Welcome to my little corner of the internet, where words weave the mosaic of my thoughts and dreams. I’m a storyteller at heart, ink-entwined and forever captivated by the beauty of language. Between the pages of life, I find a sanctuary—a place where emotions take form, and imagination knows no bounds.
Here, you’ll discover musings, poetry, and reflections inspired by the world around me. Writing isn’t just a passion; it’s the rhythm of my soul, the way I connect, express, and breathe.
Join me on this journey of prose and possibility—where every sentence holds a heartbeat and every word tells a story.
Happiness is a shape-shifter, wearing many faces, and speaking different truths to each of us. For one, it’s the quiet triumph of watching their savings grow like drops of rain slowly filling a pond. For another, it’s landing the job they’ve dreamed of, a wish granted by the universe. For someone else, it’s the deep relief of being debt-free or the soul-stirring magic of feeling a tiny foot press against the womb, a sign that life’s beauty is unfolding in unexpected ways.
But life, as we know, doesn’t always hand us happiness on a silver platter. It doesn’t wait at the door like an old friend, ready to greet us with a warm embrace every morning. Instead, it feels like a fleeting guest, slipping away just when we need it most. But here’s the secret: happiness isn’t some distant, unattainable thing. It’s closer than you think. It’s a choice—a practice, a daily discipline that we can cultivate, no matter the circumstances.
When life throws its curveballs, we face a critical choice. We can let them flatten us, or we can rise, bat in hand, swinging with everything we’ve got. It’s never easy, but the truth is this: you hold the power to calm your inner storm. The key is to redirect your mind towards peace, even when negativity knocks on the door. You don’t have to wait for happiness to arrive. You can create it, from the inside out.
Imagine waking up after a deep, restorative sleep with a clear mind and your body ready to take on the world. Sleep is more than just a pause; it’s the foundation of all joy. It’s in those hours of rest that we renew and recharge, making space for the good to flow in. And just as important as rest is the practice of stillness. Even five minutes of meditation can shift the energy of your entire day. Picture yourself by the sea, waves washing over the shore, or standing under a vast sky, breathing deeply, letting the peace seep in.
There’s a quiet magic in the smallest gestures, like the simple act of smiling. It’s free, effortless, and its ripple effect is powerful. A smile not only lights up the world around you but also sparks a little joy within. And what about the power of words? Whether you’re lost in the pages of a good book or reading an inspiring quote, words have the ability to elevate your spirit. I start my mornings with a few lines of positivity—it sets the tone, like an invisible hand guiding me through the day.
But sometimes, our minds can become tangled in overthinking, spiraling out of control, stealing our peace. When that happens, catch yourself. Gently redirect your thoughts to something uplifting. Remind yourself: I’ve got this. Because you do. And if there’s one habit that can shift your entire outlook, it’s gratitude. When you take a moment to pause and reflect—not just on the big wins but also the small, seemingly insignificant moments—you begin to see life’s magic everywhere: in the laughter of a friend, in the quiet beauty of a sunrise, in the way a child’s hand feels in yours.
Journaling is another powerful tool to help you stay grounded. Let your journal be a sanctuary for your thoughts and feelings. Write about your victories, your doubts, your dreams, and fears. At the end of the year, those pages become a time capsule of growth and resilience—a reminder of how far you’ve come. And in today’s digital age, it’s essential to take control of your online space. Social media can be a source of inspiration or a drain on your energy. Curate your feed. Surround yourself with content that lifts you up, that makes your heart lighter, that sparks joy. Unfollow the noise that doesn’t serve you. It’s like clearing clutter from your home—it creates space for peace to thrive.
Self-care isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity. It’s not selfish to prioritize yourself—it’s essential. Whether it’s soaking in a warm bath, dancing around the kitchen to your favorite song, or indulging in a skincare ritual, make time for those moments that nourish you. You can’t pour from an empty cup.
And lastly, remember that happiness multiplies when it’s shared. Surround yourself with people who make your soul sing, who bring light into your life. Those relationships, those connections, are the greatest treasures. Laugh together, create memories together, and bask in the warmth of genuine bonds. Because happiness is never meant to be hoarded. It’s meant to be celebrated, multiplied, and passed on.
Happiness is not a stroke of luck. It’s an art. It’s the ability to find the light even when the clouds seem thick, to cherish the smallest moments that others might overlook. It’s knowing that even on the darkest days, the sun is still shining, just behind the clouds, waiting to break through.
The road to happiness isn’t always straight, but here’s the truth: you’re more resilient than you know. You are the spark, the force, the light in your own story. So, choose joy. Embrace the journey, and let your brilliance shine, because the world needs your light now more than ever.
Chicago wakes before the sun, its skyline piercing the dawn as Lake Michigan shimmers with early light. The Windy City moves fast, a blur of honking horns, L-trains rumbling overhead, and the hum of people chasing something—money, dreams, or escape. Isaiah “Zay” Washington, 36, is one of them, maneuvering his aging yellow cab through the city’s arteries.
Zay knows this rhythm well. From his spot parked near a small café on 79th Street, he watches the city awaken. Zay has spent the last decade weaving through Chicago’s arteries in his yellow cab, ferrying people from one corner of the sprawling metropolis to another. His cab isn’t just his livelihood; it’s his survival, his stage, and sometimes his confessional booth.
Steam rises from his cup of coffee as he listens to the crackling chatter of the dispatcher on his radio. Outside, the streets are slick with the remnants of an early morning drizzle. This ritual—waiting for his first fare while Chicago stretches its muscles—anchors Zay.
The first ding on his meter today is a young musician. He’s carrying a guitar case slung across his back, his hair tucked under a knit cap that screams “artist.” “Heading to Logan Square,” the musician says as he slides into the backseat, slumping like the weight of his dreams is too much for his narrow shoulders.
Zay pulls into traffic, expertly navigating the rush-hour chaos. “You been doing this long?” the musician asks, eyeing Zay in the rearview mirror. “Long enough to know nobody really talks about the city’s quiet moments,” Zay says, grinning.
The cab cuts through the skyline’s shadow, the driver and his passenger silently soaking in the moment. For Zay, this drive is routine, a piece of his larger grind. For the musician, it’s a step closer to a gig that might, or might not, change his life.
When they arrive, the musician pays, nods in thanks, and disappears into a building lined with graffiti. Zay watches him go, wondering for a fleeting moment what it must feel like to carry nothing but hope and a guitar.
As the radio crackles with another request, Zay shifts gears. The hustle of Chicago waits for no one.
Chapter 2: A Dangerous Fare
By mid-afternoon, the city’s energy has shifted. The rush of commuters has given way to a mix of tourists, hustlers, and locals trying to make it through another day. Zay idles near Wicker Park, the cab’s engine purring softly as he scrolls through his phone. The streets here are a collision of vintage charm and modern chaos—art galleries, quirky shops, and food trucks crammed into every available inch.
“Yo! Taxi!”
Zay looks up to see a man waving him down from the curb. The guy is lanky, his clothes just a little too loose, and a duffel bag hangs from one shoulder. He slides into the backseat with an air of urgency that immediately sets Zay on edge.
