Category: poetry

That doesn’t look like much happened. And it is true. There was also a bout of COVID. Almost two weeks later and I still fight a sore throat. I only had a slight fever and didn’t even stay home from work. There was a lot of that- work – I am working on creating a routine of exercises with songs and breathwork and movements for my class. Using a tool called Canva for that but it shows that AI is as stupid as the one typing the prompts. There is more work to be done there. But also regular class happened, of course. I still love my job, but I am also happy to be off for a week now. It means I can try and sleep in. I love sleep. One trainee leaving and another starting her training with me, which takes work too. But I like it. The month was long and dragged on. The month was short and flew by. There wasn’t much writing and even less reading. I was less online than other times, due to playing a mindless game on my phone (merge 3). I am still there though. Thank you for being there too.

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🤎🖤🩶🤍🩷

Her feathers drink the sun,
turning darkness into secret colour,
never shown for long.

She rises at dusk,
forgotten at dawn.

She is a raven,
a dark flame against the sky,
her shadow spilling across the earth.

Storms follow her path,
a glimmer of glass,
the last trace of a fading star.

What is worse? Being alone or being lonely?

It’s late at night, or early in the morning. The clocks were set back an hour, and I woke up in the middle of the night. I did the worst possible thing: I took my phone and read a message.
A friend said they were alone, trying to find sleep. And I get it. But it put my mind into overdrive.

Being alone can feel frightening. The silence, the stillness, the way the dark stretches out, the way every sound in the house suddenly feels amplified. A creak in the floorboards, the hum of the fridge, your own heartbeat in your ears. It can feel overwhelming. I understand that fear.
But then I also think, being able to be alone, truly alone, isn’t that a skill? To sit with yourself and not need someone else to constantly soothe you. To hold your own hand, in a way. It is not easy, but it is powerful. Being alone teaches you to take responsibility for yourself. If something goes wrong, there is no one to blame. If something goes right, there is no one to hide behind. Alone forces you to see your self, and sometimes that is the hardest thing of all. Maybe that is why people run from it. Being alone means looking at your own reflection and learning to rely on yourself. And that takes strength.

Still, I have to admit: I do not actually know what it feels like to be completely alone. Not really. There is always someone around, in the next room, a family member shuffling in the kitchen, a neighbour’s car pulling into the driveway. There is always my phone, messages waiting, people I could reach if I really wanted to. Alone, for me, is almost theoretical. Maybe that is why I do not fear it the way others do. Maybe I do not have the right to say anything about it at all.

Loneliness, though. Loneliness I know.
That is something I recognise. Too well.

Because loneliness does not care how many people are in the room. I have felt it at crowded tables, where laughter is bouncing back and forth like a ball, and I cannot seem to catch it. I have felt it scrolling through my phone, staring at names in my contact list, paralysed by the thought that if I wrote to someone, I would be a burden. I have felt it in conversations with people I love, when the words land flat between us and I realise they do not really see me, not the way I need them to.

Loneliness is a different kind of silence. Not the silence of an empty house, but the silence of not being heard. It makes you feel invisible. It makes you feel like an outsider in your own skin. And you cannot just “fix” it by pulling people closer. You could lie next to someone, share a bed, and still feel lonely. Because what you crave is not presence, it is connection. You do not want bodies in the room, you want souls reaching out.

And here is the cruel thing: loneliness does not just sting in the moment, it lingers. It burrows in. It makes a home under your ribs and waits. That is why I sometimes call it a silent killer. Not dramatic, not loud, but slowly eating away at your sense of worth, your sense of belonging.

So when people say they hate being alone, I always want to ask: do you mean alone? Or do you mean lonely? Because the two are not the same. Not even close. Alone is external. It is a state. You can change it, you can pick up the phone, you can walk outside, you can step into the world. Lonely is internal. It lingers. It drags. It convinces you that you are unworthy of reaching out, unworthy of being seen.

Maybe I am just being picky with words, a stickler for semantics. Maybe I am wrong altogether. But words matter, do they not? Using the wrong one makes all the difference. (Who made me the expert? No one did, I know.)

