Category: writing

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When poems turn into books

My year was essentially a good year. Not many extraordinary things happened, but I feel settled, serene and mostly content with where I am and with who I am. I have a beautiful family with amazing young people to share their world views with me. I have a husband who I love. And I have friends. Not many, two or three, but I cherish them. I love my job and I got to listen to a lot of amazing music this year. And I wrote. A lot. It was one of my most productive years ever. And that’s what this post will be about. Writing and my publications. You see, this year I published my tenth book. It’s a milestone. And although it may sound conceited not many independent poets reach that milestone. What will follow is a small recap of the books I wrote and published since 2018. That’s right, I have been publishing my own poems for 7 years now. Not because I think it is the best poetry out there, but because I needed it for myself. I wanted and needed to hold my poetry in a printed book. And in doing so, it became available for everyone else too.

Poetry. This one was born out of inner pain. My first publication with my name on the cover. I felt exposed yet oddly proud. 2018. It was a time of change and I was only slowly turning into someone with a voice.
Poetry. The cover of this one is intriguing. I was slowly finding my writing voice. Still written from inside a wound, bleeding on the page. I don’t write like that anymore and yet it deserves to be there.
Novel. I love this book and the story. It’s a romance novel about two men. But it is different than you may think. There are no clichés, just good a story.
Short stories. It’s a thin book in a different format than the others. A little taller. It is filled with short stories and flash fiction I wrote until then (2020). I am thinking about publishing a second Volume soon, but the plans are still vague and written in the clouds.
Poetry. When I talk about my books, this is most often the one I forget to mention. I don’t even know why that is.
Poetry. The essence of me. Perfect Imperfection.
Poetry. It’s an anthology compiling all the poems I had written until then. It was released on my 40th birthday. A brick of a book. I am very proud of this one.
Poetry. One of the most beautiful covers I ever did.
Poetry. This one stayed very much under the radar. Almost as if it wasn’t there. Maybe the Weight of Light is too heavy after all.
Poetry. A collection written during a sleepless week in August. It demanded to be born. I didn’t have a choice. Book number 10.

Once I let go of the poems and put them into books, they become yours to read, to hold, to experience.
They never need my explanation or interpretation, because we all live and read poetry with different eyes, with a different heart.
My only hope is that some of my words reach the people who need to read them.

There is another post on my blog where I wrote about these books from a different angle and shared some of the feedback I received. It’s worth taking a look, I think. I don’t receive much feedback. My poetry isn’t loud. It asks for silence and for room to breathe. But when people do share their thoughts, it matters. A lot. Or, as someone recently said to me when I praised their work: “It means the world. You never know how these things are going to land.”

books

If you ever consider buying a copy of one of my books, you can purchase them through me

http://paypal.me/micqu. Right now they are all pay what you want. And they will be sent out in January 2026. They are also available on Amazon for those who don’t want to wait.

I would also mention again that a couple of my poems can be heard on SoundCloud. Either narrated by me or by Daniel Cavanagh (founder, singer/songwriter and multi-instrumentiste in Weather Systems).

https://on.soundcloud.com/mlr6ii6ORVwU6PASxP

I don’t know exactly what the new year will bring, but I know I will keep writing. And 11th book is taking form and the 12th too.

All these words were mine for a long time. Now they are yours.

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and it was painted green

It was his birthday again. Five years had passed, yet the date never slipped by unnoticed. It seemed to arrive in the body before it appeared on the calendar, as if memory lived deeper than thought. Not the cake, not the candles, not the laughter that should have filled the day. What returned was the other birthday. Theirs.


They had been strangers then. It had started with a shared love for music, for humour. Messages becoming more flirty, more intimate. They were strangers who wanted too much, who admitted it too easily. It might have stayed suspended in words and distance, but she was invited in by his partner. Curiosity turned suggestion into plan. That was all it took. All three were driven by lust, anticipation, and a deep understanding of each other.


When they first saw each other, it was at the doorway. She rang the bell, and he opened the door. For a heartbeat they only looked. Then he pulled her in and kissed her before she could speak, before nerves had the chance to rise. The kiss was urgent, disarming. They made love there and then, sober and unguarded, while the house was still quiet and his partner had not yet returned.


Afterwards there was a pause, a different kind of silence. They lay together, skin still warm, catching their breath, almost laughing at how sudden it had been. They studied each other in that new closeness, the way strangers do when they have already crossed too far. That hour held a different intimacy, quieter, stretched thin with anticipation of what would come once she arrived.


