doorway like I might be cross-examined.

“You can come in,” she says. “You don’t have to prepare an answer.”

I almost laugh.
Preparing answers is how I survived.

I learned to scan a room in seconds.
To smooth stories before they caused friction.
To bend the truth so no one would leave.

Lying was never glamour,
it was architecture.
A way to keep the roof from collapsing.

“You did what you had to” she says gently.
“Truth wasn’t safe.”

Her voice holds no accusation.
That unsettles me more than judgment.

She gestures for me to sit.
I do, awkwardly. My back doesn’t trust straight lines yet.

“You meditate every day?” I ask.

“I sit every day,” she corrects.
“Some days it’s chaos. Some days it’s quiet. I stay either way.”

I study her face. No godly glow.
Just presence.
A kind that doesn’t flee.

“I want to be like you,” I admit.
“Open. Honest. Not afraid of love. Not afraid of conflict.”

She smiles. “I’m afraid.”

That surprises me.

“I just don’t build houses inside the fear anymore.”

Silence stretches.
For her, it feels spacious.
For me, it feels like exposure.

“When someone asks you something hard,” I say,
“you don’t panic?”

“I panic,” she says. “But I breathe first. I let the urge to edit the truth pass. Meditation isn’t escape. It’s staying long enough not to abandon yourself.”

That lands somewhere tender.
I am tired of mistaking vigilance for wisdom.
Tired of confusing caution with maturity.
Tired of calling self-erasure peace.

“What if love comes?” I whisper.
“What if it leaves?”

“Then it comes,” she says softly.
“Then it leaves. That’s what things do.
And we’re still here.”

We.

The word loosens me.

“You think I’m reckless,” she adds.
“I think you’re healing.”

I look at her hands: no armor, no exit plan folded between her fingers.

“What separates us?” I ask.

She considers.
“You learned to survive first,” she says.
“I learned to trust first.”

“And what connects us?”

“We both want peace. You try to secure it outside. I cultivate it inside.”

The window is open. A small breeze moves the curtain.

“You don’t have to throw caution to the wind,” she says softly.
“Just open the window.”

I close my eyes.

The truth rises-

I am afraid of being disliked.
Afraid honesty will cost belonging.
Afraid that if I stop performing calm, I will be alone.

I don’t edit it.

I sit with it.

When I open my eyes, she hasn’t disappeared.

She isn’t some future saint.
She is the version of me that stayed.
The one who kept breathing long enough
for survival to loosen its grip.

The distance between us is not enlightenment.

It is the courage
to tell the truth
and remain.

Dear Me

by Miles Hack

Dear Child,

Year 2026 of the month of March.

Spring opens her sleepy eyes. I do the same.

I got up today as I do every morning

Glass of water, crust of bread

A low fire in the wood stove, and out the door to the gardens I’ve always known.

I find peace there—but not as I once did.

Age has caught up with ambition, & I still have not gotten it to tell me where it, or I, am headed. Time has a funny way of keeping secrets from me; no matter how intense my yearning, there’s crowd here is still crickets. At least I find that, in such a biodiverse place, to be admirably honest… and kind in a way.

There’s something else now. What has been felt & wanted for my children and my future is not everything though. I have a nurturing lover, who consoles the nervous system in that there really isn’t much more from me to ask of this realm.

Though I see it… somewhere in this garden, the leaves relinquish visions. The wind sways a certain way. My mast angles accordingly — without a need for command.

It is a deep wish to know of where and what the why is. Could you tell me? I understand if not.

All my blessings nonetheless,

-Miles

********

Dear Child,

To you it may concern:

Do not fret. I saw you in the garden just the other day — the last morrow February, if I’m not mistaken.

You’re always there in that place. Every time I wish I could remind you! My words haven’t yet come into being —alas, I am still mute — no matter how many times I check.

What I know is much more than what I speak, thankfully!

Each time the bees converse among the Sage & the Lavender, I hear their whispers beneath the busy hums. It’s about you! They wonder why you seek it so, yet have a need you do not know. We are such silly things, you & I.

In the mulch I eavesdropped upon another point that was buried in the aroma of humus — the sacred nutrient reservoir of the soil — that may indulge you further.

Composters of the older layers caught wind of your indecision through the cracks, but had a very reassured look on their little faces.

“He is not what he once was, and humbly awaits what he is to be, but is currently not. Why does he worry, the new texture of life is always what it must be, inevitably.”

I know you wish for better circumstance & brighter life weather… all in due time, my friend.

Trust in the path as you do like the flagstone in the grove. I’ve no doubt the answers to your needs will come after long day & a well-earned rest.

I hope those aids in your discovery, & I will see you later, as I always do.

Your friend always,

-Miles

The Woman Who Walks Ahead of Me

by Monica A Leyva

She was sitting at my kitchen table
when I came home.

No announcement.
No miracle light.

Just her hands
wrapped around my chipped mug
as if she had been waiting
for years.

“You look tired,” she said gently.