And yes, maybe this whole train of thought is strange. Maybe it even sounds tone-deaf. Maybe you are sitting there wondering who or what rattled my cage to make me write something like this. Maybe I have no clue about anything and I am just rambling into the void. But thoughts circle in my head until I let them out, and this is one of those thoughts. If I don’t let it out I won’t ever fall asleep again.

I am rarely alone, but I often feel lonely.

Last Friday in my Friday 5 post, I came to the conclusion that I am overthinking too much and that I wanted to do less of that. Well, it is Tuesday and I am failing. My mind is in thinker mode. And all because of an innocent photo I posted in my Instagram stories.

Monday was a bit of a bad day, with a sleepless night. I was out of bed very early, earlier than I usually am. I straightened my hair for the first time in a long while and it made me feel nice. It’s not too often that this happens and I took a selfie. In a mirror. Add to that a quite cute and funny reaction of a little girl in my class. She came in, looked at me and exclaimed: “Joffer Cathy! (Miss Cathy!) Where is your hair?!?”
It was the first time this school year that I went to school with straight hair. And her reaction was gold. The kids didn’t stop touching my hair.

Anyway, later that day, I posted the photo I took at 6:30 that morning in my IG story with the quote of the girl. It must be one of the posts that has had the most reactions ever. Lots of hearts. Smiley faces from the ones who understood the caption — it was written in my native Luxembourgish. But also a handful of private messages telling me how seductive I looked, or how attractive, stunning, striking. Words I don’t usually associate with myself. Some even flirty.
Now, I know that people sometimes mistake the way I am with being flirty. I rarely am. If I had to seduce or flirt with someone it would be like a funny scene out of a bad rom-com.

But while others see something attractive or striking, I don’t. Their comments don’t align with how I see myself, and that gap unsettles me.
It makes me wonder why my own perception is so far removed from what other people see. I am not very self-confident. I am aware of my obesity, no denying that. I am aware of my round face, large arms, huge butt, dry skin, heavy brows, and so on. And even though I am not self-confident and this might contradict everything I just said, I do feel good in my skin. I like myself. But I am always scared that others won’t. And by admitting this, I make myself too vulnerable.
I am not seeking validation. I just don’t understand what people see in that photo. What am I missing?

And that is where I am overthinking again. I am not wearing makeup, I am hunched over, I am not looking at the lens. My eyes are puffy. My face looks swollen.

And in an even weirder act of my existence, I share it here too. Because I like the photo. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t. I am vain and I won’t deny that.

So here is the face behind the words and behind the music, behind the overthinking mind.

At night I lie to myself to answer my questions.
I conquer oceans and seas, rivers and rain
Just to drown, to suffocate in the shadow of my tears.
I am trapped in windows and glass, in mist and clouds.
In my dreams I burn like fire in a hurricane made of diamonds and rubys,
Smoke and dust ripple like waves on water
Glowing in the moon, fading in the sun.
At night I lie to myself
I am black stones and white sand
A universal rock. Never invisible.
I am alive.

Invincible doesn’t mean unbreakable, it doesn’t mean flawless, or untouchable, or forever strong. I used to think it did, I used to think invincible was armour, steel plates over soft skin, a face no one could read, a body that could take the blow and still walk away untouched. But that’s not what it is, is it? Invincible is waking up on the mornings when everything feels heavy, when the bed is a coffin, when breathing feels like work, when breathing feels like suffocating. It’s standing in the middle of the storm and realising the storm hasn’t carried you away yet. It’s the tiny, stubborn act of writing one more line, singing one more note, saying one more word, even when silence would be easier, cleaner, safer.

We mistake fragility for weakness, but fragility is proof of being alive, skin that bruises, eyes that tear up, hearts that stutter when they’re breaking. Weakness would be not feeling at all, weakness would be letting yourself disappear, bit by bit, until nothing’s left.

