Definitions

“Some answers arrive through endurance.”

— J. Elahi

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.

What We Never Sat Down to Say — Part II

“Truth doesn’t ask permission. It asks for responsibility.”

— J. Elahi

You told me my family hates me.

My children hate me.

Your family hates me.

Your mother couldn’t stand me.

The truth is —

I loved all of them.

Until I stopped listening.

Until I stopped letting your experience

rewrite our reality.

You learned how to isolate pieces —

delicate ones —

and tear them apart.

I said things I didn’t mean.

But I meant the pain.

My words fought back

when my fists should have stayed still.

You were right to say I wasn’t shit —

because I hit you.

I abused because I was abused.

That explains nothing.

It excuses nothing.

But the truth doesn’t stop there.

You were abusive too —

to me,

and to our children.

I remember the day clearly.

The screaming.

The crying.

The yelling.

A child slapped for not listening.

Breath knocked out of a body

that trusted us.

I reacted.

Violently.

Protectively.

Wrongly.

But hear me when I say this:

Do not ever harm my children.

Do not ever touch them in anger.

I will choose consequence

before I choose silence.

That’s not pride.

That’s a boundary written in bone.

This is not a victory story.

This is a reckoning.

And reckoning is where healing either begins —

or never does.

The Inkwell

“Every line holds weight once it’s stained.”

— J. Elahi

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.””

— J. Elahi

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.

Longevity

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

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 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.