Soul fragments.

“No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven, unless its roots reach down to hell!”
-Carl Jung

There was a time I thought I was meant to be perfect.

Clean edges. No scars. Pure light. But the more I searched for light, the more I saw my own shadow.

And then I understood:
Perfection is the mask,
Wholeness is the face beneath it.

God doesn’t want statues. He wants hearts that have burned and still beat. He wants truth, not polish. And truth carries cracks, bruises, echoes of grief, and glimmers of joy.

I am not here to rise above my wounds. I am here to walk through them. To gather the broken pieces and call them mine. Not to be flawless… but to be whole.

And now, as I write this, my eyes bath in tears, because my soul knows it is true…

…and God is showing me that I am on the right path!

The silent giggle…

I often wonder: do we chase meaning,
or does meaning chase us in disguise?

Each time I seek answers with trembling hands and furrowed brow, the universe simply leans back and smiles, not with cruelty, but with the quiet amusement of a parent watching a child try to catch sunlight in a jar. The more I demand purpose, the more the stars blink as if holding back laughter, as if they already know that the game is not in finding meaning but in becoming it. Why do I search so desperately, when the rhythm of breath, the warmth of a touch, the dance of shadows on my wall, all whisper truths I keep overlooking?

Perhaps meaning is not a treasure to uncover, but a presence that reveals itself only when I stop chasing it.

And in those rare moments when I fall still, when I am not trying to understand but simply to be, I swear I hear the universe giggle… in silence.

Hoping to be heard…

Sometimes I wonder if I’m cursed to speak in a frequency the world has forgotten how to hear. I try so hard to soften the corners of my thoughts, to lace them in warmth and intention, yet they still land like sharp edges in someone else’s wound. I ask myself: How many times can a soul retranslate its truth before it forgets its original language?

It is lonely, this act of communication, this hope that someone, anyone, might feel the echo of my heart behind the weight of my words. And when they don’t, when irritation replaces understanding, I shrink. Not because I’m weak, but because I care. I carry my voice like fragile glass, not wanting it to shatter in the ears of those who won’t see the tenderness I meant.

But maybe the truth is… I was never meant to be understood by everyone. Maybe my language was carved for a different kind of listener. One who doesn’t just hear, but feels. One who sees the sacredness behind the struggle. And until they appear, I must find peace in speaking anyway, knowing that what flows from me comes from love, even if it is never fully received.

That little angry boy in me…

I never realised how many fences I had scarred until l saw myself in that boy. Each time I lost control, I thought I was just releasing steam, letting the storm pass, but I was planting iron into the hearts of those I loved. My words became nails, my tone a hammer.

And like him, I learned too late that holding back the storm is easier than repairing what it destroys.

When I began to change, I believed I was healing others. But what I’ve come to understand is that growth is not the removal of nails, it’s the moment I turn around and truly see the holes. They are reminders that even if I find peace, I must live with the echoes of who I was. The wounds I’ve left behind are not erased by apologies, they are stories etched into others, chapters I no longer get to rewrite.

And so, I ask myself: what kind of presence do I wish to leave in this world? Will my legacy be the holes in the fence, or the gentleness I learn to carry instead?

God… help me be soft before I ever become sharp again.

Divine Love…

I once believed that gratitude was meant to be spoken aloud… that I had to pray, to kneel, to offer thanks with words that could reach Heaven. But then, on a quiet Sunday, while writing, just writing, honestly, without filters or formality, I told someone,

“He knows. He lives within me as I live within Him. I do not need to say it.
He feels my gratitude, my love…”
And in that moment… something happened.

A presence.

Something vast and holy swelled in my chest, so immense it felt as if my mortal frame could barely contain it. My hands trembled. My breath shortened. My body shook under the weight of what can only be called divine love… a love so pure, so boundless, I broke open in tears. Not from pain, but from the sheer magnitude of being seen, known, and cherished by something far beyond this world.

No human word could ever cradle what I felt that day.

But if I were to try… I would say:

He answered me without speaking. He showed me that my silence was heard. And that the love I carry for Him, quiet, unspoken, hidden deep… it was always enough!

God…

…when the storms came, when the world fell inward and my breath turned to prayers I didn’t know how to finish, I looked behind me and saw only one set of footprints in the sand. And something in me shattered.

Was I not worth staying for?

Look at my tears!

Where were You, when I collapsed beneath the weight of it all? Where were You, when the night felt endless and my soul forgot how to shine?

And in the stillness that followed… not an answer with thunder… but with a deeply caring whisper that pierced deeper than any sound.

“I was there. I was the silence. I was the strength you thought was yours. I was the arms that never let go, when you cursed the heavens and still kept walking.”

And suddenly, I understood… the footprints in the sand were never mine. They were His.

He didn’t walk beside me, because…

He carried me!

Hello world!

This section is not merely a collection of poems or scattered thoughts. It is a mosaic, each message a single shard, a soul fragment, a whisper from deep within.

They are glimpses. Fragments of my truth, raw moments of awakening, wonder, and reflection, captured as they rose from silence into language.

Some will read like poetry. Others like riddles, questions, or sacred affirmations. But all of them are alive, vibrating with something more than words. They are pathways. Leading not just to who I am… but maybe, if you listen closely, to who you are, too.

This is a journey inward. A mirror disguised.

And I welcome you, with love, to the remembering!