I laughed.
The kind that sounds like metal striking tile.

“I built this life with my bare hands.”

She nodded.
“I remember the splinters.”

The room felt smaller
with both of us in it.

On the counter:
drafts I never finished.
Emails answered too quickly.
Ambitions folded into laundry baskets.
A body that learned to hold pain
without trembling.

She reached for my wrist
where the pulse lives.

“You learned to survive beautifully,” she whispered.
“But survival was never the promise.”

Something inside me gave way.
A quiet break
like a branch under too much snow.

“I carried everyone,” I said.
“I stayed. I endured. I made myself useful.”

“Yes,” she said.
“And you made yourself smaller.”

The word smaller
moved through me
like winter water.

I studied her face.

She carried my scars.
They rested on her skin
like constellations.

“What do you know,” I asked,
“that I do not?”

Her voice was steady.

“I know you can be chosen
without proving why.”

My throat closed.

Evening pressed its light against the glass.

“And what do I know,” she asked softly,
“that I have forgotten?”

I breathed carefully.

“I know how to begin
while afraid.
I know how to build from ashes.
I know how to keep loving
even when it costs me.”

We sat there,
two versions of the same heart
beating at different tempos.

She stood
and stepped closer
until her forehead touched mine.

“I cannot exist without you,” she said.
“You do not have to stay here forever.”

When she pulled away
the room felt larger.

The mug still held its warmth.

She walked toward the door.

I stayed behind,
holding the life that kept us alive.

And I understood what becoming requires.

Someone must remain behind
holding the life that saved you.

Self-Reflection:

There is always a version of us who survives first. The rules are learned quickly. The temperature of every room is measured. Usefulness becomes access and steadiness becomes bracing. Desire is folded away because usefulness keeps the lights on. Celebration was never the goal. Making it through was. Strength becomes language. Endurance becomes posture. Space is reduced so others can remain comfortable, and this reduction earns respectable names: maturity, love, responsibility.

Years pass. Scars accumulate.

The one who walks ahead carries those same scars and declines to entertain or negotiate. Survival was an emergency response. It was never meant to be a permanent address.

Growth requires inventory: who was constructed to stay alive, what was buried to remain chosen, how long you have been serving a life that no longer fits. Reverence is owed to the version of you who endured.

Growth also requires release. Someone must remain long enough to say thank you, long enough to recognize the weight that was carried, long enough to set it down.

Forward motion comes from refusing to confuse endurance with destiny.

The quiet truth remains: you were never meant to live inside what you built in order to survive.

Avoiding Mirrors

by Gary L Taylor

I try to avoid mirrors.
Not like a vampire, lacking reflection,
due to a void
where a soul should reside.

There’s a soul here, of some kind, at least.

What stares back instead, is a
badly arranged craft project,
bits and pieces stuck together
an amalgamation of ghosts and memories.

Failures both then and now,
trapped behind glass.

The image blurred, so I can’t quite see
if what it shows are scars,
left behind by roughly tearing off
the masks I used to wear

or if I’m still wearing one
that I’m not quite conscious of.

Recovered, recovering,
or simply waiting for a trapdoor
to open, back into abyss
and nothingness.

The glue just about holds.
Newly created shape.
Things fall off here and there,
flesh sometimes not quite right

pink tinged by yellow.

My body providing jaundiced reminders
of weaknesses and errors past.
A reminder perhaps not to slip,
though I often don’t care to see it.

Sometimes the mirror talks,
‘I love you, Daddy’,
in my daughters voice. A sign that
maybe I am good enough.

The image clears a little,
scars or mask briefly vanish
as I see someone that makes
their family proud, makes them happy.

This person exists.
Doesn’t concern himself with those
who laugh or mock his ways.
Just does everything

to keep seven year-old eyes smiling.

Though, despite a refusal
to fold myself as I once did, there is
still that lingering sense and feeling,
that I’m possibly not worthwhile

or perhaps just incredibly dull.

The amount of times people
look away or barely conceal
their indifference when I talk to them
hits harder now I no longer numb myself.

The stronger, clearer version in the glass
grabs shirt buttons and rips,
Superman-style.
There’s steel underneath.

I see him, we lock eyes.

Though it remains still indecipherable;
is this is a battle or a dance?
Whether there is a victory to win,
should one cede to the other,

or if there is simply balance
and harmony to be achieved

somewhere between the two.

Table for Two by

I met her in a café that didn’t exist yesterday.
The kind with chipped cups, overconfident sourdough,
and a chalkboard menu promising transcendence
with oat milk.

She was already seated.

Same face.
Less apology in it.

“You’re late,” she said, checking a watch I don’t own yet.

“I had emails,” I replied. “And a minor existential wobble.”

She waved this away like steam from a flat white.

“Sit. We need to talk.”

So we did.
She orders black coffee. I order something with cinnamon
and plausible deniability.

“You still negotiating with fear?” she asks.

“Only on weekdays.”