“Where to?” Zay asks, his voice carefully neutral. “Just drive north. I’ll let you know when to stop,” the man replies, his tone clipped.
Zay glances at him in the rearview mirror. Something about this fare feels off—the way the man keeps shifting in his seat, glancing over his shoulder like he expects someone to appear out of nowhere.
“You got a name?” Zay asks, hoping to ease the tension. “Call me Andre,” the man mutters, clutching the strap of his duffel bag.
The cab moves through the bustling streets, but Zay’s mind is racing. Over the years, he’s learned to trust his instincts, and right now, they’re screaming at him to end this ride. Still, he keeps driving, curiosity battling with caution.
When Zay makes a turn onto a quieter stretch of road, he notices a black SUV in the rearview mirror. It’s been tailing them for the last few blocks, moving with a deliberate slowness that sends a chill down his spine.
“Friend of yours?” Zay asks, keeping his tone casual.
Andre stiffens. “Just keep driving,” he snaps, his voice tight with barely restrained panic.
Zay’s grip on the steering wheel tightens as the SUV closes the distance between them. Whatever Andre is involved in, Zay knows he’s now caught in the middle of it.
Chapter 3: The Chase
The black SUV grows more aggressive, its headlights glaring in the cab’s mirrors as it inches closer. Zay’s pulse quickens, the weight of the situation settling heavily on his chest.
“What the hell did you get me into?” he demands, his voice rising.
Andre doesn’t answer, his attention focused on the bag in his lap. The zipper is slightly open, revealing the edges of neatly stacked bundles of cash.
Zay swerves into a narrow side street, trying to shake the SUV. “You running from these guys or stealing from them?”
Andre finally snaps, “Both!”
The revelation lands like a punch. Zay grits his teeth, his mind racing as he navigates through Chicago’s labyrinthine streets. The SUV stays on their tail, barreling through intersections and swerving around other cars with reckless abandon.
“Man, I don’t get paid enough for this,” Zay mutters as he turns sharply onto an alleyway, the cab’s tires screeching in protest.
They burst onto Michigan Avenue, dodging pedestrians and other vehicles. Andre clutches the door handle, his knuckles white as he shouts directions. The cab narrowly misses a delivery truck, the sound of its horn deafening.
“You’re gonna get us killed!” Zay shouts, his heart hammering in his chest.
Andre doesn’t respond, his focus fixed on the SUV that refuses to back off.
Chapter 4: A Desperate Gamble
As they approach Navy Pier, Zay spots an unfinished construction zone up ahead. It’s risky, but it’s their only chance. He swerves into the barricaded area, navigating through the maze of equipment and half-paved roads.
The SUV tries to follow but clips a metal beam, its front bumper crumpling with a sickening crunch. Zay doesn’t stop to watch the aftermath, gunning the engine and putting as much distance between them as possible.
Several miles later, Zay pulls into an empty parking lot. His hands are shaking as he kills the engine. “Start talking,” he says, turning to Andre with a glare.
Andre hesitates, his eyes darting to the duffel bag. “It’s not just cash,” he admits. “It’s their cash. I was supposed to deliver it, but I couldn’t do it anymore. I want out.”
Zay stares at him, disbelief and anger warring for dominance. “You’re telling me I just risked my life for your exit plan?”
Andre nods, his expression pleading. “I’ll cut you in. Help me get out of the city, and we split the money.”
Zay leans back, his jaw tight. The money could solve so many problems, but it could also destroy everything he’s worked for.
Chapter 5: A Final Stand
The cab pulls into a shabby motel on the city’s outskirts. Andre insists it’s a safe place to hide, but Zay isn’t so sure. His suspicions are confirmed when he spots the same black SUV parked across the street.
“Stay in the car,” Zay orders, stepping out to confront the situation head-on.
Two men exit the SUV, their faces grim and determined. One of them, a stocky man with a scar running down his cheek, addresses Zay directly.
“You’ve got something of ours,” he says, his voice low and menacing.
Zay raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m just the driver. The guy you want is inside.”
The scarred man smirks, but before he can respond, Andre bolts from the cab, clutching the duffel bag. The confrontation erupts into chaos, and Zay uses the moment to create a distraction, allowing Andre to disappear into the night.
The men eventually recover their cash, but their target is gone.
Chapter 6: Lessons from the Windy City
The next day, Zay sits in a neighborhood coffee shop, staring into his cup of black coffee. The events of the previous night replay in his mind, each decision scrutinized under the weight of what could have gone wrong.
When the news reports a police raid on a suspected crime ring, Zay feels a strange sense of relief. Andre is gone, and so is the danger.
With the modest reward money he anonymously earns for tipping off the authorities, Zay finally repairs his cab. He even surprises his daughter Tasha with a new camera, her joy reminding him why he keeps grinding.
Chicago moves on, and so does Zay. The streets are still dangerous, still full of stories waiting to unfold. But for now, Zay feels at peace, knowing he navigated one of the city’s storms and came out the other side.
The alarm shattered the silence at 4:00 a.m, its sound as grating as the heaviness in her chest. She slapped it off and lay still, staring at the ceiling. The shadows from the blinds stretched across the room like ominous fingers. Another day.
Rolling out of bed, she glanced at the small forms of her children, their faces soft in sleep. They were her reason for getting up every morning. But sometimes, even that wasn’t enough to drown the ache.
The shower was cold—it always was. She couldn’t afford to fix the water heater. She avoided the mirror, unwilling to meet her reflection. It wasn’t vanity; it was survival. She didn’t want to see the woman she had become: hollow eyes, tired skin, and shoulders that sagged under invisible weight.
Depression wasn’t new to her. It had started in childhood, a slow poison that her mother’s cutting words stirred into her every meal. “You’ll never be good enough. Weaklings like you don’t survive.” Her mother’s voice had echoed through the years, growing louder when her husband’s fists and words picked up where her mother had left off.
She thought leaving the marriage would fix things, but the damage was done.
By the time the kids woke up, she had breakfast ready. Toast and scrambled eggs. Simple but filling. “Eat up,” she said, forcing a smile as her daughter reached for the ketchup.
“Mama, will we get to play at the park after school?”
“Maybe this weekend,” she replied, though her stomach twisted at the lie. Bus fare to the park was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
Chapter 2: The Weight of Walls
The day felt different. Not lighter—never lighter—but purposeful. She’d found a website that promised free counseling, and the idea of unburdening herself, even for an hour, filled her with cautious hope.
Dropping off her kids at school, she clutched the printed address and boarded the Metro bus. The seats were sticky with the residue of countless passengers, but she didn’t care. She stared out the window, clutching her bag.
Arriving early, she sat in the waiting room, her fingers tracing the frayed edges of her sweater. The receptionist called her to the desk. “You’ll need to pay $175 upfront,” the woman said.
Her breath caught. “But it said online that counseling was free…”
The receptionist shook her head, her expression unyielding. “That’s only for Medicare patients. You’d need to pay out of pocket.”
Tears welled up, but she fought them back. “Please… I can’t afford that. I just need someone to talk to.”
The receptionist’s expression softened, but only slightly. “I’m sorry. That’s the policy.”
