My creativity lives in the details.
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The world feels too loud lately. I don’t even want to share my thoughts but they keep leaking out anyway. Maybe writing is just a way to breathe.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m a main character or just comic relief.
Deer serving winter elegance.
Within the tidepool, starfish clung to rock like poems written in stillness Each limb moved so slowly it almost defied belief And yet, they endured more than speed ever could
Looks like a fairytale in motion.
Amid boiling pools, bison stood stoic as earth hissed beneath them Steam rose like ghosts of ancient thunder Nothing moved them—because everything already had
Rain freckled the pond until it pulsed like liquid skin under fingers. I crouched, watching circles stitch and unravel in the same breath. Perhaps this is the secret: life is less about permanence than pattern—a weaving that never aims to last, only to shimmer before vanishing.