She laughs — my laugh, but upgraded.
Surround sound. Dolby Courage.
Between us on the table:
a stack of unfinished drafts,
a gym membership card still crisp as winter,
three grudges wrapped in wax paper.

“You’re carrying too much,” she says.

“You’re carrying nothing,” I fire back.

“Must be nice up there on Mount Self-Actualised.”

She grins. “It’s windy. You’d hate it. No room for your just-in-case baggage.”

Touché.

I study her. She’s not shinier.
Not saintly.
Just… unafraid of the bill.

“What do you know,” I ask, “that I don’t?”

She leans in.

“That nobody’s coming with a trumpet fanfare.
No one hands you the life.
You cook it. Even if you burn the onions.”

I bristle. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” she softens. “You think becoming is a demolition.
It isn’t. It’s renovation.
We keep the good bones.”

Good bones.

I glance at my hands,
the same nervous tapping,
the same habit of reaching for comfort like a remote control.

“You still doubt yourself?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says. “But I don’t let Doubt drive the car.
It sits in the back. No snacks.”

I choke on my cinnamon foam.

“What separates us?” I ask.

She considers.

“Three habits and a story you refuse to drop.
Also that coat. It’s tragic.”

“What connects us?”

She reaches across the table.
Her hand is warm. Familiar. Mine.

“Desire,” she says. “That stubborn, holy itch.

The refusal to stay small.”

The café flickers. Time folds like a napkin.

“Will I make it?” I ask quietly.

She tilts her head. “You’re not climbing toward me.
I’m growing out of you.”

That lands.

Outside, the street rearranges itself into possibility.
A bus hisses like a dragon with a timetable.

I stand. She stands.
We are not enemies.
Not rivals.

More like co-conspirators
in a long, slightly chaotic heist
called Becoming.

“See you tomorrow,” she says.
“Same time?”
She smiles. “Earlier.”

Parallel World

by Alix@IN2LProds

Me: If I could, I wouldn’t be here.

Future Me: I’m already not there.

Me: Are you happy now?

Future Me: I’m still trying, but I’m happier than you.

Me: What are you doing there?

Future Me: I’m finishing the life lessons I never completed.

Me: What lessons?

Future Me: Learning to face the self I avoided after graduating from my master’s—the part of me that stopped growing and never pushed to chase dreams. The part that stayed silent when it should have spoken.

Me: Have you finished?

Future Me: Not yet. But I’m facing what I should have faced all along. You still have a chance. If you change, I change too. We come from the same root, connected in ways you cannot yet see.

Every bit of your unhappiness leaves traces in my future. But if you try harder now, I can explore more possibilities in my time. Your fears, your doubts, the moments you feel lost—they exist only in your present. In my space, they fade. But if you keep repeating the same patterns, you cannot expect a different outcome.

Me: I’m trying.

Future Me: Try harder. Not for medals, not for titles, not for anyone else. Do it for yourself—to grow, to become the version of you you’ve imagined.

Alix, I am Alix too. This has always been “our life.” We walk together. Even when it feels like you’re alone, I’m there with you. In your present, fill yourself—feed your mind, your heart, your spirit—for yourself, and for me in the future.

Bring a little more warmth into your days.

Laugh when you can.

The world doesn’t always deserve your seriousness.Even when it feels small or insignificant. You don’t need to please anyone—you’re already enough. I’m proud of you.

Feel the rhythm of your life. Notice your patterns. Learn their guidance. You’re already walking the path; you’ve already begun.

Future Me: And remember—when you change, even a little, my world changes too. We are always connected, across time, across choices, across all the moments you think are lost.

Halfway Down The Trail

by Marlana aka Outtamydamnmind

Onyx and I are halfway through our usual trail when I notice someone sitting on the bench ahead.
She’s watching the water like she’s got nowhere else to be.
Onyx notices her before I do. His tail starts wagging like he recognizesan old friend.
When we get closer, I realize why.

She looks like me.
Same tattoos.
Same posture.
Just calmer.

Like someone who finally stopped wrestling with herself.

She smiles when I sit down on the other end of the bench.

“Took you long enough,” she says.
“To get here?” I ask.
“To stop long enough to notice me.”

Onyx flops down between us like this is the most normal thing in the world.
I stare out at the water.

“So,” I say after a minute, “did we figure it out?”
“Figure what out?”
“You know.” I gesture vaguely at everything. “Life. Purpose. Whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing.”

She laughs softly.

“You stopped trying to solve life like it was a math problem.”
“That sounds nice,” I mutter.
“It is.”

I glance over at her.

“Are we happy?”

She tilts her head, thinking.

“More often than not,” she says. “And when we’re not, we don’t assume something’s wrong with us anymore.”

That feels important.

“Are we helping people?” I ask.

She nods.

“In ways you can’t even see yet.”
“And success?” I ask. “Did we ever become successful?”

She smiles like she’s heard this question a thousand times.

“You stopped trying to twist yourself into a version everyone could digest,” she says.