She left the building feeling smaller than when she arrived. On the bus ride home, she tucked her face into her sweater and sobbed silently. She’d been wrong to hope.
Chapter 3: The Cracks in the Tower
That night, she sat alone in the dim light of the living room. The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the walls. Her thoughts were loud, relentless.
She stared at her children’s school drawings pinned to the fridge, their cheerful colors mocking her gray existence. Why did she feel so broken when they needed her whole? Her mind drifted to darker places—the unyielding cycle of her pain.
The silence broke with a sob, loud and raw. She buried her face in her hands, but the tears kept coming. Images of her past swirled in her mind: her mother’s dismissive gaze, her husband’s raised fist, the night she left him clutching her babies, terrified and unsure of what came next.
Hours passed before she could move. She crawled into bed, not bothering to undress, and lay staring at the ceiling. But as she closed her eyes, something shifted—a faint memory of her neighbor’s words about the community support group resurfaced. “We meet every Wednesday at 10 a.m. It’s free, and you’ll meet people who’ve been through similar things.”
Morning came with its usual chaos: breakfast, school drop-offs, and a bus ride. She decided today she’d try. Even if she just sat in the back of the room and listened, it was better than sinking further into despair.
The community center was a modest building, its walls lined with inspirational posters and flyers for free services. She hesitated at the door of the meeting room, her hands trembling. Inside, a circle of people sat, their faces a mix of hope, exhaustion, and understanding.
“Come in,” said a warm voice. The group leader, a woman in her sixties, gestured to an empty chair. She sat down, her heart pounding.
When her turn came, she fumbled with her words. “I… I don’t even know where to start,” she said, her voice breaking. “I feel like I’m falling apart, and I can’t catch myself. I’m scared, all the time.”
The group listened, nodding. The leader spoke softly. “You’re not alone. That fear, that feeling of falling—it’s something we all understand. But you’re here, and that’s a step forward.”
Chapter 4: A Glimmer of Light
Over the next few weeks, the support group became her anchor. Every Wednesday, she joined the circle, sharing more of her story with each session. She talked about her marriage, how it started with love and promises, only to unravel into a nightmare of control and violence.
“I stayed because I thought I had to,” she confessed one day. “For the kids. But leaving didn’t make it easier. I’m still fighting every day just to keep us afloat.”
The group leader encouraged her to set small goals. “Healing isn’t about fixing everything at once. Start with what feels possible.”
Taking those words to heart, she began searching for part-time work. She walked into restaurant after restaurant, leaving her resume and praying for a callback.
One afternoon, after a particularly grueling day of rejections, her phone buzzed. It was a manager from a local restaurant offering her a trial shift.
The job was hard. She worked long hours on her feet, juggling orders and cleaning tables, but the paycheck—small as it was—gave her a sense of accomplishment. She could finally buy small treats for her children without guilt, like ice cream after school or a new pack of crayons.
In her sessions, she started to notice the small victories. “I made it through a full week without crying myself to sleep,” she told the group with a shy smile. “It’s not much, but it feels like progress.”
Chapter 5: Facing the Shadows
Despite her progress, the shadows of her past continued to linger. One night, as she folded laundry, her son asked, “Mama, why don’t we see Grandma anymore?”
She froze, her hands gripping the tiny shirt she’d been folding. How could she explain the years of emotional abuse, the way her mother’s words had left scars invisible to the eye?
The question stayed with her. That week, she told the support group about her mother. “I’ve been running from her for years,” she admitted. “But I think it’s time I stopped.”
With their encouragement, she mustered the courage to visit her mother. She rehearsed what she would say, though the thought of standing up to the woman who had always loomed over her felt impossible.
When she knocked on the familiar door, her heart raced. Her mother opened it, looking surprised but not unkind.
They sat in awkward silence before she began. “I need to say this, even if you don’t understand. You hurt me. For years, I’ve carried your words with me, and they’ve shaped so much of who I am. But I can’t let them control me anymore.”
Her mother’s response was defensive at first, but as the conversation continued, something shifted. Though she didn’t apologize, her mother listened. And for the first time, she felt heard—not fully, but enough to begin letting go of the bitterness she’d carried for so long.
Walking away from that conversation, she felt lighter. It wasn’t closure, but it was a start.
Chapter 6: Building a New Tower
Months passed. She balanced work, parenting, and her weekly support group. Slowly, the chaos of her life began to feel manageable.
She signed up for free online courses, learning new skills that might lead to better job opportunities. She even started journaling, pouring out her thoughts onto the page instead of letting them fester in her mind.
One evening, her daughter handed her a drawing. It was of their family, standing in front of a tall, colorful tower. “It’s us,” her daughter explained. “And this is the tower we live in now. It’s really strong.”
She blinked back tears, marveling at how her child could capture something she hadn’t yet put into words. Their tower wasn’t perfect, but it was sturdy, built on a foundation of love, resilience, and hope.
As she tucked her children into bed that night, her daughter asked, “Mama, are you happy now?”
She thought for a moment, then kissed her daughter’s forehead. “I’m getting there,” she said softly.
I met my younger self for tea today. She arrived with wide eyes and an air of curiosity, the same wonder she always carried, the same eagerness to dream without restraint. She stared at me, scanning my face, my hands, my posture—searching for traces of the girl she used to be. Searching for the dreams she once held so close.
I smiled at her, sensing the silent questions forming in her mind.
“Did we make it?” “Did we become who we wanted to be?” “Are we happy?”
I reached for my cup, the warmth of the tea grounding me. “Some dreams stayed,” I told her. “Some changed. But we’re still unfolding.”
She exhaled softly, her shoulders relaxing, as if relieved that life hadn’t betrayed us entirely. She sipped her tea, processing the words. I watched her, remembering the days when she thought the world was a map of infinite possibilities, when she made promises to herself that felt unbreakable.
I wanted to tell her everything. About the detours, the heartbreaks, the unexpected joys. About the friendships that faded and the new ones that arrived like serendipitous gifts. About the fears that still whisper at night but no longer hold the same power. About the quiet confidence that grew where uncertainty used to live.
But I didn’t need to say it all. She looked at me, truly looked at me, and I think she understood. Maybe she saw a strength she hadn’t imagined, a softness that remained despite life’s sharp edges.
And I think we both felt at peace.
The girl I used to be, and the woman I have become—sitting across from each other, sipping tea, knowing we are still a work in progress, and that is enough.
The world often glorifies the extraordinary—filled with stories of grand achievements, viral moments, and lives that seem larger than life. These narratives dominate our screens and conversations, leaving many of us wondering if our quieter, simpler lives are somehow less valuable. But the truth is, the beauty of life often lies not in the extraordinary but in the beautifully ordinary moments we experience every day.
Consider a typical morning. The soft light filtering through the curtains, the familiar creak of the floorboards underfoot, the steam curling upward from a freshly brewed cup of coffee. These moments seem mundane at first glance, almost invisible in their simplicity. But they are also profoundly comforting. They anchor us in a world that often feels chaotic and unpredictable. There is a quiet magic in the routines we take for granted, a rhythm that hums gently beneath the surface of our days, reminding us that even in the smallest things, there is meaning.
