Mind
“Clarity is not loud. It arrives when the noise stops.”
Definitions
I don’t have all the answers,
but I know the definitions.
“Some answers arrive through endurance.”
The only friend I have
is this pen.
When nobody’s phone is working,
I’m writing
until my hand starts hurting.
I don’t have all the answers—
but I know the definitions.
Beyond Impressions
This reflection is about choosing meaning over metrics—connection over clout. It questions impression culture and re-centers communication as the real currency.
“Connection outlives attention.”
I’m proving what’s possible—
and that’s connection.
We’re too impressed with impressions.
Communication matters.
These people are already famous.
It’s time to get our shine.
The Inkwell
My notebook is an inkwell. When emotion hits the page, it changes the paper. This piece reflects on how structure, discipline, and intentional breaking of rules shape the way I write and think.
“Every line holds weight once it’s stained.”
My notebook is an inkwell.
When a tear hits the page,
the ink stains.
The paper swells.
Lines solid.
I always hated college rules.
I used grids instead—
so I could break it down
like astrophysics.
Speaking Through Masks
I used characters to survive.
I speak raw to understand.
“I used characters to survive.
I speak raw to understand.””
I created characters to speak from the parts of me that didn’t have the courage yet. They carried what I couldn’t say. But that isn’t all of me. I’m raw, uncut, unfiltered—and I like it that way. Sometimes the only way forward is to return to the dead end and study it.
Influence
Sometimes it isn’t advice that changes you—it’s language.
Not answers, but tools.
This reflection sits with the moments when someone else’s clarity helps you recognize what you’ve already been carrying.
“This didn’t fix me.
It gave shape to thoughts I was already living.”
This didn’t fix me.
It gave shape to thoughts I was already carrying.
Longevity
I wasn’t built for moments.
I was built to last.
I want my scriptures to sing—
not loudly,
but with the discipline of a choir
that practiced long before it was heard.
I want the work to outlive me.
Not my name.
The work.
I’m not aiming for fans.
Crowds disappear.
I’m aiming for a seat—
with the scholar,
the professor,
the literature that gets studied
instead of skimmed.
Where psychology meets autonomy.
Where biology explains behavior.
Where creative writing isn’t decoration,
but evidence.
That kind of table doesn’t invite noise.
It invites patience.
So I write with care.
I revise with intention.
I learn what came before me
so I don’t mistake repetition for originality.
This isn’t confidence borrowed from applause.
This is commitment.
I got this.
Visibility
They see me.
They don’t see me right.
I’m monetizing now.
Not chasing attention—
controlling it.
Not everyone wants to read.
I accept that.
So I’m building a lane
for readers.
The algorithm doesn’t run on depth.
It runs on familiarity.
Not scripts.
Not stories.
Not long poems.
That doesn’t mean people don’t feel my work.
It means my work isn’t made
for every place.
So I adapt without compromising.
I leave short poems.
Quotes.
Quick sparks.
Something small enough
to move through the day with—
a caption that lives
longer than the scroll.
And for those who want more,
the door is open.
Doubt
I work in ratios: three by four, then zoom out to sixteen by nine.
I doubt my thinking.
Sometimes I feel like
whatever notebook I’m writing in
should be thrown out.
It doesn’t always feel
like people read anymore—
at least not the unnamed.
Still,
I work in ratios:
three by four,
then I zoom out
to sixteen by nine.
I have time.
Plenty of it
to show you.