☁️ 𝑅𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸𝓶 𝓣𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽

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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — and you have been walking for so long, through so much, without giving up. The things you've prayed for in the dark — 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 — 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 — just in case you ever need to hear: I hope you don't miss out on your life. — ✍ LostBoy (The last piece)              ➣ @My_thought18

The Spoon and the Ocean Not everything in my heart can be said. Some truths are too heavy for language. Some wounds too old for words that haven't been invented yet. So God gave us other ways: sight — so I can see the ache in someone's eyes before they speak it. tears — because water carries what sound cannot. sleep — because even my heart needs to rest from feeling. a cold smile — the kind that says I'm fine when fine is a lie I'm too tired to fix. and a shivering hand — proof that my body remembers what my mouth forgot to say. I've lived this. Everything I've written — every post, every line, every late-night word I threw into this channel — was just a spoon of water from an ocean. A single, trembling scoop from a sea so vast I could never cross it in a lifetime. I never said it all. I only felt it all. And the part I never showed you — the part I never posted, never whispered, never even typed in a note I later deleted — that part was worse. Darker. Heavier. It sits at the bottom of the ocean, where no light reaches. I never said it. And now I never will. Because some feelings are not meant to be shared. Some oceans are meant to be carried alone — until you can't carry them anymore, and you just... stop. So if you're reading this, know that you're only seeing the last spoon. The ocean is still inside me. But I'm done dipping. Not because I'm strong. Not because I'm healed. Because some things are only meant to be felt — not told — and I've told enough. So here I am. At the edge of my own shore. The spoon at my feet. The ocean still full. And I'm walking away from it. Not because I've said everything. Because I've finally accepted that I never will. That's all. ✍LostBoy              ➣ @My_thought18

(The Rest of the Way) So finally — here I am, the lost boy, searching, finding every piece of myself in every step of my life, not all at once, not neatly, not like a puzzle that finally makes sense, but like a song that only reveals its meaning after you've listened to it a hundred times, sometimes a piece is just a scar I learn to touch without flinching, sometimes a piece is a memory I forgive myself for having, sometimes a piece is the person I became when no one was watching, and that person, it turns out, is worth finding, because I look at the world now — not with childhood eyes, but with eyes that have seen the fire and walked out the other side, with eyes that have watched dreams burn and still chose to dream again — and the world is not on fire, it never was, it was just my house, it was just my childhood, it was just the story I told myself to survive, and I've finally learned to step outside. The air is different out here — I didn't expect that. I thought the world would smell like ash forever. But it doesn't. It tastes like golden brown — warm, strange, beautiful, a little dangerous. It moves like a love story I'm still writing, one where I don't know the ending, but I keep turning the pages anyway. So here I am — still walking, still searching, still the lost boy. But not lost the way I used to be. Now I'm lost in the way a river is lost when it finally reaches the sea. ✍LostBoy•••Hol          ➣ @My_thought18

How Big Would You Dream If You Knew You Couldn't Fail ?

To be continued ••• We look at the world once in childhood, and the rest is memory — a long, fading echo of the one time we saw things clearly, before we learned to call the sky by its wrong name, before we learned to call pain by a hundred different names just to avoid saying I am hurting, and some things have to be felt to be understood, because you can't explain fire to a hand that's never been burned, and I was born in a burning house, so for years I thought the whole world was on fire, every breath I took was smoke, every face I loved was ash waiting to happen, but it's not, that's the cruelest lesson: some people grow up breathing smoke and call it air, they build entire lives on foundations that are still smoldering, they laugh and dance and pretend the heat isn't real, and I was one of them, a child in a grown body before I even knew what that meant. So many broken children live in grown bodies mimicking adult lives, wearing suits like costumes, signing papers like prayers, laughing at jokes that don't reach their eyes, and I wore that mask so long it became my face, I forgot there was something underneath, something soft and terrified and still waiting for someone to say you don't have to be strong today, and I made mistakes, so many mistakes, some that humbled me and some that just left scars I didn't know how to name, but I've learned that a mistake which makes you humble is better than an achievement that makes you arrogant, because humility is the ground you stand on when the fire finally dies, and arrogance is just a match you keep lighting in the dark, hoping no one sees how cold you really are, and I was cold for so long, I forgot what warmth felt like. Nothing ever ends poetically, it just ends — abruptly, awkwardly, without a witness, without a soundtrack, without anyone to hold your hand when the last page turns — and then we turn it into poetry, we dress the wound in metaphor, we call the blood sacrifice and the loss growth, but all that blood was never once beautiful, it was just red, it was just pain, it was just another Tuesday for someone who couldn't afford to stop bleeding, and I've bled, I've watched my mother struggle and felt my chest crack open, I've buried pieces of myself in places no one will ever find, I've stood in front of mirrors and asked how you can destroy the only person who endured chaos, and the mirror never answered, it just stared back with eyes that looked like mine but felt like a stranger's. People will have beautiful things to say about you — but you must die first, only then do they find their voice, only then do they count your steps, your kindness, your quiet wars, while you're alive they hand you silence or worse, expectations dressed as love, they say you're so strong when what they mean is I don't want to see you break, they say you'll be fine when what they mean is I don't know how to carry what you're carrying, so I stopped waiting for them to speak, I stopped waiting for the world to notice I was drowning, and I realized the literal meaning of life is whatever you're doing that prevents you from killing yourself, not grand purpose, not destiny, not some beautiful answer written in the stars, just the small stubborn things: a cup of coffee in the morning, a song you play on repeat until the lyrics become a prayer, a hand you hold in the dark even when you're not sure whose hand it is, a promise you made to someone who believed in you before you believed in yourself, and I made a promise to my mother, to myself, to the lost boy who still lives somewhere inside me, and that promise is the reason I'm still here... ...to be continued... ✍ Lostboy              ➣ @My_thought18