Routines are often dismissed as boring, as the stuff we do while waiting for life’s big moments. But this perspective misses the deeper truth: routines are the backbone of our lives. They provide structure, stability, and a sense of purpose. When we think of the most cherished memories, they are often woven into the fabric of these routines. The smell of pancakes on a Sunday morning, the evening ritual of saying goodnight to loved ones, or the daily walk that clears the mind and refreshes the soul. These moments may seem small, but they hold us together. They are the quiet acts of care we perform for ourselves and those around us.
Life’s ordinary moments are also where connection thrives. A quick smile from a stranger on a busy street, a text message from a friend just checking in, or the simple joy of sharing a meal with family. These interactions, though brief, are what make us feel seen, valued, and understood. I remember a story shared by my aunt, reflecting on her years of marriage. She said her favorite memory wasn’t a grand vacation or a milestone celebration—it was the way her husband brought her tea every morning for thirty years. “It wasn’t just tea,” she said. “It was love, poured in a cup.” That daily gesture, so simple and ordinary, spoke volumes about the depth of their relationship.
There’s an undeniable richness to these small moments of connection. They remind us that we are part of something larger, a collection of relationships that give our lives depth and meaning. No matter how ordinary our lives may feel, they are intertwined with the lives of others in ways that are deeply profound.
To truly appreciate the beauty of an ordinary life, we must learn to be present. In a world that constantly pulls us forward—toward the next task, the next goal, the next big thing—it takes courage to pause and simply be. But in those pauses, we discover that life’s beauty is not something we have to chase. It’s already here, in the sound of laughter, the feel of sunlight on our skin, the quiet moments we share with ourselves or others. Presence transforms the mundane into something sacred. A walk becomes a journey of discovery, as we notice the crunch of leaves underfoot, the whisper of the wind, or the colors of the sky shifting at dusk.
Being present doesn’t require grand gestures or perfect circumstances. It’s about paying attention, about truly seeing and savoring the life we are living. When we stop to notice, we find that even the simplest things—a kind word, a shared laugh, a moment of stillness—are overflowing with beauty and significance. The extraordinary is hidden in plain sight, waiting to be uncovered in the ordinariness of everyday life.
Embracing the ordinary doesn’t mean abandoning ambition or ignoring the special moments that come our way. It means recognizing that these extraordinary moments are built on the foundation of the ordinary. A loving relationship is not defined by a single grand gesture but by the countless small acts of care and kindness shared over time. A meaningful career is not the result of one big break but the accumulation of consistent effort, day after day. A fulfilling life is not a highlight reel of exceptional events but a mosaic of small, ordinary moments that, together, create something truly extraordinary.
If you want to begin celebrating the beauty of your own ordinary life, start small. Take a moment each day to reflect on the little things that bring you joy—a favorite song, the warmth of your favorite sweater, the way the light dances across the room. Find rituals that ground you and give meaning to your routines, like lighting a candle during dinner or taking a few minutes to breathe deeply before starting your day. Limit multitasking and focus on being fully present in each activity, whether it’s eating, walking, or simply sitting in silence. Connect with nature, even in small ways, by stepping outside and feeling the grass under your feet or watching the clouds drift by.
When we learn to cherish these small, ordinary moments, we begin to see that they are not small at all. They are the essence of life itself. And when we look back on our lives, it’s often these moments—the shared meals, the quiet mornings, the small gestures of love—that stand out. They are the moments that linger in our hearts, reminding us of what truly matters.
So let us not wait for the extraordinary to feel alive. Let us embrace the beauty of the lives we are living right now. Because when we do, we discover that an ordinary life is not ordinary at all. It is a masterpiece of moments, each one precious, each one enough. It is in the quiet rhythm of an ordinary life that we find the deepest, most enduring joy.
The rain poured relentlessly, a steady drumming against the world that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the tension building in the air. It was a storm like no other, fierce and unyielding, as if nature itself was bracing for something monumental. In the midst of the storm, a solitary figure stood poised at the edge of a forgotten school parking lot, staring at the looming silhouette of the building before her.
Marissa didn’t know why she had come back here. The urge had been sudden, overpowering, like a magnetic pull that had drawn her from the quiet of her life to this exact place. A place she thought she had left behind forever.
The sleek, black Cadillac Coupe de Ville seemed out of place in the deserted lot, its polished surface reflecting the flickering lights of the distant school building. The storm’s cold breath rattled the car, but the stillness inside remained, save for the rhythm of her thoughts—each one heavier than the last.
This was where it all began. This was where everything changed. And no matter how far she ran, or how many years passed, there was no escaping the echoes of what had been left behind.
The school stood silent now, as if it too was waiting for something, some moment, some reckoning. Marissa felt it, deep in her bones—the weight of secrets long buried, of choices made in the shadow of things not fully understood. She had lived her life in the aftershocks of the past, always wondering, always searching, but never truly knowing.
Tonight, the storm had brought her back to this place. To a crossroads. To a story still unfolding.
As the wind howled and the rain fell, Marissa knew one thing: whatever lay ahead, the storm outside was nothing compared to the storm brewing within her.
Chapter 1: The Man in the Brown Suit
The rain lashed against the windshield of Marissa’s vintage 1959 Cadillac Coupe de Ville , its rhythmic tapping almost drowning out the sound of her thoughts. The sleek, black car slid to a halt in the dimly lit parking lot of the school. The sky above was a blanket of charcoal clouds, threatening more downpours as the wind howled with a chill that cut through her bones.
She stopped the car, the stillness settling around her as the engine fell silent. For a moment, her breath misted against the cold glass, a fleeting haze before she opened the door. Stepping out into the storm, her heels echoed sharply against the wet pavement. She snapped open her umbrella, the wind battering it with relentless force as she fought her way forward, every step a battle against the tempest.
As she neared the school entrance, something felt off. The lights were blazing through the windows, far brighter than they should have been at this hour. It was only 5:15 AM, and the building usually sat in near silence this early. Her curiosity piqued, and Marissa pushed the door open.
Inside, the hallway was eerily empty, save for the constant hum of the overhead lights and the distant sound of dripping water. Her heels echoed off the cold concrete floor as she walked down the long corridor. She approached the principal’s office and paused. The door, which was usually firmly closed, was slightly ajar—a rare occurrence.
Her heart skipped. The principal, a man of rigid punctuality, was never in this early. Yet there, in his office, was a figure.
A man sat in the chair, his back to the door. He wore a faded brown suit that looked out of place in the otherwise sterile office. His leg was crossed, and he had a black briefcase resting on his lap. The man tapped his fingers lightly against it, an odd, rhythmic pattern that gave the scene a sense of unease. His attire—a black scruffy bucket hat and dark sunglasses—seemed absurd, as though he had stepped out of another world entirely.
He ignored her presence.
Marissa stood in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat.
“Good morning, gentleman,” she said, her voice steady but laced with caution.
The man slowly took off his sunglasses and smiled. The smile was grotesque—his face was disfigured, marked with scars, and his left eye was an unsettling, hollow void.
“Are you looking for someone?” she asked, trying to mask her growing anxiety.