She leans back against the bench.

“Turns out that was never your job.”

I think about that for a moment.

“So that’s success?”

She looks right at me.

“Success is finally being honest about who you are and letting the right people find you because of it.”

Onyx shifts beside us, sighing like he’s bored with the whole conversation.

I stare at the water again.

“One more thing,” I say.
“Okay.”
“Was it worth it? Choosing authenticity instead of trying to be liked?”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“Every single time.”

The wind moves across the water in slow ripples.
When I look back at the bench, she’s already standing.

“Wait,” I say. “How do I become you?”

She smiles the kind of smile that only comes from someone who’s already lived the m

“You stop asking who you’re supposed to be,” she says.

Then she nods toward the trail.

“And you keep walking.”

If you could sit down with the future version of yourself, what would you ask them?

The Tortoise and the Hare

by Megan

I’ve been with my partner for two years now, and his presence in my life has been nothing short of an illuminating and sometimes frightening mirror. Without trying, and only by being himself, he reflects me. Sometimes the lighting is amazing, and I get caught up in my own gaze; sometimes it’s overhead LED fluorescent white light that highlights every flaw I perceive in myself.

But I’m always willing to look.

When I committed myself to him, it was a commitment to myself as well.

Recently, I’ve come to appreciate our differences rather than beating myself up and idealizing him over them. For so long, his version of the spectrum that I thought we were on opposite sides of was so much more appealing than my side. From my perspective, this man had a superpower quality about him that enraptured me, and I simultaneously wanted to hide from him and be like him. Ultimately, however, the way he experienced life inspired me to expand around us rather than contract within myself.

He is the Tortoise: deliberate, steady, thoughtful.

I am the Hare: quick, impulsive, hasty.

I’ve always known that, for better or worse, I’m quick. Quick to judge, quick to move, and quick to do; however, this quality was never so apparent to me as when I partnered up with a man who operates at a slower pace and with a measured step. He takes his time to make sure things are right before moving forward. He analyzes situations, ideas, and problems deeply. He doesn’t often make sudden moves, so when he does decide to do something, I trust it.

Imagine trusting your partner’s decisions. This is something I didn’t have a lot of experience with in previous relationships. No experience, to be brutally honest. I had neither trusted nor been trusted with the people I called romantic partners.

In the beginning, this idea of communicating and collaborating at length around any given topic challenged me immensely. My brain has wired itself for expedited resolution and domination. In other words, I want to get to the point, get to the decision, and move on. And I like my way to be the way. Listening as we circled the same topic brought on a gnawing feeling inside of my stomach that pressed and surged—I was so uncomfortable. Why could he think of things that I couldn’t get to? Why did it make me feel so foolish and small?

Fables such as The Tortoise and the Hare are moralistic in nature. The Tortoise is good: he wins and his ways of being are right. The Hare, on the other hand, is bad. He loses, and no one wants to be like him. So naturally, when I found myself confronted with a real-life tortoise, it only felt wrong to realize that I myself was the Hare.

My interior world shifted. This man was raising the stakes on my personal existence. His advancement in areas where I was still such a toddler admittedly made me feel ridiculous at times and downright juvenile, too. As a middle-aged woman and mother of six, I felt so embarrassed at my own lack of maturity and emotional intelligence that my cheeks would become hot with the flush of self-consciousness that terrorized me. Internally, my ego raged at even the idea that I was inadequate in some way, as it compared itself (myself) to him. My gut would clench so tightly that it felt difficult to breathe.

I found the man brave enough to hold up the mirror for me when I was finally ready to look. I made the choice to trust this man, as well as the process of learning to trust.

Feeling like a loser has been one of my ego’s favorite ways to keep me status quo. When something pokes my tender places and causes me to feel inferior, my ego comes with its usual trope: you’re a loser, and you always fuck everything up. There’s nothing true about that statement, but for a long time, I believed my head when it told me these absurd things.

I couldn’t pretend that I was something I wasn’t in front of him. I couldn’t fake inner security as I cracked apart in front of him. He exposed me in such a raw way that my first instinct was (and sometimes still is) to run. To run hard and fast and far enough away so that he couldn’t see my weaknesses and I could continue to pretend they didn’t exist.

But I didn’t run. I don’t run. In fact, I told him not to let me—to pull me closer during those times when my muscles constrict, and my throat burns with emotion. The flare of heat that travels from my chest up to my face settles there long enough to make me question my existence. Of course, I want to flee the situation—it’s viscerally painful to endure. In the past, I would lash out, offloading the inner violence onto somebody else. Or repress, internalizing it as a judgment against myself.

But since being in the presence of this man for the last few years, I’ve been learning a new way to handle the things I cannot express; I’ve been learning to allow them.

Watching my partner, observing him in action, has shown me an incredibly powerful combination of emotional and cognitive intelligence that at first I recognized as superior and wanted to emulate. Instead of running like a hare from myself like I’d been doing all of my life, I consciously decided to do it differently this time.

