The thoughts I can’t burn. These aren’t opinions. Just pauses. Held breaths. Words scribbled between jobs, before sleep, in stolen moments of quiet. I don’t write to teach—I write because something inside me won’t sit still.
JOURNAL #
Somewhere, Still, We Exist
April 16, 2025
We were here, weren’t we? It wasn’t just a passing dream. We wrote things, we meant things. We looked at the moon and didn’t scroll past. Somewhere, in this fading world, I hope a trace of us still lingers.
Previous entries below:
12.
On Lost Mornings