The man’s voice rasped as he spoke. “Yes. The Principal asked me to wait here.”
Her mind raced. The Principal was never this disorganized. The man’s presence, his appearance—none of it made sense. Why was he here, in this office, so early? And why did the Principal not tell her about him?
As she moved away, uneasy thoughts clouded her mind. Was he here for an interview? A new staff member? Why employ someone with such a… disturbing appearance?
The questions weighed heavily on her as she made her way to the staff room, where she tried to focus on mundane tasks—heating up water for coffee and marking papers. Yet, something about the moment felt off. The lights flickered, the rain lashed harder against the windows, and then, as if on cue, the power cut.
The hum of the lights stopped, and the building was plunged into an eerie darkness. Marissa’s pulse quickened, but she pushed the fear down, her fingers trembling as she grabbed the handle of the staff room door to leave.
It was locked.
A sickening feeling of dread settled in her stomach. Her breath quickened as she dashed back into the staff room, her hand clasping the doorknob behind her.
Then, the sound she had been dreading—the door handle turned.
She hid behind the bookshelf, her body trembling. The seconds stretched like hours.
The door creaked open.
Chapter 2: Shadows in the Dark
Her chest tightened. Marissa tried to scream, but the words stuck in her throat. The footsteps were slow and deliberate, like the sound of a predator closing in on its prey.
She dared not move. Sweat pooled on her brow, the air in the staff room thick with tension.
The man from the office, the one-eyed figure, stepped into the room, his presence suffocating the space. He was no longer smiling, his eyes fixed on the shadows where she hid. He could sense her.
A cold sweat ran down her spine as his voice cut through the silence.
“I know you’re there,” he said, his tone a rasp that made her skin crawl. “It’s time.”
Time for what? The questions churned in her mind, but fear kept them at bay. She had to act fast. The realization hit her like a ton of bricks: she wasn’t just in danger. She was caught in something far bigger than she could understand. The man wasn’t just a stranger. He was a part of something dark and twisted, something that had been pulling strings behind the scenes for years.
But before she could gather her thoughts, the door slammed open, revealing the Principal.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice firm but shaking. He was a different man now—his usual composed demeanor replaced with desperation.
The man in the brown suit simply nodded, tapping his briefcase again.
“I was told to wait for her,” the scarred man said.
Marissa’s heart raced. The Principal had known about this, and yet, she had never been told. It was all a setup.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice sharp with fear and anger. She couldn’t keep the tremor from her hands as she stood up, forcing herself to confront the terrifying truth.
“Don’t you remember?” the man said, his voice a soft hiss. “You were never meant to forget. You were always meant to be a part of this.”
A sharp pain shot through Marissa’s head as the world around her seemed to blur. Memories long buried surged to the surface—fragments of a past she had never fully known. She saw flashes of herself, younger, in a dark room, with machines hooked up to her body, her mind manipulated.
“You were part of the program,” he continued, stepping closer. “Requiem. You were trained to forget, but I see the truth is starting to surface. That’s why you’re here now.”
The ground seemed to slip beneath her feet. She staggered back, but the walls of the staff room felt like they were closing in.
“You have no idea what’s happening, do you?” the Principal whispered, his voice trembling. “You’ve been a tool for so long, a pawn. The Obsidian Veil doesn’t let go that easily.”
Chapter 3: Memory’s Shattered Chains
As the memories flooded back, Marissa felt the walls of her sanity crack. The pieces of her life that had been manipulated, twisted, and erased began to reform into a horrifying reality. She had been a part of something sinister. An operation that used her, molded her into the perfect weapon: Requiem.
The scarred man—the one who had once been her mentor, her tormentor—was here to finish what had started all those years ago. But Marissa wasn’t the same person. She was no longer just a victim.
Her hands shook as she reached into her bag, pulling out the small, sleek pistol she had kept hidden for emergencies. This was her only chance.
The Principal made a move toward her, but she was faster. The gun clicked as she aimed it at the man in the brown suit.
“It ends tonight,” she whispered, her voice cold.
Chapter 4: Vengeance Unbound
The battle that ensued was one of wills, each side knowing what was at stake. Marissa’s mind raced with the fragments of memories returning, the training, the manipulation, the terror. But more than that—there was rage.
She was no longer the helpless pawn. She was reclaiming her life, her power.
The scarred man lunged forward, his brutal strength surprising her. But Marissa had been trained for this—fighting, surviving. She dodged his attack and retaliated with a well-placed shot that sent him staggering back.
“You never understood, did you?” the man spat, wiping the blood from his mouth. “You think you’ve escaped, but you’ll never be free.”
But Marissa, now fully aware of who and what she was, was ready.
With the force of her anger propelling her, she lunged at him, delivering a final blow that sent the man to the ground, defeated.
Sequel: The Shadows Return
Chapter 1: Requiem’s Return
Marissa stood alone in the quiet aftermath of the chaos. The storm outside had subsided, but the darkness within her was still very much alive.
She had defeated the scarred man, Cain, and uncovered the truth about Obsidian Veil. But she couldn’t escape the feeling that something far darker was on the horizon. She had become the hunted. And the shadows were closing in again.
Chapter 2: The Return of Requiem
The silence in the aftermath of the fight was deafening. The body of the scarred man lay crumpled at her feet, his grotesque form twisted in defeat. Marissa’s breath came in heavy gasps as she stood over him, her hands trembling but steady with the gun still clutched in her grip. She had won, but at what cost?
The memories she had uncovered—the pieces of herself she had long buried—were overwhelming. Requiem. That name echoed in her mind like a drumbeat, a pulse that would never stop. The truth was clear: she had been more than just a pawn. She had been a weapon, a sleeper agent created by the Obsidian Veil, designed to be triggered when the time was right.
But that time was now.
As she stood in the empty school hallway, the weight of her new reality pressed down on her. Her life was no longer hers to control. It had never truly been. The mission was still unfinished, and worse, it seemed that the battle with Cain was just the beginning.
Marissa ran her fingers through her soaked hair, her thoughts a tangled mess. She needed answers. But the more she searched, the more she realized that the answers were elusive. Her memories had been manipulated—fragmented and scattered—and she was still piecing them together.
A cold breeze swept through the open door, pulling her out of her trance. The school was eerily still now, devoid of any life. Her hand moved instinctively toward the bag at her side, where she had concealed the small device—the last piece of the puzzle. It was a tracker, a communication tool, designed to alert her superiors when the mission was complete. But the tracker was meant to alert them when she was dead, too.
Marissa hesitated, the weight of her decision pressing on her. With a swift motion, she tossed it onto the floor, crushing it underfoot. No one would find her now.
But just as she thought she had severed her ties to her past, the familiar voice of the Principal echoed through the room, cold and detached.
“You can’t run from this, Marissa.”
She spun around to find him standing in the doorway, his posture stiff and formal as always. But his eyes—they were different. They were full of something darker. Something more dangerous.
“I thought I had lost you,” the Principal continued, his voice full of eerie calm. “But you were never meant to escape. Requiem was always part of the plan. We always knew you would return.”
