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Sleep well my love, I’ll return like an avalanche. Spilling past names and needs. It hums my melancholy song. It burns at the edges of the world. A witch which to vow on the ever fear of awareness in impermanence, in distance in beauty that exists even amid ruin. In short, these are my feelings towards long distance.

There’s a place I return to often in my mind. Not for the joy of it, make no mistake, but just a no name place. An island. No name. Just water. Just wind. I'd like to assume that I have a consistent current like the frequencies from an english ivy sapling. Strangling roots that fly across different continents invasively; vigorously living. You don’t have to worry about where I am, who I am, what I am. All you need to know is everything that I’ve written. Consequentially so, I think that I am a liar in most parts of my own life because I try to be the persona most people want me to partake so badly. Don’t you just think confessions and promises sound prettier in another language?

Upon reflecting, there’s nothing more chivalrous than the act of memorabilia. Nowadays, there’s simply a lack of quality with all the more quantity. If humans were capable of attaching meaning to every single item owned, AI would not replace jobs nor assistance. This is ironic considering the clutter I’ve managed to dig up and in fact toss from moving, traveling and unpacking. The sun just spilled through, but maybe a bit too much across the window pane. If the world truly painted it’s colors I would choose to add less pride, ego and envy across most intelligent creatures.

Here’s an ode to the capital of all vices, none of this is about purity. It is about noticing. Noticing how easily we practice the seven old sins without ever calling them by name.

Pride slips in first, dressed as self-protection. The careful curation of worth. A refusal to admit we are afraid of the ordinary, afraid of being unseen. Ego is often just the insistence that our pain is special, that our narrative deserves more grace than another’s.

Greed is quieter now, too. It no longer hoards gold; it collects experiences, validation, objects that promise to anchor us. We accumulate not because we need, but because stillness terrifies us. We call it ambition. We call it survival. But it is just the unwanted marriage between desires and the black hole.

Lust has expanded beyond bodies. It’s a hunger for intensity: attention for urgency of being wanted in ways that scorch rather than sustain. We chase that spark even when it burns the house down, mistaking consumption for intimacy.

Envy lives in comparison. In timelines and reflections and other lives we scroll, tread or stamp across. It convinces us that someone else’s abundance diminishes our own, that fulfillment is a limited resources distributed unfairly.

Gluttony is excess disguised as coping. Too much information. Too much noise. Too much wine to soften the edge of consciousness. We overfill ourselves so we don’t have to sit with the hollow spaces that ask for honesty instead.

Wrath is not violence. Sometimes it is resentment held down carefully, polished daily. The anger we justify because it feels familiar, righteous, because it gives shape to our disappointments. It corrodes slowly, often inward.

And then theres sloth: perhaps the most misunderstood in my opinion. The choice to disengage from responsibility to ourselves. To postpone growth. To let life happen rather than participate in it fully.

Awareness does not absolve, it gives choice. And choice, quietly practiced, is its own form of devotion. Lately, I notice how often I dress to fade. Muted colors, fabrics that’s made to breath, silhouettes that hold me close to be held together. Immersion, for me looks like this: disappearing into my own outline.

I don’t believe any of my narratives are a long reads. They aren’t meant to be consumed in order, or even understood the first time through. I ask you to read from bottom to top, and then descend again, because that’s how thought actually moves for me: circling, returning, resisting a single direction.

I am not a destination.

I am a train of thought.

A train does not belong in one place. It passes through stations it doesn’t name, carries weight it does not keep, moves forward while remembering backward. It flows in all directions at once: toward memory, possibility, the quiet in-between where meaning briefly pauses. If something contradicts itself here, let it. If a sentence unravels another, it’s a function. To accept that coherence is temporary, that understanding arrives in fragments, that clarity is something you pass through, not something you own.

I move because stillness would require certainty. And certainty has never been the point.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. I hope from where you are reading, there is a warm cup of caffeine waiting next to you and possibly a weighted blanket. As always, have a nice day!