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What’s the dream? Oh, it’s catastrophically specific and absurdly unattainable. Picture this: someone who reads ancient poetry in candlelight but also curses like a sailor when they stub their toe. Someone who could win a swordfight at dawn and still look effortlessly disheveled by noon. The kind of person who drinks coffee like it’s a religious ritual but secretly loves cheap instant noodles at 3 a.m. A storm in their heart, an opera in their soul. A nerd who loves his turtlenecks, someone who underlines their books with a fountain pen, who sighs dramatically in museums, and someone who owns a pocket watch and uses it unironically. Poets who look like they might vanish if you touch them, characters who live in storms, and the person in the corner of the library who smells like ancient paper and regret. Add to that someone who drinks coffee as if he needs it in his blood, someone who plays the violin like it’s a matter of life and death, and someone who stares at the stars like they’re...

You know I think it’s the little things that make people beautiful, and are people beautiful? In every shred of the corners of this universe, yes they absolutely are. Like the quiet rituals that feel so small they might slip through your fingers but are somehow weighty enough to hold your entire world together. The first sip of coffee that’s less about caffeine and more about a silent dialogue with your spirit. Or the sunlight that sneaks through the curtains and paints an unexpected masterpiece on your walls, as if the universe decided to bless your room for no reason at all. These are the unassuming moments that don’t shout, don’t demand to be noticed, but they wait, knowing full well they are the heartbeat of life itself. More often than not, in the middle of winning wars or moving mountains, people lose themselves in the little things. And I think that’s the most beautiful thing about people. The way we stumble into these moments without realizing we’re about to turn them into me...

Hey kid, down here. Yea, right here. Let’s talk about mountains and tides—two forces that couldn’t be more different but can’t seem to leave each other alone. Mountains stand tall, strong, and unyielding, while the tides quietly roll in, brushing against their edges, daring them to notice. It’s a dance, a push and pull, and maybe… it’s a love story. You stand there, so sure of yourself, like nothing could ever touch you. But mountains aren’t untouched—they feel wind, the rain, and the quiet press of time. And while you’re busy gazing at the stars, have you ever noticed the tide below, brushing against you? It doesn’t scream, it doesn’t demand—it just lingers, steady, waiting for you to look down. • Mountain Mind, Beachy Heart • You stand like a mountain, unshaken, tall, Mapping your future, claiming it all. But I linger, wild and free, Whispering things your mind won’t let you see. Your thoughts are solid, like lines in stone, But my voice hums stories that won’t leave you al...

As I walk among penumbras where time folds thin, An echo, a ripple, a zephyr within. The stars—silent sentinels, cold and austere, Mark moments unclaimed, neither now nor yesteryear. A query lingers, soft and untied, Not seeking truths, but places to abide. What is the self but a transient flame, Dancing to whispers it dare not name? The earth weaves fables in roots and stone, Its cadence steady, yet never its own. I envy the river, its purpose arcane, Flowing to seas where no truths remain. Belonging eludes me, spectral, frail, A vessel unmoored, a gale with no trail. Yet in this untethering, I find reprieve, The freedom to drift, to simply believe. To be redundant, a wraith in the haze, Unheralded, nameless through infinite days. To witness the stars in their silent bloom, And the universe fade into glorious doom. I crave no laurels, no anchored creed, Just the infinite vast and a soul unfreed. To meld with the cosmos, a whisper, a sigh, To linger in voids where none question why. Le...