“And so it seems I must always write you letters that I can never send.” Sylvia Plath really nailed it there, huh?

Sometimes, it feels like shouting into the void is all we’ve got left. So, here I am, penning this because I don’t know if tomorrow is going to be a TikTok dance or the Hunger Games.

Civil unrest. Sounds like something we’d skim past in a history book, doesn’t it? But nope, it’s our group project now. And, let’s be honest, humanity is that one guy who ghosted the group chat after the intro meeting.

Everywhere I look, it feels like the threads holding us together are fraying. Not to be dramatic, but can we get a return policy on this timeline? People are stocking up on canned beans and ammo like we’re all extras in The Walking Dead. Meanwhile, I’m over here Googling, “What plants can I eat in the suburbs?” Apparently, not many.

It’s wild to think that in 50 years, some kid might be writing their AP U.S. History essay about us. They’ll be sitting in their AI-powered chair, drinking ethically-sourced algae milk, typing, “In 2025, society was chaotic AF.” (Yes, the “AF” will be considered academic language by then.)

I want to believe this is all just growing pains...that we’ll figure out how to listen to each other again, to empathize. But some days, it’s hard to see past the shouting matches on TV and the doomscrolling. Like, where’s the adult in the room? The one who’s supposed to clap their hands and go, “Alright, folks, let’s calm down and fix this.” Oh, wait. That’s supposed to be us.

Honestly, I’m scared. Scared that we’re forgetting how to be human to each other. Scared that the bridges are burning faster than we can build them. Scared that the next headline will finally be the one that breaks us for good. But if I let that fear rule me, haven’t I already lost?

So, I’m writing this to remind myself that even when it feels like the world is spinning out of control, I’m not powerless. None of us are. We still have our words, our actions, our choices. And maybe just maybe...those little acts of kindness and courage are enough to keep the wheels from falling off entirely.

Anyway, thanks for reading, even if you’re just me rereading this someday in a bunker lit by flashlight. Here’s hoping the future looks a little brighter than the dystopia I keep doom-imagining.

Stay awkward, stay hopeful.

-Me

I never thought I’d cry on a park bench. Not me. Not the one who always seemed to have it together, always knew the right thing to say. But here I am, staring at cracked pavement and rusted swings, and the tears just won’t stop.

The United States is not united. Were we ever? Maybe. Maybe there was a time we were fooled into thinking we were. Or maybe we just ignored the cracks, hoping they wouldn’t spread. But now it’s impossible not to see lines drawn so deep they’ve become trenches. Everyone on one side or the other, yelling across the divide like they’ve forgotten we’re standing on the same ground.

It’s exhausting, isn’t it? This endless noise. Everyone shouting their truths, everyone convinced they’re right, and no one really listening.

I can’t help but wonder when we got so lost, when we started looking at each other and seeing enemies instead of neighbors. When we stopped believing that love not anger, not fear, but love was the greatest thing we had to give.

I look around at the world, and it feels darker than it ever has. Like an eclipse is swallowing everything good and bright, leaving us in shadows we don’t know how to escape.

But maybe that’s the point of the dark. Maybe it forces us to see what we’ve been too scared to face. Forces us to stop pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. Forces us to look in the mirror.

I think about those mirrors. About the face staring back at me every morning, tired and worn, and how easy it is to avoid the questions I don’t want to answer. Have I done enough? Have I stood up for what’s right? Have I loved the way I should?

The answer is always no.

Because it’s hard to love, isn’t it? Real love. Not the kind in movies, but the messy kind. The kind that makes you forgive someone who hurt you. The kind that makes you see the worth in someone who doesn’t see it in themselves. The kind that makes you take a good, hard look at yourself and decide to be better.

“If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change.” Those words hit differently now. It’s easy to talk about change. It’s easy to say the world needs to be better. But doing something about it? That’s the part we’re all afraid of.

Because change isn’t comfortable. It’s painful. It’s messy. It’s looking at the people who scream at you across that divide and realizing they’re just as scared as you are. It’s realizing that the only way we climb out of this darkness is together, even when we don’t agree.

And it’s realizing that love...fragile, fleeting, precious love isn’t just a gift. It’s a responsibility. To see someone else’s soul and remind them of their worth. To let someone else see yours, even when you’re afraid they won’t like what they find.

