Some hearts will love, some tongues will scorn, some hands will hold, some leave me worn. Yet still my spirit stands its ground no borrowed judgment weighs it down. Their glances flicker, doubt may rise, like passing clouds across the skies. I’ve learned what living truly means to guard my fire, protect my dreams. I walk with embers in my chest, give weary thoughts their needed rest. I make my soul a gentle home, unshaken, even when alone. Let cheers or frowns the world may send, they do not shape the path I bend. My heart keeps time to truth’s own drum, no matter who may go or come.

She is not lady, she is not lost. She is a soul learning how to breathe again Under the weight of survival. She just needs a break.

The power of imagination makes us infinite.

The world was ours for just a breath, a stolen glance, a smile half-kept. Our hands reached out through fragile air, close enough to hope yet never there. Some doors are closed before they gleam, some loves live only as a dream, inked so softly on the heart they fade, yet never drift apart. In other lives, on kinder days, we’d learn the words we failed to say, find the courage, bend the fate, arrive before it’s far too late. So still we part, yet still we know the quiet truths we couldn’t hold. For time may curve, and skies may sigh, but lost things linger—they don’t die. Some stories sleep where stars still lie.

Hair combs from the late 19th/early 20th century.

The past lies hushed, its chapters sealed, old echoes fade, their truths revealed. The future hums with nameless ways, unwritten roads, uncounted days. Yet here—this breath, this pulse of light this fragile now, both fierce and bright, where seconds shimmer, brief but whole, and time leans close to touch the soul. The past may teach with weathered hands, the future glow with promised lands, but life awakens, sharp and true, within the space we’re passing through. Each breath we take, each step we dare, each mindful pause, each honest care, we stitch the world with choices made and shape the dawn by how we’ve stayed. So let old shadows lose their claim, let tomorrow stay unnamed. For power lives in what you do this moment is yours to choose, to be, to follow through.

Maybe You Are Searching Among The Branches, For What Only Appears In The Roots… ~ Rumi

I am no stone upon your spine, no rusted chain, no borrowed sign. My hands were born to shape the light, to turn the dark into a sight, to build, to give, to rise and live the honest breath this moment gives. I will not fold beneath your sway I carve my path, I find my way. My voice will ring, my pulse will prove that hearts were made to act and move. Let others rest on what I own, I stand upright by will alone. My purpose burns—a steady flame, a sacred charge I dare to name. I am not small, nor meant to crawl I rise, I root, I will not fall.

Silence is not the absence of sound, but the place where the story loosens its grip. When the cracks are no longer resisted, what remains is not broken only uncovered.

She believed—so fire lit her way, though cliffs rose high and nights betrayed. With courage sewn in every seam, she stitched her pulse into a dream. Each hurdle carved her into light, each shadow sharpened inner sight. She learned through scars she never hid, every fall a vow she’d live. Her soul refused to break or bend, her quiet strength her truest friend. From whispered doubt to fearless pride, she met her fear with open eyes. She reached for stars, claimed every bid the world made room when she believed. No fate too vast, no door too hid, for she believed, she could—she did.

When the world feels small, grow your own horizon.