one diary
My diary is my private refuge—
not a stage, not a book, not even something I thought others would read—
but a room.
A room I could walk into, barefoot and unguarded.
A room where no one else had the key.
A place where I could record, reflect, and survive myself.
poetry
Poetry takes its shape in me
in three ways:
in the still hours of meditation,
when the noise of the world has gone quiet—
or while walking through forests and mountains
where breath grows thin
and memory loosens its grip.
And sometimes, in sleep.
Dreams leave fragments—
a line, a whisper, a page.
I wake to scribble before they fade.
That’s where poetry lives—
between silence, nature, and dream.
one witness
I'm a poet.
For years, I thought that was enough.
To write.
To file.
To guard these pages like breath.
Because poetry was my way of laying things down— of unbecoming.
I never needed to publish.
The act itself was enough.
The page was both wound and cure.