The Borrowed Compass, Making Conscious Decisions

It is easier to follow
the hand that points the way
than walk alone through doubt.

But borrowed eyes grow heavy,
and borrowed truths grow small,
until one day the silent self asks:

“What would I have chosen
if I had learned to see?”

The Borrowed Compass

It is easier to follow
the hand that points the way
than walk alone through doubt.

But borrowed eyes grow heavy,
and borrowed truths grow small,
until one day the silent self asks:

“What would I have chosen
if I had learned to see?”

The Borrowed Compass

It is easier to follow
the hand that points the way
than walk alone through doubt.

But borrowed eyes grow heavy,
and borrowed truths grow small,
until one day the silent self asks:

“What would I have chosen
if I had learned to see?”

The Borrowed Compass

It is easier to follow
the hand that points the way
than walk alone through doubt.

But borrowed eyes grow heavy,
and borrowed truths grow small,
until one day the silent self asks:

“What would I have chosen
if I had learned to see?”

The Borrowed Compass

It is easier to follow
the hand that points the way
than walk alone through doubt.

But borrowed eyes grow heavy,
and borrowed truths grow small,
until one day the silent self asks:

“What would I have chosen
if I had learned to see?”

The Borrowed Compass

It is easier to follow
the hand that points the way
than walk alone through doubt.

But borrowed eyes grow heavy,
and borrowed truths grow small,
until one day the silent self asks:

“What would I have chosen
if I had learned to see?”

The Ones Who Notice More

They hear the sigh beneath the smile,
the storm beneath the quiet room.

They find small beauty others pass,
and carry shadows others miss.

The world touches them more deeply —
both its gentleness
and its wounds.

The Ones Who Notice More

They hear the sigh beneath the smile,
the storm beneath the quiet room.

They find small beauty others pass,
and carry shadows others miss.

The world touches them more deeply —
both its gentleness
and its wounds.

The Ones Who Notice More

They hear the sigh beneath the smile,
the storm beneath the quiet room.

They find small beauty others pass,
and carry shadows others miss.

The world touches them more deeply —
both its gentleness
and its wounds.

The Ones Who Notice More

They hear the sigh beneath the smile,
the storm beneath the quiet room.

They find small beauty others pass,
and carry shadows others miss.

The world touches them more deeply —
both its gentleness
and its wounds.

The Ones Who Notice More

They hear the sigh beneath the smile,
the storm beneath the quiet room.

They find small beauty others pass,
and carry shadows others miss.

The world touches them more deeply —
both its gentleness
and its wounds.

The Balls We Learned to Hold

Inside the mind
float thousands of thought-balls,
each tied to different feelings,
different meanings,
different ways of seeing the world.

Some were shaped by old pain
and quickly whisper:

>

For a long time,
we mistake those balls for truth.

Healing begins
when we realize
we can pause,
look around,
and choose another interpretation to hold.

The Balls We Learned to Hold

Inside the mind
float thousands of thought-balls,
each tied to different feelings,
different meanings,
different ways of seeing the world.

Some were shaped by old pain
and quickly whisper:

>

For a long time,
we mistake those balls for truth.

Healing begins
when we realize
we can pause,
look around,
and choose another interpretation to hold.

Metamorphosis

We were born vulnerable,
ready to be wrapped.

Thread by thread,
a cocoon was built—
of voices,
rules,
watchful eyes,
tightly woven by the urge to belong.

It kept us safe.

But safety is seasonal.

As we grow,
what once held us
begins to tighten.

Some feel the strain
and begin to break—
not as rebellion,
but as nature.

Others pull the threads closer,
reshaping themselves
to remain inside.

Both are human.

And in that quiet tension,
wings form—

soft,
uncertain,
but unfolding.

Some step into the air
without the shell
that once defined them,

carrying its memory—
but no longer contained.