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You are traveling to the West, while I remain here in the East, waiting for the tides to turn and new times to arrive. You have seen more than anyone in generations—not by chance, but for a reason. They laughed at your poems, our poems. They mocked the words we bled onto the pages and…
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How much of ourselves are we willing to sacrifice just to be loved? We are told to be honest, to speak up, and to follow the rules of the heart. They lecture us that “love is the key,” as if we don’t already know—as if we haven’t been saved by it, or broken by the…
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She asked me, “Why are you not writing anymore?” I went quiet. I didn’t know how to respond. How can you respond when there are no words, signs, or tokens for what I can feel, for what I can see, for what I can experience? How to tell her that whatever I write has already…
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The air in the desert was a vast, silent weight, a canvas of endless blue. For Elias, a man who had spent his entire life in the claustrophobic confines of a big city, the open sky was a terrifying thing. He’d come to this remote corner of New Mexico on a whim, a flight from…
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The city was a constant, low-grade hum, a river of people and sound that flowed endlessly. For Elara, the noise had become a barrier, a wall between herself and the world. She was an empath, not in the way the new-age books described, but in a way that felt like a curse. She felt not…
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The city was a grid of glass and steel, a testament to human ambition and a monument to flawless design. It was a world of sharp angles and polished surfaces, where every flaw was a failure and every imperfection was edited out. In this city lived Elias, an architect who had forged his own existence…
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The chipped ceramic mug warmed Amelia’s hands, but the chill inside her remained. Outside her Brooklyn apartment window, the city thrummed with a Friday night energy, a symphony of car horns and distant laughter that felt both alluring and menacing. She should be out there, she knew. Her friends were probably at that new rooftop…
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The box was from my grandmother. It arrived on my doorstep, a worn cardboard cube held together with fraying twine. Inside, nested in tissue paper that smelled of lavender and old books, I found her journals. They weren’t diaries filled with daily events, but something else entirely. Each one was a map of a different…
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The terracotta rooftops of Florence glowed under the soft Tuscan sun, stretching out like a warm, ochre blanket towards the Arno River. I stood on my small balcony overlooking a quiet side street, the scent of blooming jasmine and freshly baked bread drifting on the gentle breeze, and felt a familiar twinge: the subtle ache…
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The last box was taped shut, the finality of the sound echoing in the empty apartment. Maya stood in the center of the living room, surrounded by a mountain of her life packed into cardboard. She was moving, not just to a new place, but to a new version of herself. She was leaving behind…
.:THE GUIDED REFLECTION:. 