I think about the little things: my neighbor who brings food to the single mom next door, even though they argue politics like it’s a sport; the librarian who stays late so every kid has a warm place to study; the man I saw on the news who carried strangers to safety during a flood. Heroes, all of them. And not a single one wears a cape.

The rain starts to fall, soft at first, then harder, until I’m soaked. I don’t move. I just let it fall, washing over me, carrying away all the fear, the frustration, the anger.

We’re falling apart. I know it. You can see it in the headlines, in the way people look away from each other on the street. But what if falling apart is the only way we can come together?

Maybe things have to break before we can see the pieces that still matter. Maybe we have to lose the light before we remember how to find it. Maybe the soul has to feel its worth, not in the easy times, but in the hard ones.

I stand, dripping, my hair clinging to my face, my breath sharp in the cold air. I don’t have answers. I don’t know how to fix this broken world.

But I know this: Love will always be the answer. Not hate. Not fear. Love. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

Because the darkest nights? They’re the ones where the stars shine brightest. And maybe, just maybe, we’re not falling apart. Maybe we’re falling into place.

They say love belongs in the light, where it’s easy and safe. But they don’t know what it feels like to love you...to lose myself in the quiet corners of the night, where shadows stretch long and our hearts speak louder than words. The faint beams of moonlight cast us into focus, our silhouettes blending like whispers shared too softly to be heard by anyone else.

You are a spark, one I didn’t know I was waiting for, and I? I’m the fire that you’ve somehow made whole. Every time your hand brushes mine, every time your breath warms my neck, it feels like the beginning of something I’ll never be ready to end. Our love is not loud; it doesn’t demand the world’s attention. It’s quiet, steady, and unshakable, like the tide gently pulling the shore closer to the sea.

Your scent lingers in the air long after you’re gone, wrapping around me like a memory too beautiful to forget. When you’re near, the world softens. The edges blur, and nothing else seems to matter but the way your touch feels against my skin. There’s an ache in loving you, a sweetness that borders on pain. It’s not the kind of love that asks for permission; it simply takes hold, unrelenting and pure.

Tonight, as the stars press close and the world fades to black, I feel your lips against mine. The moment is simple and perfect...not because it’s flawless, but because it’s ours. Your hands find me in the dark, tracing the edges of who I am, grounding me in the only truth I’ve ever known: that I belong to you.

In this quiet, we are free...free to love without fear, without judgment. The world may not understand, but here, wrapped in the stillness of the night, there’s nothing to explain. Love, I’ve learned, doesn’t always come with grand gestures or perfect timing. Sometimes, it’s found in the way your heart beats in time with mine, in the way your arms feel like home.

This is what love looks like...not perfect, but real. And as the night holds us close, I know this is where I’m meant to be. With you. Always with you.

this is for those who went through the Dark Night of the Soul or something similar (a traumatic experience in any form). this may resonate.

It came like a storm I never saw forming,

a quiet tension until everything collapsed.

A connection so raw it didn’t cradle me

it clawed at the walls of who I was,

tearing down my comforts, my certainties,

and leaving me with nothing

but the truth I spent years hiding from.

I shattered.

Not in a beautiful way,

not like porcelain under moonlight,

but in a way that left jagged edges inside me.

Every step forward felt like walking on my own ruins,

glass grinding into the soles of my being,

each cut screaming of what I had to leave behind.

I bled.

For every piece of myself I let go of,

for every illusion I clung to that no longer served me.

There was no guiding hand,

only the weight of my breath in the dark,

only the silence that sat heavy,

as if it, too, was waiting for me to surrender.

And somehow, I did.

Not with grace, not with clarity,

but with the simple exhaustion of someone

who could no longer carry their pain as armor.

Through the darkness, I learned the taste of my own name.

Through the breaking, I felt the first pulse of peace,

fragile but steady, like a heartbeat after the fall.

It wasn’t them who saved me.

It was me.

Bleeding, trembling, alone

but moving forward.

Peace didn’t arrive as a revelation.

It grew, slowly, through my own hands,

tending to the garden of scars I never wanted

but now call my own.

And in the end,

I didn’t find the light.

I became it.

this is for those who went through the Dark Night of the Soul or something similar (a traumatic experience in any form). this may resonate.

It came like a storm I never saw forming,

a quiet tension until everything collapsed.

A connection so raw it didn’t cradle me

it clawed at the walls of who I was,

tearing down my comforts, my certainties,

and leaving me with nothing

but the truth I spent years hiding from.