I made a silent commitment to myself to slow down and sit through those moments of intense emotion that feel like a toxic mixture of shame and envy spreading through my chest, and my whole body tightens as I enter a genuine state of fight or flight.

Until I remind myself that I’m okay. That I can feel this uncomfortable emotion and just let it be there. I remind myself that I can still breathe. I remind myself to breathe. And while the hare in me twitches fiercely with impatience, I’ve learned that I, too, have an inner tortoise. She’s been there all along, showing up in quiet ways, never seeking acknowledgment, but existing all the same. I can channel her when I need her. She is able to remain steady as she waits for the wave of emotion to ebb again. The feelings that used to erupt out of me like hot lava have now been subdued to a containable temperature.

It is clear to me now that I am not bad. I’m not inferior. I’m not a one-dimensional character in a fable. I’m a work in progress. My work is to progress as honestly as possible. Bringing the dark and murky images of my unconscious behaviors to light poses a direct question: how objective can I be about myself?

The mirrors we hold give us proof that we look into one another and find ourselves there.

In pondering this prompt, I remembered that the “becoming” is really a development of what we already are.

Mirror box

by Kayleigh Thorpe

Starbucks, Ealing Common, Uxbridge Road, W5 3NT
London
28/02/2026 - 15:47

“Kayleigh?”

A step forward, and I raise my hand. The barista is still looking at the label on my drink. Cookies and Cream Frappuccino. Whipped cream. Venti. Cheat day decided over lunch, I was tired of that weird sour taste in your mouth, which apparently is Ketosis, but I’m not on a Keto diet, so probably just mild malnourishment over the week.

He looks up, my hand is still raised awkwardly, I smile; half assed. He slides my Frappuccino over, and I nod.

”Cheers”

It’s cold, I tug my hoodie sleeve down a bit to cover my hand and head to a nearby table, it’s busy enough, with a few empty spaces. Perfect. Other hand is tapping away on my phone, Agnieszka wants to go to Spoons. I do not. I have already splurged for lunch, and I am hoping to use the evening to at least attempt to return to controlling myself. And I have training tomorrow. Spoons is not the play.

My headphones are out, which is rare. I took them out to make the order and then just got distracted listening to everything around me. I like the corded headphones. I do own AirPods, but I like the weight, the cord lets me fiddle when I need something to do with my fingers, and they are cheap, so when I lose them, it’s not really a loss.

Sip

Disgustingly good. Why am I on a diet again?

I look up from my phone now that I’ve sat down. There are two girls sitting at the round table next to me, my age, I think, maybe older. One has like a half wolf cut, half longer rough pixie cut that was an undercut that grew out. Bangs on point. Little threads of blue and green. It’s a cut I’ve been wanting for months, but I don’t trust my hairdresser to pull it off. Now I know how great it would look on someone that isn’t me.

Fucking Bitch.

Moving on. Pandora charm bracelet. Jealous. Someone has money. Or someone that has money that’s willing to treat them to Pandora. I have neither. I have a hair tie for a bracelet today. Black. Stylish.

Sip

I tear my eyes off to stop my mild contempt from spreading to the rest of her, which, objectively speaking, is making me feel messy. And I made an effort today. Doesn’t look like she did. Even got a cool little wrist tattoo, a little heart pulse ECG line.

I’m reaching down, sighing as I pull up my headphones so I can jam them into my ears and disappear into something that’s matching my heart rate. Heavy on the bass.

Her voice reaches my ears.

”So. I got feedback, and they loved it, like conceptually, the light of the photo was brilliant. I had a rep from the gallery say that there’s been three offers so far! Apparently, it’s spiked on the socials, not that I’d know. I uninstalled Instagram months ago!”

My hand freezes, and I feel like I can’t breathe.

”They said someone wants to hire me to go on a tour to Japan as well. Like Kanto, Hokkaido, next year. January.”

Sip

Nothing comes through the straw; it’s blocked. As tempting as it is to blow back hard to clear it, it would ruin the whipped cream, and right now. That is not something I want to deal with. I pluck the straw out and clear it from the other side. Still disgustingly good.

”I’m just so happy you know-”

I get up and walk towards the door, jamming my headphones in harder than I probably should, and turn up the volume as high as it will go. Breathing out hard enough to puff my cheeks out as I stand in the already starting to dark late winter air, it’s brisk, which is nice.

I am already mulling over what I’m going to type out tonight. Not the one that goes on Substack, the private one, for me.

’Today I didn’t hate…Starbucks. There was someone there…a mirror…’

You will be loved

by The In Between

My take is a a poem written from that future kinder, wiser and more forgiving self, to me.