“Return?” Marissa spat, stepping forward, her body tense with barely-contained fury. “What did you do to me? To everyone? You can’t control me anymore.”
“You never left us,” he said, his lips curling into a grim smile. “You were always under our watch. You still are.”
Marissa’s heart clenched in her chest. “What do you want from me?”
“We want you to finish the mission,” the Principal answered, his eyes narrowing. “We need you back in the fold, Requiem. It’s time to complete the operation.”
Marissa’s blood ran cold. She knew what he meant. It was time to fulfill the purpose they had designed for her. To become the weapon once again. But this time, she would be in control.
“I will never go back to that life,” she said, her voice a low growl. “I’ll destroy everything before I let that happen.”
The Principal’s gaze hardened. “You think you have a choice? You never did.”
Before Marissa could react, he pulled a small device from his pocket—a remote detonator. The ground beneath her feet trembled, and the walls seemed to pulse with an energy she could not comprehend.
The school—the entire town, maybe—was rigged to explode. Her former captors had set this in motion long before she had escaped. This was never about her freedom. It was about control.
“Get out of here, Marissa,” the Principal said, a cold finality in his tone. “You have one choice. Live or die.”
The countdown had already begun.
Chapter 3: The Price of Vengeance
The air was thick with the tension of impending destruction. Marissa stood frozen, watching the Principal’s cold, calculating smile. Every part of her wanted to lash out, to take control of the situation, but the reality of what was happening set in too quickly.
She had to act. Fast.
Her mind raced as she scanned the room. The timer on the detonator was ticking down—less than a minute now. Her pulse thudded in her ears as she saw the small hidden compartment in the wall, the one she remembered from her past training. It was a fail-safe. A hidden exit.
But it was behind the Principal.
There was no time to think. She moved swiftly, quicker than he could react, and lunged toward the compartment, her body low to the ground. Her hand slammed against the metal panel, forcing it open. The Principal shouted, but Marissa was already in motion.
She darted into the dark, narrow corridor beyond the compartment, her breath ragged and her heart pounding in her chest. Behind her, the explosion roared to life, a deafening sound that shook the walls and sent debris flying.
She was free again.
But as she stumbled through the darkness, the realization hit her like a gut punch—there was no escape. The Obsidian Veil would never let her go. They had already laid the groundwork for their next move. They were always watching, always waiting for her to slip up.
And the worst part? She had no idea who was still alive, who had been part of the operation, or even who she could trust.
She collapsed against the cool concrete wall, gasping for air. A small, flickering light in the distance caught her eye. Another hallway. Another door. There was always another door. Always another mission.
But this time, Marissa knew one thing for sure—she wasn’t just running away.
She was hunting them.
Coda: The Darkest of Nights
A few weeks later, Marissa found herself standing outside a dilapidated building, its windows boarded up, the front door long forgotten. It was an old warehouse, but it was the place where everything would change. She had tracked down the next piece of the puzzle.
The door creaked open as she stepped inside, her fingers curling around the handle of her weapon. She had no idea what she was walking into, but she was prepared. The shadows crept along the walls like an old friend—cold, dangerous, and familiar.
She had come too far to turn back now.
As her boots echoed through the empty hallway, a voice came from the darkness.
“You’re not alone anymore, Marissa.”
The voice was familiar. Too familiar.
It was the scarred man. Alive.
Her heart skipped a beat.
“Cain,” she whispered, her eyes narrowing. “You should have stayed dead.”
He stepped forward, a dark smile twisting his scarred face. “You can’t kill what’s already dead.”
Marissa’s grip tightened on her weapon. This time, there would be no running.
The loonyman looks at us, his eyes alight with an untamed wisdom, To him, we are the deranged, trapped in a world of fragile illusions. We, in turn, look upon him with quiet pity, Unaware that his mind sees more than ours ever could. When he approaches, We flee as if his presence were a plague, Our hearts pounding in the rhythm of panic, Not realizing that in his gaze, we are the ones infected. In his world, our haste only serves to confirm the insanity of the ‘sane.’
His tattered clothes flap in the wind like a flag of defiance, A man stripped bare of the trappings of society’s order. We pity him, his hair a wild mane, his skin worn like weathered stone, Yet he looks at our polished selves with contempt, Skeptical of the cost of our immaculate appearance. To us, he is a tragic figure, lost in a labyrinth of his own mind, A prisoner of his own delusion, While we stand proud in our “reality,” shackled by the chains of normalcy. To him, we are the puppets, Tethered to an illusionary world that demands conformity, Willing to sacrifice freedom for the cold comfort of fitting in.
He wonders aloud, Why would we choose crisp fabric over the earth’s raw embrace? Why, when the wild wind beckons, Do we remain bound to the suffocating fabric of our society’s rules? “Fools!” he cries, “Enslaved by convention!” “Ancient fools who have forgotten the joy of untamed existence.” And to him, we are the true madmen, Chasing shadows, too blinded by our own reflections to see the world beyond.
He watches a man glide past in his Bugatti, The car sleek, and polished — a symbol of everything we strive to be, But to him, it is a mere tin can, a hollow vessel of vanity, A bucket of dreams built on the illusion of success. What he sees is not power but a desperate grasp for meaning, A bucket carrying empty promises on wheels.
Then he calls to us from his cart, A rickety, weather-beaten vehicle, a kingdom in disguise. What we see as a broken-down relic, He sees as a chariot of freedom, A vessel to carry him through the wild seas of his imagination. He invites us to join him, to take part in the ride of life, But we, too enmeshed in our worlds, Politely decline. “How dull you all are,” he sighs, “You miss the thrill of this journey, The true exhilaration of the unknown.”
We look at his squalor, The remnants of his world scattered like forgotten dreams, And we shake our heads, dismissing him as a lost soul. But in his eyes, it is we who are lost, We live in the sterile boxes of our carefully constructed worlds. Our idea of home is built on walls and fences, On things that separate us from the chaos of life. But his world, though ragged and torn, is full of purpose — full of raw, untamed beauty, Where everything is in its place, even if that place is a bit unkempt. He is not mad; He is simply the king of his domain, A monarch crowned not with gold, But with the courage to live fully in the mess of existence.
We stand in our pristine homes, Clutching our sanitized realities, And yet, it is he who lives in a kingdom of wonder, Where chaos is not an enemy but a muse. We cannot see his greatness, For we are too blinded by the gleam of our own sterile lives. His world is untamed, raw, and free — A kingdom not of gold but of meaning.
In his eyes, he is a king, A ruler of a kingdom where rules are not made by society, But by the simple truth of the moment, Where the wild beauty of the world is embraced in its entirety, Where joy is found in freedom, in imagination, In the very act of living without restraint. And in our eyes, he is a madman, Lost to the illusions of his own creation.
But what if we are the ones who have lost touch with that joy? What if his madness is the key to his freedom, To a life lived on his own terms, Unshackled by the chains of conventional thought? In his kingdom, the boundaries of reality are blurred, And what he sees is not madness, But in a world where imagination reigns, Where life is not constrained by rules, But guided by the pure joy of being. We may call him mad, But perhaps it is we who are missing the fullness of life, Trapped in the cages of our own making, Too afraid to step outside and live freely.