I shattered.

Not in a beautiful way,

not like porcelain under moonlight,

but in a way that left jagged edges inside me.

Every step forward felt like walking on my own ruins,

glass grinding into the soles of my being,

each cut screaming of what I had to leave behind.

I bled.

For every piece of myself I let go of,

for every illusion I clung to that no longer served me.

There was no guiding hand,

only the weight of my breath in the dark,

only the silence that sat heavy,

as if it, too, was waiting for me to surrender.

And somehow, I did.

Not with grace, not with clarity,

but with the simple exhaustion of someone

who could no longer carry their pain as armor.

Through the darkness, I learned the taste of my own name.

Through the breaking, I felt the first pulse of peace,

fragile but steady, like a heartbeat after the fall.

It wasn’t them who saved me.

It was me.

Bleeding, trembling, alone

but moving forward.

Peace didn’t arrive as a revelation.

It grew, slowly, through my own hands,

tending to the garden of scars I never wanted

but now call my own.

And in the end,

I didn’t find the light.

I became it.

Home with her tastes like honey slipping off a spoon—slow, golden, almost too sweet to be real.

It's coffee brewed just right, dark and bold, but softened by that one perfect splash of cream.

There’s warmth, like cinnamon toast on cold mornings, edges crisp but melting at the center.

It tastes like the comfort of rain against the window, of laughter pressed against lips, of words shared in whispers over late-night takeout.

With her, home is a flavor I can't ever pin down.

It’s savory and tender, a bite that lingers long after it’s gone, filling the spaces where silence

used to settle.

It’s the taste of never having to wonder if you belong.

It's the weight of words left unspoken,

the ache of reaching across miles that swallow sound.

Every night, I send pieces of myself

quiet confessions, invisible threads

hoping they find you whole.

But distance is a thief,

a silent cut I can't name,

and though I hold you close in the hollow of my chest,

I'm haunted by how far love can stretch

before it breaks.

City’s got a way of swallowing sound,

like it knows I’m out here,

knows I’m spilling my guts under flickering lights,

knows I’m calling for you across blocks that don’t care.

I’m walking through a maze of concrete and glass,

hands jammed in pockets, hoodie up,

trying to tune out the sirens,

the subway rumble like some deep heartbeat under the street.

You got me looking for signs in places we used to be,

like every corner’s an open tab,

some receipt for all the words we left unsaid.

The skyline looks the same, but it doesn’t.

You took something with you

that I keep reaching for in every damn reflection.

I keep seeing you in flashes:

on the corner, leaning against the wall,

smoke curling from your lips like a ghost,

that laugh hanging in the air like graffiti.

I know you’re gone,

but the city don’t stop reminding me

you were here.

I’m calling your name to the sidewalks,

letting it spill out in places we used to roam,

fighting like hell not to forget the sound,

the rhythm of it, bouncing off brick,

off the metal of street signs.

I don’t fit here, or anywhere,

just keep pacing the grid,

calling your name into the cold,

into the wind slicing through this city

waiting for it to bring you back home.

When I think of you,

the distance between us melts,

oceans shrink,

and the sky bends closer

to hear the whisper of your name

on my breath.

You mend parts of me

I never knew were broken—

with every laugh, every quiet moment

where we exist together

on opposite sides of the earth

but still feel like home.

Sometimes I wonder

how my hands would feel

on the softness of your skin,

if they could memorize the lines of you

I’ve only traced in my mind.

You,

with your tenderness,

your warmth that wraps around my cold edges

and breathes life into them,

I feel your love—

pulsing like a star,

even when you’re so far away.

How is it possible

that a love like ours

reaches through space,

through time,

and holds me

when you’re not even here?

Setting: Comedy club stage.

Host: Welcome to Political Roast Night! First up, Donald Trump!

[Audience cheers.]

Host: Trump's hair is like his promises—mysterious and probably not real. He tweets more than a bird on Red Bull!

[Audience laughs.]

Host: Now, Kamala Harris!

[Audience cheers.]

Host: Kamala’s so good at grilling people, even her BBQs come with subpoenas. Her laugh? It’s like she knows the date of your next tax audit.

[Audience laughs harder.]

Host: Trump and Kamala—one builds walls, the other breaks ceilings. Together, an architectural nightmare!

[Audience roars with laughter.]

Host: Thanks, folks! Keep laughing and thinking!

[Curtains close.]