One Last song •••

The End of One Beginning I am happy today. I don't know about tomorrow but today, I am happy. For this moment, I’ve forgotten what I’ve been through. The weight feels lighter. The sky feels nearer. And I wish this feeling would never end. I’m on my way to turning my life into something that would make everyone proud. Maybe even myself. So today, I’m happy and I’m asking for your support. Not for money or advice just your prayers. Just remember me. That’s all. Maybe I’m finally able to find myself. I guess that’s what this feeling is not just happiness, but the quiet return of someone I thought was lost. So here’s to today. To this breath. To this hope. And to the road ahead wherever it leads. And it’s just the beginning. Just wish me luck. Wish me strength. That’s all I want. Pray for me. Remember me. And if you’ve ever been lost, too I’m praying for you also. --- Maybe this is the end. I may not write or post anything here. Or maybe I will. I don't know. But for now I'm finished. Just like that. I'm done. It’s been so many years since I lost myself. Since I tried to become anybody else. God knows how tired I am. How many times I tried. How many times I failed again and again. How many times I died. How many times I stood back up. But today it's all done. This is it. It’s been so long. I'm done for now. Goodbye, everyone. You’ve been my best listener. My only someone who could hear whatever I said. It’s been good to have you. It’s been the best. I’m not leaving you I’m just hardly turning my life in a way I couldn’t even believe. I was lost. I was dead. I was there and never belonged. I was broken. Mentally. It’s whole — The Lost Boy. This whole time. ✍️ LostBoy / Hol ➣ @My_thought18

A man doesn't die when he jumps or bleed or swallows the bottle whole. He dies staring at the dinner made for one He dies in grocery aisles staring too long at things meant for two He dies when hours are worth fifteen each and nothing else matters other than his vices and his beers. He dies waiting for a mother's hug and a father's smile He dies hoping and longing for a fleeting memory of a fading warmth He dies waiting for love not knowing he could've given some to himself ✍Telesandink              ➣ @My_thought18

The Life That Costs Everything. There are days when living comes easy. When the sun feels like a blessing and not just another morning you have to get through. When your feet move without thinking, when you find yourself smiling before you've even decided to be happy. And then there are days like this. Days when every breath feels like lifting a stone. When your hands are heavy not with surrender, but with the weight of everything you're still carrying. When the only reason you're still standing is because falling would feel too much like giving up. Those are the lives that matter. Not the ones that float. Not the ones that come free. The ones you have to fight for. The hard-fought ones. The been-through-hell ones. The ones you offer to the world with hands that are still shaking from the storm. You've wrestled with the dark. You've sat in rooms where hope felt like a rumor. You've carried grief in your chest like a second heartbeat, and still—still—you reached for light. Not because it was easy. Because the alternative was unthinkable. Living isn't pretty when it's real. It's scarred. It's honest. It's the sound of someone who has every reason to stop and keeps going anyway. So bring your storm-tossed self. Bring your torn-sail, story-to-tell life. Bring the one that cost you something. Because the world, the one that watched you wrestle, that sat with you in the dark, that never left even when you couldn't feel that world doesn't want your perfect life. It wants this. The hard-fought one. The one that comes from the place where your voice cracks and your hands tremble and you're not sure you believe in tomorrow but you face it anyway. That life? That one changes things. Not because it fixes everything. Because it proves something in you is still alive enough to try. And maybe—just maybe—that's what it means to be human. Not certainty. Not answers. Not the absence of pain. Just the stubborn, sacred choice to keep living until your soul catches up with the life you're building. So live it. The hard-fought one. The been-through-hell one. Live it until it becomes true. Or live it just because you need to say something in the direction of hope. Either way—live. Your life has already been witnessed. ✍LostBoy              ➣ @My_thought18