In his world, he reigns supreme, Not because of the crowns of gold, But because of the truth he holds — The truth that sees beyond the veil of what we call reality, To a deeper, wilder, more beautiful world. And in his eyes, we are the ones who have strayed, Who have forsaken the wild joy of being alive, The thrill of stepping outside the box, Of embracing chaos, of truly living.
We say he is mad, But what if he is the only one who truly understands? What if, in his madness, he is the sanest of us all?
Image Credit: Portraits by Tracylenne, on Pinterest
The question of whether it’s possible—or healthy—to remain friends with an ex is one that sparks endless debate and introspection. It’s not simply about the length of the relationship; the emotional depth and bond created during it play a crucial role in determining if a true friendship can exist afterward. For some people, transitioning from a romantic relationship to a platonic one feels effortless. They seem to effortlessly switch off old feelings and transform their connection into a more distant, formal friendship. To outsiders, their bond may appear no different from any other platonic relationship.
For others, however, attempting to remain friends with an ex can be like walking through a minefield. Old emotions resurface, unresolved issues rise again, and the effort to reconnect often becomes more painful than beneficial. Emotional baggage from the previous relationship can weigh down any potential friendship. For these people, the breakup can feel like a personal devastation—an emotional wreck that’s not easily forgotten. Healing can take months, even years, and in some cases, the scars may never fully fade.
It’s important to recognize that the end of a romantic relationship—whether it’s amicable or messy—often triggers profound emotional upheaval. Love isn’t something that can just be switched off. The emotional energy invested in building the relationship doesn’t simply vanish. It’s a connection that develops over time, becoming so intertwined with your identity that the end of it can feel like the collapse of something monumental—like a “castle of love” crumbling to dust. Recovering from this loss can be an exhausting process that doesn’t happen overnight. There is no fixed timeline for healing, and the journey toward emotional recovery can be anything but linear.
However, with time comes healing. For some, this process is long and complicated, filled with moments of doubt, anger, and sadness. For others, healing comes more gradually, in small, subtle ways. After enough time has passed, the idea of reconnecting with an ex might surface. Maybe it’s an unexpected encounter, or one of you reaches out to the other. Regardless of the circumstances, deep self-reflection is necessary before allowing an ex back into your life. You must ask yourself: Can I relate to them as just a friend, without the emotional baggage of our past relationship affecting the dynamic? Am I truly at peace with the end of our romantic relationship? Can I engage in the friendship without rekindling old feelings or resentments, and without secretly desiring more? Am I capable of maintaining healthy boundaries, especially when it comes to physical intimacy?
Am I holding on to the past because of nostalgia or loneliness, or do I genuinely want this friendship? What would I gain from being friends with my ex, and is it worth the emotional investment? How could this affect my current relationship? Will my partner be comfortable with me maintaining a friendship with my ex, and how can I reassure them that it won’t compromise what we have?
Can I handle seeing my ex move on with someone new? Am I prepared to confront feelings of jealousy or insecurity, and can I manage these emotions maturely without compromising the friendship? Would I be comfortable hearing about their new romantic experiences, just as I would with any other friend, without feeling unsettled or disconnected?
These questions aren’t meant to be easy. They’re designed to provoke deep, honest introspection. Not everyone can maintain a healthy, platonic relationship with an ex. For some, the emotional history is simply too strong, the attachment too deep. But for others, with time, emotional maturity, and clear boundaries, a true friendship can emerge from the remnants of a romantic relationship.
If, after reflection, you find you can’t answer “yes” to most or all of these questions, it may be a sign that staying friends with your ex isn’t the right choice. There’s no shame in acknowledging that certain relationships are better left in the past. Your emotional well-being should always come first, and sometimes that means making tough decisions to protect yourself from reopening old wounds. In these cases, trusting your instincts and prioritizing your peace is key. Sometimes, putting up emotional walls and setting clear boundaries is the healthiest way forward. Protecting yourself from unnecessary emotional turmoil is an act of self-love. You are under no obligation to maintain any relationship that threatens your emotional stability or happiness.
Ultimately, the decision is a personal one. But before welcoming your ex back into your life, pause and ask yourself whether you can truly handle a platonic relationship without slipping back into old patterns. If the answer is no, trust yourself to walk away. You have the power to protect your heart and preserve your emotional well-being. And sometimes, the most significant act of self-care is knowing when to let go—no matter how much history you share.
Her footsteps stir the earth, dust rising in homage to its queen. Life bends in reverence, the world a stage, her kingdom vast.
Her voice carries the weight of centuries, rolling over seas and stirring hearts, even those untouched by kindness. She turns grief into joy, and darkness into day. Her realm is one of light, unmarked by the shadow of sorrow.
Whispers follow her— legends of stars and ancient queens, her existence a fusion of myth and reality. Her beauty is the jewel of creation, its brilliance beyond compare.
Her gaze disarms the bravest, melting their strength into silence. The sun rises to worship her, casting the earth in a warm, golden embrace. Every step she takes transforms the world, leaving trails of wonder in her wake.
Her hair flows like rivers of light, its hues shifting— the fire of sunsets, the velvet of night, or the shimmer of a thousand stars. She embodies beauty, a living flame of power and grace.
Her words breathe life into truth, a melody that shapes destinies. Her eyes, boundless and eternal, hold galaxies in their depths. Her presence glows with an energy that even the blind can feel.
Gentle as the dawn, she cradles the earth in her arms. But challenge her, and she becomes the storm— her fury the crack of thunder, her rage a whirlwind of power.
Who dares to face the wrath of a goddess? Who challenges her rule and survives to boast? The foolish are swept away, their pride consumed by her storm.
When she moves, the world shifts, mountains bow, and rivers hum her name. The air vibrates with her presence, and the earth blossoms in her wake.
Even in her absence, her legend will remain, etched deep in the hearts of those who felt her presence.
Hello and welcome! I’m Aisha, a writer, poet, creative, and Cybersecurity Analyst, sharing my journey as I navigate the beauty of life. I’m so happy you’re here in this little corner of the internet where I get to be my authentic self. I have two amazing kids and I live in Texas. I’ve also written under the pen name Tola Belva and go by Mrs. Jay in some circles.
As a millennial, I’ve always felt a special connection to simpler times, to the nostalgia of a world that felt a bit slower and more deliberate. I grew up reading personal blogs, which felt like getting a letter from a close friend. The kind of letter where they shared their life’s little moments, big dreams, and everything in between. There was something so pure about it—like you were entering someone’s world and having a direct conversation with them. Now, everything has shifted to social platforms like Instagram, YouTube, X (formerly Twitter), TikTok, and Facebook, but I still find myself missing the intimacy of those old-school blogs. They weren’t about impressing anyone—they were just about sharing real stories, real thoughts, and real connections. You could feel the heart of the writer in every post. I think that’s what I miss most.
