I wish I could bottle up the way I feel in those moments—different types of elation. I wish I could materialize the state I’m in, keep it in pill form, so I can access it again and again, despite you. I won’t be greedy—even if it’s limited, I’ll ration it. Just knowing I could relive it on demand, without actually using it up... even that would be enough.

It’s the way you look at me, unprovoked—across the room, in the midst of heated conversations I’m not a part of. I lose myself in that look, in the way you really see me. You see the girl trapped behind my eyes, unmasked, bare—and it doesn’t scare you. You stay.

The room fades, the noise, the people, the weight of my thoughts... gone. It’s just us—this stillness, this fleeting magic, this sense of beauty that feels so rare it must be borrowed from somewhere else. It makes me feel like I’ve found it—the thing everyone’s chasing in life. It makes me hopeful.

But before I get too accustomed, the realist in me rips my eyes away, erasing the moment in a blink. And I wonder—was it ever real? Or just a fragment of my imagination?

I tell myself I can’t afford to feel this good.
Because most of the time... it doesn’t feel remotely as good as that.

I don’t know who leads who — does my writing inform me, or do I inform my writing?
Sometimes when I read my blogs, I’m enlightened by the content as if I’m learning something new.
It’s as if those thoughts didn’t come from within me; contrary, they are coming to me with newness so unfamiliar.

Sometimes even when I reread it instantly, I still can’t recognize myself between the words.