From Done You To Young You

Life will have its way with you.
Make you feel small, but also on occasion, infinite.
You will stare in wonder at starry nights and puke on a page trying to capture the fickle feeling of it.
There will be nights you dance till you meet the sun and forget the names of everyone who swayed beside you.
Mornings when your cold pillow is your only companion.
You will feel utterly alone in crowds.
And home in the nook of another.
You will be hated by some.
Misunderstood by many.
You will be too much and never enough.
You’ll have too many faults to mention,
but still have your charms.
You will be loved.
You will be loved.
You will be loved,
though you won’t always know it.
You will please those who don’t return the favor.
You will beg the wrong ones to stay.
You’ll betray a trust.
You will do bad things,
but be by most accounts a good person.
You will wish you believed in prayer. And put hand to heart anyway.
You’ll see signs everywhere all at once.
You’ll be skeptical and hopeful in the same hour.
You’ll give up on hobbies and politicians.
You will be right before your time.
And you’ll be proven wrong when you least expect it.
You will try and you will fail often and openly.
You will be afraid and do it anyway.
You’ll be proud of yourself for this.
You will cry till your chest hurts and laugh with your entire body. This will become ritual for you.
You will try uni once and hate soft cookies always.
You will have hard days and have no one to tell about them.
You’ll overshare on social media.
And often.
You’ll watch too much reality TV. You’ll wish life was like the books that raised you.
You’ll meet imperfect strangers and swap life stories with them over cheap drinks.
You’ll work late and weekends and odd holidays.
It won’t be remembered by anyone but you.
You’ll won’t be a model, a multi-millionaire or a world-famous anything. This will save your soul.
You’ll never be hot or too cool for anything.
But your weirdness will serve you well.
Your hair won’t ever behave. You’ll learn to like the waves of it.
You will be kind when you should be cruel and tame when you could’ve been wild.
You’ll regret this but only for brief moments.
You’ll forget this because you will be many more things in many more lifetimes.
You’ll begin to believe in multiple timelines and past lives, you’ll hang your hopes on other versions of you.
You will speaks false truths and know the taste of bitter sweet promises on your lips.
Your body will break and learn how to heal.
You will wish this happened faster.
You will watch children grow up.
You’ll wish this happened slower.
You will wrinkle and grey and gain street smarts and a knowing look from across big rooms.
You will wear all your jewelry all at once.
You will lose people and have holes in places that can’t be filled.
You’ll try to fill those cracks with food and drink and work and art and purpose and scrolling through endless feeds that remind you of the things you didn’t do.
You’ll do this less as you progress.
You’ll awaken and realize what this all is.
You’ll be slightly disappointed but calmer for it.
You’ll go on anyway as things do.
All in all, you will age well.
You won’t remember much of the bad stuff.
You’ll have good enough days to count.
Small things will matter more.
Big things will look smaller with distance.
You will live.
You will breathe in.
And out a last time.
You will die.
And with that final breath, you’ll begin again.
Become a ladybug on a leaf.
You will be content.
For once in your lives.

Table 213

by Brian Edwards

(From Offstage): You’ll be seated at that table there. Yes, that one, just have a seat across from your future self.

(Present-Self): *Enters stage left, looks over shoulder* Wait, what?
(Future-Self): Just have a seat and try not to overthink it, at least not until it’s over.
(Present-Self): Uhh, sure so, wait, what?
(Future-Self): C’mon, it’s me, I’m you, lean into it.
(Present-Self): So, um, where’re you headed?
(Future-Self): Who says I haven’t just arrived?
(Present-Self): That’s a nice piece of luggage.
(Future-Self): Yeah, you’d think so.
(Present-Self): You seem… successful?
(Future-Self): Yeah, you’d think so.
(Present-Self): Happy to see we’re still inscrutable. How about this, do you think you’re successful?
(Future-Self): Look, I’m not going to get into the mechanics of how this café works, but we’re limited in how long we can speak amongst ourselves. Maybe ask better questions?
(Present-Self): Ok, then I’ll ask you this, you know my struggles and problems. What would be the best question I could ask?
(Future-Self): Ask me for the Powerball numbers.
(Present-Self): What are the Powerball numbers?
(Future-Self): We still don’t play the lottery.
(Present-Self): That felt like a setup.
(Future-Self): We still enjoy setups.
(Present-Self): Help us out, buddy.
(Future-Self): How about this. You are facing problems and challenges; you will face more. I will tell you this: we tend to do better if we spend five minutes throughout the day reminding ourselves that tomorrow exists.
(Present-Self): That is incredibly unhelpful.
(Future-Self): I know, but-
(Present-Self): But you don’t want to deprive me of the lesson?
(Future-Self): What? No, I don’t want to deprive me of the lesson, I already did the hard part.
(Present-Self): What?
(Future-Self): Yeah, plus time travel is weird-
(Present-Self): A few minutes ago you knew about the café’s mechanics.
(Future-Self): Well, see they give you a pamphlet when you get here in the future.
(Present-Self): What?
(Future-Self): Don’t worry about it, you’ll find out in… eight or nine years?

(From Offstage): Ten years!