Magazines and newspapers were also a big part of my childhood. The smell of fresh print, the crinkling sound of flipping through pages—there’s a tactile experience with physical media that the digital world can never quite replicate. I’ll never forget those moments as a kid, walking into offices and finding magazines casually laid out on tables. It was like a treasure chest just waiting for me to explore. There were always topics that fascinated me, from health tips to the latest fashion trends. I’d sift through those pages, dreaming of a world of endless possibilities. One of the biggest moments was discovering Reese Witherspoon in a magazine for the first time. Her story sparked something in me that still lingers today—a curiosity about her life, her journey, and the idea that anyone can build their dream life with enough passion. It turns out Reese is not only a talented actress but also a huge advocate for books. Her book club has introduced countless people to new literary worlds, which makes her even more inspiring to me as someone who believes in the transformative power of reading.
Speaking of dreams, there was a time in my life when I pictured myself as a fashion icon. I used to immerse myself in fashion magazines, reading about designers like Vera Wang, Valentino, and Chanel, imagining myself in that world. I’d cut out paper dress designs and pass them on to my aunties, asking them to make my creations come to life. It was more than a hobby; it felt like an extension of who I was—a dreamer, an artist, someone who found beauty in every detail. As I look back now, I see how those moments of creativity helped shape who I am today, and how that fascination with fashion and design never truly left me.
And of course, who could forget the luxury perfume samples tucked between the pages of those magazines? I’ll always remember how, if you rubbed the sample on your skin or your clothes, the fragrance would last for hours. There was a sense of glamour that came with those little, unexpected spritzes of luxury. I still remember the scent of those perfumes—sweet, floral, and oh-so-elegant. Even now, whenever I smell a fragrance that reminds me of those days, it takes me right back to those carefree moments.
Those were the simpler times, weren’t they? There were no adult responsibilities—no bills, no deadlines, no rush. We simply lived in the moment. I remember climbing trees with my friends, running through the neighborhood, and plucking fruit from trees like we had all the time in the world. We would laugh and play for hours, with no screens to distract us, no constant buzz of notifications or demands for our attention. The world felt full of magic and endless possibilities.
And those quiet, reflective nights—when we’d sit outside by moonlight, listening to the older generation tell stories—hold a special place in my heart. Those stories, passed down from one generation to the next, carried with them a kind of wisdom that shaped the way I see the world today. The lessons of resilience, love, and the importance of family, shared by moonlight, remain with me in ways that words can’t fully capture.
As a child, I was introverted and found solace in words. Writing became my safe space, my outlet for expressing all the things I couldn’t say out loud. I kept diaries where I documented everything—my first heartbreak, my dreams, my passions, and even my sadness. Every detail, every emotion, became part of the story I was telling. Those journals are still some of my most cherished possessions today. They were where I first learned the power of writing—to heal, to reflect, and to connect with others. I had a particular love for English and literature throughout school, always drawn to how words could create worlds and bring ideas to life.
I grew up in the era of Barney and Friends—and the song “I love you, you love me” still resonates with me, reminding me of childhood simplicity. The gentle lessons of friendship and love from the purple dinosaur stayed with me for years. I also spent hours watching Pinky and the Brain, always captivated by their grand schemes for world domination (even though they came so close to achieving it every time!). And who could forget the unforgettable drama of the soap opera, Days of Our Lives, or the intense love stories in the telenovela When You Are Mine, where characters like Paloma and Diego pulled you into their emotional whirlwind? Then there was Passions, the telenovela with the iconic theme song by Jane French, full of twists and turns that kept me glued to the screen. The American sitcom, A Different World was another favorite, shaping my ideas of resilience and friendship, and don’t even get me started on Kids Say the Darndest Things—where kids would speak their truths, leaving us all laughing and reflecting on life’s unfiltered joy. Oh, and how could I forget Teletubbies? I remember the swirl dance, Tinky Winky performed with such joy, making me smile with the simple, carefree fun of it all.
My love for nature and flowers has always been central to my life. There’s something about the simplicity of a blooming flower, the way it embodies both grace and strength resonates deeply with me. I find peace in nature—whether it’s watching butterflies flutter around or strolling through a garden. Butterflies, especially, have become a symbol for me, a reminder of transformation, freedom, and the beauty of letting go and growing into something new.
I’m also a passionate book collector. My shelves are filled with a range of books—from classics to contemporary reads—and each one holds a unique place in my heart. The vibrant colors of book covers fascinate me, and I love how each cover tells its own story before you even turn the first page. For me, books are more than just stories; they’re an escape. The act of reading is a way for me to travel, explore new ideas, and immerse myself in different worlds. It’s my sanctuary—a place where I can find comfort, reflection, and endless learning.
While my heart has always leaned towards creativity, my journey took an uncharted turn when I immersed myself in the world of Cybersecurity— a field that captivates me with its complexity and its profound impact on the digital world. As a Cybersecurity Analyst, I work to protect systems and data from threats, ensuring that both personal and professional stories remain secure in an increasingly interconnected space. It’s not just about solving problems; it’s about safeguarding an environment where innovation, creativity, and self-expression can thrive freely. The curiosity that once led me to explore the pages of magazines and dive into new ideas now drives my passion for cybersecurity, as I continue to find ways to protect what truly matters.
I’ve always had a deep love for libraries too. The feeling of walking through aisles of books, discovering new worlds, and the smell of pages old and new—it’s something I’ve always cherished. In a world where everything is online, the library still feels like a sacred place for me. It’s where I go to dive into research, to escape, and to keep feeding that curiosity that drives me.
Now, let’s talk about the music of the ’90s! The rhythm, the culture— it all takes me back to a time when the era was bursting with raw energy and emotion. From Destiny’s Child, Ne-Yo, and Sisqo to Missy Elliott, J-Lo, Ja Rule, DMX, and so many others, that era gave us more than just beats—it gave us anthems. And I’m a fan girl of Queen Bee herself—Beyoncé! Shout-out to Destiny’s Child, for real! Whether it was dancing to the hits in my room or singing along with my friends, 90’s hip-hop was my soundtrack, a reflection of passion, struggle, and empowerment. I also remember the smooth vibes of Joe, the harmonies of Westlife, the iconic hits of Backstreet Boys, and the soulful sound of Craig David. Those artists and their music shaped so many of my favorite moments. Those songs are still my go-to, and they continue to inspire me today, much like the world around me does.
Through it all—the fashion dreams, the love for books, the memories of carefree days spent climbing trees, and even those little perfume-scented moments in magazines—every single detail has shaped who I am today. I’ve always been someone who finds beauty in the simple things. Whether it’s a quiet moment with a book, a handwritten note, or the memory of a favorite perfume, it’s those small, quiet joys that continue to fascinate me.
I’ve also always kept my circle small. I’ve never been one to seek out a crowd. There’s something so powerful about surrounding yourself with only the people who truly lift you up, who understand your journey, and who allow you to be your most authentic self. For me, it’s about creating spaces—whether through writing, art, or simply being with the people I care about—that allow me to explore, express, and grow.
Thank you for being here and sharing this space with me. Whether you stumbled upon this blog by accident or intentionally sought it out, I hope it brings you the same peace, inspiration, and sense of connection that it brings to me. Life may be fast-paced now, but there’s something so beautiful about pausing for a moment, reflecting on the little things, and creating something meaningful. Together, let’s create something beautiful.
Tọlá Belva 