I’ve started this countless times, only to stop as quickly as I began. But this time, I’m here to stay, to say hello again. I have things to share, so here I am.
I’m not a writer in the traditional sense, so you may find the occasional mistake or tangled thought. My emotions tend to move faster than I can type, and most of the time, I’m just trying to catch up.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about dreams, the ones that visit me at night and the ones that keep me awake. Some are fragments of forgotten places; others are sparks of what I want to become. They blur the line between imagination and intention.
Inspiration comes to me in quiet ways: a line from a song, a moment of silence after laughter, or even the way sunlight filters through the window on an ordinary day. These small things remind me that life doesn’t need to be extraordinary to feel profound.
I suppose that’s what I’m chasing here…to give shape to those fleeting moments before they slip away, and maybe, in doing so, understand myself a little better.
Afternoon naps awaken me gasping for air, as if I’ve surfaced from another lifetime. In those moments between sleep and wakefulness, I reach for memories of my parents, my childhood with my grandparents, my uncles and aunts, my cousins, fragments of laughter and warmth from a time long gone. They come like whispers carried by the wind….too fleeting to hold, yet too vivid to ignore.
Perhaps that’s what dreams do best: they remind us of the pieces of ourselves we’ve left behind, urging us to remember, to feel, and to breathe life into what once was. Memories are beautifu and with time, they become even more so. They play like old films viewed through rose-tinted glass, each scene softened, each flaw forgiven. As the years pass, they build themselves up in my mind, shaped by how much I remember and how much I’ve forgotten until memory and vision blur into one gentle haze.
Everyone has changed and evolved; nothing is ever quite the same again. Even among the familiar faces or places, the air feels different, the places carry new stories. Time reshapes everything especially people, spaces, even the way we remember them.
Perhaps that’s why some memories are best left untouched, preserved as a single, unrepeatable moment. It is beautiful precisely because it can never happen again. I would like to think it does, but even if does I may not remember it the same way anymore. Maybe they are not as important anymore.