(Future-Self): Ten years.
(Present-Self): I’m not sure I see the appeal of this restaurant.
(Future-Self): Yeah, no, it’s not for your benefit, it’s for mine. This kind of encounter isn’t set up so that you can be proud of who you become, it’s so I can be proud of who I became.
(Present-Self): You make it sound like you were brought here by the Ghost of Christmas Past.
(Future-Self): I did fly Spirit.
(Present-Self): I thought we were successful.
(Future-Self): Look, I’ve got to go. Maybe, I don’t know, drink a little less and read a little more. Keep going to the gym.
(Present-Self): That’s all you’ve got for me?
(Future-Self): Trust your gut, it’s gotten you that far.
(Present-Self): What the fuck?
(Future-Self): Not everything’s about you. I, on the other hand, feel pretty great about this encounter. *Exits stage right.*

(From Offstage): By the way, we only take Future Dollars!

*Scene*

Destination — A Letter to Future-self

By Caner Şen

these lines came out immediately—one after another…

I can just make you crush,
All the glory of your posh…
I can just let you shine
With a subtle rise at my spine.

Or I could just envy
Out of my directory.
I can make you scream,
The way I followed my dream

It could be a furious rage,
Maybe a war to wage…
You can be at dark in lie
Or be a light with a war-cry.

Maybe a wise old sage
At the center of a stage,
Or just an empty page
On the table at the edge.

I know my vows,
Gonna live in nows.
You’ll surprise,
To see my hows.

03.03.2026
Caner Şen

Sweet Child

by Rey

Rotting in bed on a Sunday evening, a mysterious lookalike of myself gently pulls me out of my bed…

Future Rey: Hello there, precious child!

Rey: H-hey! Where did you come from?

Future Rey: Oh sweet child, do not worry about that!

Rey: O-okay… fine then… what do you want?

Future Rey: What is with the attitude? I’m not here to attack you.

Rey: I know you’re not. You kind of just came out of nowhere. Like you… teleported or something.

Future Rey: Yeah, maybe I did. Don’t worry about that, kid.

Rey: O-okay…

Future Rey: Listen, I’m here to help you, kiddo.

Rey: With what exactly?

Future Rey: Well, I’ve noticed that you haven’t been going through the best of times lately. I’m here to share a message with you.

Rey: I’ll hear you out.

Future Rey: Okay, listen to me.

Rey: I’m listening…

Future Rey: It may not look like it, but you are in such a wonderful position in life right now!

Rey: Why do you say that, when my entire life is so miserable?

Future Rey: I don’t know who keeps putting that in your head…

Rey: I-

Future Rey: You are so perfect the way you are!

Rey: T-thanks, I guess?

Future Rey: You know, Rey, I wish you would look at yourself the way I and many others see you!

Rey: …

Future Rey: Don’t let the haters make you think badly of yourself.

Rey: My biggest enemy is my internal demons.

Future Rey: Shoot… I know that feeling. I’ve been battling those demons my entire life. And still am. They will calm down eventually.

Rey: They won’t go away!

Future Rey: Yeah, dude, they won’t ever go away fully. If you can shut them up just a little each day, that goes a long way.

Rey: I’ll try…

Future Rey: Also, your life is only getting started. It’ll only get better from here on out.

Rey: That’s what they always say…

Future Rey: Yes but they are right, trust me.

Rey: Ugh. Life just looks so bleak.

Future Rey: Sweet child, I understand that. When I was your age, I thought the same thing. I never thought life would get any better. Look at how much I’ve had to battle through just to get to where I am today. I thought I would always be a depressed soul who would burn sometime in my 20s. Now I am operating better than I ever have, coming out of retirement in my 60s.

Rey: I appreciate your words. Can I ask one last question?

Future Rey: Sure!

Rey: What advice do you have for me going forward?

Future Rey: Always find the joy in the little things. Seek happiness in opportunities. Find the good in the bad. And most importantly, have fun. Be yourself. Have confidence in yourself.

Rey: I will try my best. Thanks for the advice!

Future Rey: Of course, sweet child! I should get going now.

Rey: Aww okay. Will you be back?

Future Rey: Of course! I look forward to our next meeting! Love ya kiddo!

He would then disappear… until next time…

1

I’m not joking when I say i was stuck on the same line for like three days… lmao!

2

Really, I am too lazy to edit the italicized text, even if it only would take a minute to do so. I also think it gives the character a bit of juice.

Embrace from Afar (Dialogues with the Self I Long to Be)

by The stranger

I gaze at you from afar;
I come closer to see you,
to feel you, to understand you,
to embrace the idea of you.
I no longer believe in myself;
I feel like I’ve deviated from the way,
the one carved by my essence
to reach my destiny.

Come close, my dear,
feel and understand me.
Hold tight to the idea that
I am just one reflection of you.
Embrace the idea of me,
but remember that you’re the mind
behind this idea and millions more.
You’re the traveller, the way, and destiny.
Nothing is fixed, no existence is rigid.
In my embrace, don’t let go of yourself.
I see the light fading,
My dreams are evaporating.
All the experiences I’ve had,
and the connections I’ve made,
sum up to nothing…
If they don’t lead me to you.
I’ve lost the meaning
and the sense of being;
I’ve been defining my life
by your measurements.