Invincible is the part that still rises even when life pulls you under. It’s the whisper that says: not today. It’s the breath you take even after saying you don’t want to anymore. It’s the cracks in you that didn’t destroy you, but showed the light sneaking in. Maybe invincible looks nothing like we thought. Maybe it’s raw, frayed edges. Maybe it’s the thread that never snaps, even when it’s pulled too tight. Maybe it’s the quiet defiance of staying here, still showing up, still alive, still breathing, even when you don’t know why.

Today, I am somewhat invincible: I am still here. And so are you. ❤️💜❤️💜

All these photos were taken last week. xx

After twenty-five years on the throne, Grand Duke Henri abdicates, and his son Guillaume takes over as Grand Duke. I remember when Henri became Grand Duke, but back then I hardly paid attention. I was young and uninterested. Today it feels different. Maybe because Guillaume and I are close in age. Maybe because I have grown into someone who understands that history is made of quiet moments like this.

Monarchy is not exactly popular these days. Many see it as outdated. And yet Luxembourg is the last Grand Duchy in the world, which makes us something rare. Too often people dismiss us as a tax haven or as a tiny dot on the map. But there is more here, and days like today remind me of that.

Luxembourg may be small, but it is full of complexity. We speak three official languages — Luxembourgish, French, and German — and most of us switch between them without even thinking about it. Almost half the people living here are expats or migrants, and they bring their cultures and languages too. That mix shapes us in ways I find beautiful.

And then there is Henri. Over the years I grew to like him. He often had a hint of humour, but always carried himself with dignity. There was something very warm and reassuring about him, and I admired that.

Now Guillaume steps forward. Born in 1981, with his wife Stéphanie and their two young sons, Charles and François, he represents both continuity and the future. He is of my generation, and that makes me feel oddly connected to this moment. I hope he too will carry the same kind of presence and intelligence his father had.
So yes, Luxembourg is small. And yes, we are often overlooked. But today shows that we are also unique. We are the last Grand Duchy, and we are witnessing history. We are all part of it.

This is my confession.
My re-entry.

Shadow-dancing with a spider,
I raise the stars,
I blush the moon.

This is my confession.
My re-entry.

Alive. I feel.
Under salt,
scars bloom.

No lighthouse arms.
No lighthouse arms.
No lighthouse arms.

This is my confession.
My re-entry.

I breathe. I am.
Shadow-dancing with your soul,
visiting the sky-ceiling.
Until the moon turns dark,
and the stars won’t shine.

This is my confession.
My re-entry.

Not every post needs to be profound. What an opening, right?
I’ve noticed that most of what I write has a heavy undertone. It’s always about something. Always with a purpose. But the truth is, I don’t have anything deep to say anymore. I’ve scattered my history across this blog in countless posts… what’s left? More fiction? Something out of my box? More music? I don’t know. But the words are there anyway.
So here’s today’s grand truth:
my coffee went cold while I finished something for work,
the sun is shining but it’s too cold to sit outside (and I wouldn’t see anything but screen reflections anyway),
and my socks are mismatched, but at least they’re clean.
That’s what I bring to the table today. No wisdom, no revelation, just the small facts of this Wednesday, October 1st.
If you were hoping for a breakthrough, I’m afraid all I can offer is this: matching socks are overrated. And reheated coffee? Definitely not good.

She walked through the rain,
her secrets confessed,
carrying thunder
inside her chest.

The roads were broken,
the nights unkind,
yet she kept moving,
with an unquiet mind.

At dawn she rose,
her breath a flame,
her heart still scarred,
but never the same.

The storm could not
steal what was true,
for in her silence
her iridescence grew.

And she is dancing
on the stars,
swimming through clouds,
drifting beyond where they are.

Those lingering nightmares
that never say goodbye,
the whispers that follow
but always lie.

Her eyes are closed,
her heart is not.
She turns and turns
until she forgot.

The silence within,
the trembling hands,
the hidden dreams,
the roads that bend.

She’s dancing in the sky,
across the stars,
resting on the moon,
ignoring her wars.

She steps on waves
and breathes out.
She did not drown,
her smile now found.

Her shadow unbroken,
her embers flickering at night.
Her mind unwavering,
a soul’s eternal light.