βοΈ π πͺπ·ππΈπΆ π£π±πΈπΎπ°π±π½
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Channel Posts
| 2 | Have you ever smelled something that looked like amber?
I know, how could a smell have a color?
It sounds impossible.
But some ordinary day, you're walking down a street you've walked a thousand times, and suddenly
it hits.
A scent. Faint. Familiar.
And before you can name it, you're gone.
Not in your body. Not in this moment.
You're somewhere else.
Back then.
A door opens in your chest that you forgot existed.
You're a child again, running through a house that no longer stands.
You hear a voice you buried years ago.
You feel the weight of a hand that's no longer here.
One smell.
One single thread of air invisible, unremarkable
and you travel through time like it's nothing.
I've felt that too.
I know what it's like to be pulled back by a scent you can't name.
I've stood frozen on a street corner, caught in a memory I thought I'd buried.
And I've wondered why this smell? Why now?
You don't know what that smell is called.
You don't know where it comes from.
But you know what it looks like
and it looks like amber.
Warm. Golden. Deep.
The kind of light that holds something inside it
a trapped moment, a frozen breath, a world that no longer exists but never truly left.
Amber is not just a color.
It's a time capsule.
It's the sun caught in a tear,
holding the memory of a tree that fell long before you were born.
And that smell
whatever it is
feels the same.
It doesn't tell you a story.
It shows you one.
Without words. Without warning.
Just a brief, trembling window into who you used to be
and all you've left behind.
You breathe deeper, desperate to stay just a moment longer.
But the scent fades, like it always does
and you're back.
Back on the street.
Back in your body.
Back in the present, where time moves forward and memories sit quietly, waiting.
You don't know what that smell was.
But now
you know what it looked like.
And you'll never forget it.
βLostboy
...
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β β£ @My_thought18 | 122 |
| 3 | ...
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β β£ @My_thought18 | 134 |
| 4 | You are not a single moment.
You are the echo of every little thing that has ever happened to you.
A museum of glances, of silences, of hands that held or let go.
Of words that buried themselves in your soil and grew into who you are now.
What happened before does not just shape you, it haunts the way you react, the way you love, the way you fold into yourself when the world feels too loud.
And the saddest part
the truly lonely part
is that nobody knows what happened to you.
Not really.
They see the surface, the now, the after.
They do not see the before.
They do not see the rooms you had to burn to stay warm,
the bridges you crossed that turned to smoke behind you,
the childhood corners where you hid your first fears.
We have never been like this before.
And we are the only ones who know it.
We carry this knowledge like an ancient text
written in a language only we understand,
stored in a part of the soul no one else visits.
That is isolation.
Not the absence of people,
but the presence of a self
that no one else has met.
A history lived in a house with no windows.
A story written on pages that turn to dust
as soon as someone else reaches for them.
We walk among others holding this quiet truth:
You will never know what made me.
And I will never know what made you.
And so we meet...not as souls,
but as shadows cast by different suns.
Is that the human tragedy?
To be forever unknown
even as we long to be known?
Or is it the sacred work of being alive,
to hold our own quiet,
to be the one witness
to our own becoming?
Perhaps the answer lives
not in the wound or the healing,
but in the quiet conversation between them.
You are both what happened to you
and how you choose to carry it.
But in the silence between them
that's where you meet yourself.
I guess.
I swear I'm no writer, nor someone who knows everything. I just guessed.
It was just a guess.
A fragile thought sent out like a paper boat on dark water
hoping, not knowing.
But isn't that how we find our way?
By guessing, by wishing, by whispering to the quiet parts of ourselves
that maybe, just maybe, there's a shore ahead.
I wish things go this way.
I wish we untangle the knots of memory and reaction,
gentle our own ghosts,
and learn to carry what happened without letting it carry us.
I wish we stop asking whether we are the wound or the healing,
and start listening to the quiet conversation between them.
And more than anything
I wish we figure it out.
Not all of it. Not forever.