The experiences you’ve had
The connections you’ve made
are all the light you need.
Nothingness is just one shade
of your unique completeness.
I am just a fading shadow
of your never-ending existence,
My measurements;
They are tailored by your vast imagination.
You’re the fabric, the tailor,
and the one who wears the cloth—
and this conversation we are having now
is all the meaning there is, and beyond.

Future Me

by Beth B

I’m sitting at my desk, the hum of daily work winding down for the evening, when the room grows strangely quiet. Across from me appears another version of myself. She is calm. She is purposeful, radiating a confidence I only dream of having. This is the self I want to become, retired from the routine of full-time work, fully immersed in the world of creative writing and maybe a side of podcasting. We lock eyes, and for a moment, the distance between us seems infinite.

“Are you ready?” my future self asks, voice steady but inviting. I hesitate, feeling the weight of my worries press against my chest. “I love the process,” I say, “the thrill of crafting stories and connecting with listeners. But what if I’m not successful? What if the income isn’t enough? What if my dream collapses before it even truly begins?”

My future self smiles, a sense of understanding gleaming in her eyes. “I remember that fear. It’s a heavy companion, but it kept me cautious enough to plan, even as I took the leap. The path was unclear, but clarity came in motion, not before it. Each story written, each episode recorded, built a bridge across that uncertainty. My success wasn’t guaranteed, but my commitment was.”

We sit together in silence, feeling the tension between hope and hesitation. What separates us, I realize, is not talent or passion, but trust. There is an inherent trust in the process and in myself.

“You know how to pursue your passion for creativity,” my future self says softly, “but you don’t yet know the satisfaction of perseverance, or the community you’ll find along the way. Let those be your guideposts.”

As the encounter faded, I was left with the lingering sense that the gap between us isn’t so impossibly difficult. I have 3 years and 4 months to go to reach my retirement. That’s 3 full years to realize my dream. In this moment, I made a plan to embrace the uncertainty and move forward anyway. The worry remains, but so does the love for this creative process I enjoy so much. And maybe, just maybe, that love is enough to carry me toward the self I want to become.

No, wait. Let me rephrase that last thought. That love IS more than enough to carry me toward the self I am becoming.

Yes, I like that better. Thanks for reading.

Thoughts On Truth’s Destruction

by Heather

An old lady with a cloud of snow-white hair sat down next to me at the coffee shop table and started talking, as if she knew me and what I was thinking about as I sipped my coffee. “Maybe it is easier for you to see, and that’s why you are so jaded.”

I stared at her and asked, “Who are you, and what the hell do you mean by that?”

She ignored my questions and continued as if she hadn’t heard me. She spoke very urgently. “You saw the progression from your robber baron and Great Depression grandparents, from your boomer WW2 parents or the ones that went yuppy or hippy in search of truth or power, to the those of you who got stuck in between, raising the following Gen-whatevers while watching the world morph from black and white to technicolor and cable, 8-tracks and cassettes to cds and streaming services, rotary and pay phones to a computer in your pocket that is a calculator and a phone, and the web becoming everyone’s god for information, entertainment, learning, socialization, and indoctrination.

And through all these historical changes - even for you, who knew your history well enough - truth was being eroded, first slowly and a bit at a time, but then faster as people and information moved faster and brains moved slower.

It wasn’t until they came along with him - those who knew history as well and knew how to harness his power to challenge and change truth through these societal processes and progressions -  that things changed so quickly that you saw truth die repeatedly in front of your eyes in a matter of weeks after he took control.”

She paused, took a shakey breath, then continued. “It’s going to get worse. I know you think it’s bad now, with the war and with the chaos at home. I know you are scared.

But I want to reassure you - you will survive all of this. It will be painful and a struggle. You’re going to be hungry at times, and not always be able to get your medicine because of the world crumbling around you. Society will think it’s going to collapse. But, you and your generation have been through so much change, you’ve become resilient.

Use that strength to hold on to hope. Build your homegrown networks with your neighbors because sometimes that and the roof over your head will be all you have. Plant a garden for food and pleasure. Hold tight to your loved ones while you can.

Eventually this will end, and from the rubble, new leaders will rise who won’t hide from the truth because they will see where that failed people in the past. And you, you will become stronger, with a voice that won’t be ignored when you speak your truth. You are a fighter, but you will find rest on the other side of this mess. Just keep fighting the good fight and causing good trouble.”

With that, she stood up, her knees cracking and popping. Before I could say a word edgewise or ask for her name, she deftly darted between customers and out of the busy coffee shop. I sat there stunned, not sure what to do, but definitely sure I had a lot more to think about now.

A small note: Substack notifications can be a little problematic, and while I’ve done my best to gather all the tagged pieces, there’s a chance I may have missed one. If you published your response and don’t see it here, please send it to me via DM so I can add it to the archive.