There are three rooms in this building.Three small boxes stacked side by side, each one breathing in its own way. The room on the left is loud.Sometimes it’s laughter, sometimes it’s shouting — but it’s always full of sound. The woman there has a voice … Continue reading Halfway Home
Category: The House
This is where the echoes live.
The House is Memory.
It is pain: layered, full of dust, laughter, and silence.
It is unfinished,
Here, I write what I’ve lived, moments etched into skin and spirit.
These are stories of childhood, grief, identity, and healing.
These are the rooms I return to.
The Hand That Found Mine
Sometimes I wonder when my mother started grabbing my hand every time we crossed the road. I don’t know if she always did it, or if it began after the accident. But when I think about it now, it feels like one of the earliest … Continue reading The Hand That Found Mine
The Deleted Folder
Sometimes I imagine my trauma like an iPhone.You know how when you delete something, it doesn’t go away? It simply moves to the “Recently Deleted” folder for 30 days, waiting to be permanently erased.But in my case, the folder never empties.The memories don’t expire.They sit … Continue reading The Deleted Folder
Heavy Closeness
This piece is an exploration of what it means to grow up without room to breathe; in a house full of bodies, objects, noise, and unspoken rules. It’s a story about learning closeness before I ever learned space. About how love can feel like suffocation when your childhood taught you to shrink instead of exist. I return to the fragments of myself I once abandoned; the little girl who didn’t have a corner of the bed, the teenager who walked until the panic left her chest, the woman who craves intimacy but fears being swallowed by it. This is my attempt to press play again. To rebuild the home inside me. To stay this time. To breathe.
Ticking Time Bomb
Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock Till it all crashes down. All of it, crumbling down. So… What I mean by that is, hmm, I stopped painting a while ago. Stopped sculpting. Stopped making messy pictures on my skin. Every time I didn’t want to … Continue reading Ticking Time Bomb
Still Living In That House
Writer’s Note This piece is part memory, part feeling, and part search. It is not a linear story. It moves like memory does; fragmented, circular, sometimes clear and sometimes smudged. I wrote this not because I have answers but because I needed space for the … Continue reading Still Living In That House
My reality
Bipolar ...of living with Bipolar Disorder. Just like a shifting emotions sea. In its depths, I feel the highs and lows that collide and flee. Both cruel and kind, I dance to the beat of euphoria, where dreams amplify. A roar of creativity as manic … Continue reading My reality
Shantey is a Name with no Meaning, But a Story.
Daily writing promptIf you had to change your name, what would your new name be?View all responses A Continuous Journey of figuring it out. If I could change my name, I’d change it to Pain. My arms would be my canvas, and my art would … Continue reading Shantey is a Name with no Meaning, But a Story.
Depression
What is depression? What is depression? I ask myself. Is it a loud crowd silenced by the pain? Is it dancing with tears in your eyes? It is walking in the rain? But it’s not the rain that makes you wet. Is it sitting in … Continue reading Depression
Promises,
Sitting in a cafe, going through the letters stored in our conversations. How we were meant to love each other forever. But, What does forever mean? Does it mean the end of the universe? Or the end of our love? The future is a vast … Continue reading Promises,
Unfinished Rooms 