But enough to meet ourselves in that silent space between then and now,
between what broke us and what we built from the broken pieces.
Maybe meeting ourselves is not a one-time event.
Maybe it's a daily return.
A quiet hello in the mirror.
A softer voice when the old fears speak up.
A hand extended to the person we've been all along.
So here's to the guess.
And the wish.
And the hope that one day,
we truly meet who we've been becoming
all this time.
I just wish I guessed correctly
because when I write it,
it sounds easy that way.
βLostboy
...
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| 5 | ...
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β β£ @My_thought18 | 176 |
| 6 | Nobody sees the day you almost quit..
That's the point. | 661 |
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| 8 | Yeah, I'm only human after all. | 479 |
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| 20 | The Last Piece
I hope you don't miss out on your life trying to get it together.
Because here's the truth no one tells you while you're waiting:
Getting it together is not a destination.
It's a rhythm β a slow, messy, beautiful dance of falling and rising, of losing and finding, of breaking and mending in ways you never planned.
And if you spend all your time waiting for the moment when everything is perfectly aligned, you'll wake up one morning and realize the alignment was never the point.
The living was.
So I hope you don't live your entire life trying to be so many things that you end up being nothing.
I hope you stop collecting masks.
I hope you stop performing for rooms that don't know your real name.
I hope you let go of the exhausting need to be enough for everyone β and instead, become everything for yourself.
Not the version they want.
Not the version you think you should be.
But the version that laughs in the dark, cries without shame, and walks away from things that feel like slowly dying.
I hope you reconnect with yourself β the one you abandoned in order to survive.
You remember them, don't you?
The child who danced without music.
The teenager who still believed in soft hands and gentle words.
The person you were before the world taught you to harden, to hide, to hold your breath until the danger passed.
They are still there β waiting, patient, buried under the weight of years you spent protecting them.
Go find them.
Apologize for leaving them alone so long.
And then hold them until they remember how to breathe again.
I hope you heal from the trauma that no one ever apologized for.
Because some wounds are not your fault.
And some ghosts don't leave just because you ignore them.
Healing is not forgetting. It's not forgiving the unforgivable.
It's simply deciding, one day, that the weight of carrying it is heavier than the cost of putting it down.
So put it down.
Not for them. For you.
I hope life treats you well.
And if it doesn't β I hope you treat yourself well.
I hope you learn to be the soft landing you always wanted the world to be.
I hope you offer yourself the grace you so easily give to others.
I hope when the nights get long and the silence gets loud, you wrap your own arms around your chest and whisper:
I'm still here. I'm still trying. And that's enough.
I hope you find comfort and peace in the person you're becoming.
Not who you were. Not who you think you should be.
But who you are, right now β in this messy, unfinished, beautifully flawed moment.
Because becoming is not a betrayal of who you were.
It's a conversation between who you've been and who you're ready to be.
And that conversation deserves patience.
It deserves kindness.
It deserves you.
I hope you know that everything you want is already on its way to you.
Not because the universe owes you anything.
But because wanting is a kind of walking β and you have been walking for so long, through so much, without giving up.
The things you've prayed for in the dark β they have heard you.
They are coming.
Not wrapped the way you expected.
Not arriving when you demanded.
But coming.
Keep your hands open.
And I hope we can grow together β not as strangers passing in the night, but as people who have shared something real, even if only through screens and silent words. I want to see who you become. Not the polished version. Not the one who has it all figured out. But the one who still stumbles, still questions, still reaches for meaning in a world that often offers none.
So grow.
Change.
Become unrecognizable if that's what it takes.
I will still be here, somewhere,
wishing for you the way I wrote it here:
not perfectly, not powerfully,
just... honestly.
Because that's what you deserve.
Not a goodbye that closes the door.
But a blessing that leaves it open β
just in case you ever need to hear:
I hope you don't miss out on your life.
β β LostBoy
(The last piece)
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β β£ @My_thought18 | 604 |
