The Unknowns

There might be more I didn't spot them

This is my favourite

Here is the songs

Hello Am back with a book I just finished. It's called ' Before she knew him' .ፀዴ thriller ነው. I really love it. Was a page turner. I really enjoy reading it. Plus the one thing I found amazing about this book is that the author mention songs and I searched them and they were actually real. Which I really entertaining I been listening to some of them.

Understanding Generational Trauma and the Role of Therapy in Healing | Philadelphia, PA 19092 — Spilove Psychotherapy https://share.google/XTm7dyrDiSKCb8G6v

Lies

The Wanderer's Ache** The heart, a compass spun astray, Seeks its home in fleeting clay. In every smile, in every gleam, It chases shadows of a dream. The faces pass, the moments fade, Yet still, the search cannot be swayed. A whisper calls, so faint, so near, Not in the world, but deeper here. For roots don’t lie in passing sights, Nor peace in borrowed beams of light. What you seek, it softly hides, Beyond the mirrors, where truth abides.

Maybe But the question is, is what have we lost worth our future and present?

The Forgotten Language of the Sky What if the sky is a blackboard, and the clouds are a language we don’t understand? What if something—someone—is writing messages above us, but we’ve lost the ability to read them? Maybe the answers we seek aren’t buried in books or struggles. Maybe they aren’t even things we need to "find." Maybe they are already there, written all over the place, as open and clear as the sky itself. But we are blind to see. And what if this blindness isn’t just about the sky? What if we have forgotten something much bigger? We are always searching—through books, through knowledge, through love, through beauty—as if we are trying to fill a space, an absence we can’t quite name. But what if this very absence is proof that something was once there? Like an echo of a lost home. Not a home that is a place, but a home that is a knowing. A place within us that we used to understand but no longer do. And maybe that’s why we distract ourselves. We think we are searching, but we are only running. Running into knowledge, running into love, running into stories—when all along, the thing we are searching for is not ahead of us, but behind us. Something we left. Something we forgot. And instead of turning back, we just keep trying to replace it with whatever we can. The sky writes, but it writes in clouds—things that shift, fade, and disappear. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe these messages aren’t meant to be captured or held. Maybe they are only meant to be felt, like poetry, like music, like the wind on our skin. Maybe the real language of the sky is not something we were supposed to understand but something we were supposed to remember. And maybe the reason we feel lost is because we were meant to return.