In a stadium of light and noise, one fig tries to learn the language of joy. A meditation on performance, alienation, and the small tragedy of trying to belong.

"They didn’t save me. Not in the way that word is usually meant. But they gave me back the morning. A reason to pull the blinds. To let the light in."

For anyone who built castles from couch cushions, ruled kingdoms in glitter shoes, or heard secrets in puddles, this is for you. A call to play again with wonder in your pocket and dirt on your knees. Step into this realm where the sky is candy and the worms are wise.

A bouquet split in half. A bee whispers at the edge of goodbye. Petals fall into dinner, and still, she leaves gently, like something wild remembering how to bloom.

To be watched is not the same as being seen. A piece about visibility, misunderstanding, and the deliberate rebellion of withholding yourself.

A soft-spoken reckoning. A ritual for when the world comes calling.

I’ve never quite understood keys. Or how something so small can decide if you’re allowed back in. In "Keys", part of the "Things I Don’t Understand" series, I try to unlock a door. The door has thoughts. The key has memory. And apparently, I have something to answer for.

There are signs that point left. Signs that point right. And then there are signs that point "Up"... Without explanation, context, or the courtesy of being metaphorical.

"There’s a bench with the arm broken off. The paint flakes like pages left in the sun. A pigeon nests underneath it like permanence could be proximity. And someone stands nearby: still fading, still here. Almost sitting. Almost gone"

He has everything. Still, he wants. A poetic autopsy of power and the man it unravels.