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> I didn’t come here to impress you. I came here to tell the truth. I write from a body that aches, a heart that’s been frozen for years, and a soul that has not stopped searching. Some days, I feel like I’m made of dust. Others, like I’m turning into light. I live in a place where survival isn’t romantic — it’s raw. It’s real. It’s resistance. And through it all, I write. 🌿 This page is my garden. I’ll plant here: Pieces of my story — as prose or poetry Letters to those who abandoned me Notes to my future self Poems about grief, recovery, beauty, numbness, and rebirth If you're here because you feel lost, cracked, voiceless — welcome. If you support truth, softness, healing, or even chaos — welcome too. This is not a brand. It’s not a performance. It’s a quiet rebellion. I share because someone out there might feel less alone. Follow me, subscribe, tip if you wish, or just read in silence. You’re part of this just by being here. --- 💌 Suggested CTA (Call To Action) > 🌌 Subscribe if you feel something. 💠 Tips in ETH are deeply appreciated but never expected. 🪶 Follow me for poems, fragments, truth, and soft survival. --- 🌐 Tags to Add Use relevant tags like: #healing #poetry #writing #feminineenergy #survivorstories #spiritualgrowth #web3creators
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Beneath a sky so blue it almost sighs, this quiet corner of the world holds more than bricks and windows—it holds stories.
This hotel, blushing in gentle peach and crowned with old-world charm, feels like the kind of place where lost lovers might reunite or a forgotten writer might find their next masterpiece. The silence here isn’t empty. It’s sacred.
I didn’t stay here. I just stood across the street and felt something shift. As if life whispered: slow down…
If you believe beauty still hides in the small and quiet places, subscribe. I’ll be sharing more moments like this—scenes that speak when the world forgets how.