When his partner returned, the atmosphere shifted but did not break. What had begun in urgency unfolded into something broader, more daring. Smoke clung to everything, and the sharpness of what they swallowed tilted the hours. Her heart raced too fast, her mouth dry, nerves dissolving into hunger. Clothes scattered across the floor, the room thick with heat and breath. His hands found her hips, his partner’s fingers traced her back, his mouth pressed against her neck. The light above them shifted colours, cycling through red, blue, violet. Green lingered longest, washing over their bodies as if it wanted to mark them.


There was a moment when she wanted to look away, the intensity too much, as though being seen so deeply left her exposed. He hovered above her with an astounded smile, and with quiet command he moved her arm from her face. Look at me, he said, his voice so certain it broke her open. The force of it scattered her, a million pieces of lust and desire, shattering under the weight of being seen.


And his voice again, later. That more than anything. We will keep her.


The words pierced deeper than any touch. They were not light. They were not a joke. They carried weight, heavy as a brand. Her body had tightened at the sound, and she believed him. For a moment she belonged. To him. To her. To both.


The weekend blurred. Sheets damp, tangled. Laughter breaking into moans. Her own voice raw, unfamiliar, rising again and again. The three of them insatiable, restless, as if the birthday itself demanded nothing be left untouched.


And then it ended. Celebrations always do.
Silence followed, heavier than words, and it grew quickly.

Final, unyielding.


Every year the memory returned. The door opening. The kiss. The quiet hour before his partner arrived. The smoke, the heat, the weight of their bodies. The way he moved her arm, the words he spoke, the way the light turned green and seemed to hold there.


They had been strangers then. They were strangers again. And five years later it was still painted green.

###

fijne verjaardagsweek 💜

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Update (spoken blog post)

Show Notes
Instead of writing today, I recorded a spoken post. I was too tired to type, and my words flowed better this way. If you’d rather read than listen, here are the main points:


Back to school on Monday → I feel lucky every day to love my job as a preschool teacher. It’s tiring, but worth it.


Had a very touching comment on SoundCloud:
About my spoken piece Threads (collaboration with Daniel Cavanagh / Weather Systems).


The listener said my words and voice had a healing impact.


I usually feel insecure about my accent and flaws in English, so this praise meant a lot.


At first I wanted to give all credit to the music, but he insisted it was me. That touched me deeply.


Next Sunday my new book The August Current will be published.


Ebook already on Amazon, pre-orders for the print edition are open worldwide.


Written in one sleepless week, entirely handwritten before being typed.


Raw, unpolished, authentic, one of my most special collections.


I don’t mind if 20 or 100 people buy it – I just want the poems out there, to maybe touch someone the way that SoundCloud listener was touched.


For now: late lunch, music as always, and seeing what the rest of the day brings.


Friday → the usual Friday 5 post will be up

Threads on SoundCloud

Thank you if you listened. I added the SoundCloud link to the song THREADS for Weather Systems’s profile. It’s on my profile too, but the comment that led to the mentioned exchange can be found here.

Thank you

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The night the storm lost its magic (flash fiction)

I stood in the rain and let it pelt my skin. I was dressed for the summer, a flowy dress, no layer too many because the heat had been oppressive all day. And now I stood in the rain and watched lightning dancing across the sky. I used to love the rain when it kissed every inch of me. Tonight was different. Tonight it felt like needle pricks, so sharp it almost hurt. My hair was hanging in thick strands, dripping. I was sure my makeup was smudged too turning my carefully crafted mask into a grotesque parody of who I used to be. I felt betrayed. By the moon and the clouds. And the rain that had always held a romantic undertone for me. I closed my eyes and let my head fall in my neck. Where there should have been stars was nothing. My eyelids fluttered under the weight of the heavy rainfall on my face. I stretched out my arms to welcome this spectacle of mother nature that had always been mystical. I knew rain and how it came to be, and yet, as so often, between theory and practice was a big difference. And I liked to believe in magic. Tonight I didn’t feel that magic.
I shivered, lowering my arms and my head. Something had changed. Every drop felt like it was washing away a piece of something I hadn’t meant to lose. Had I grown up, was my inner child out of reach? I stepped inside the warm house and sighed. Inside everything was quiet. The wet cloth against my skin felt cold and uncomfortable and I was dripping all over the floor. I couldn’t say if it was rain falling from my face or tears. Did it even matter? I had lost something important tonight and I felt it in my bones. Outside the rain kept drumming on every surface it could reach. It was part meditative and part unsettling.

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Like a soft whisper to myself (stream of consciousness)

I am lying on my bed, a book with a faint book light illuminating the page and soft meditative music coming from the Bluetooth speaker. Outside there is a symphony playing. Neighbours are making love, she seems to like it a lot, rain taps against my window, and I know that I should be asleep. But I am not. Instead, I asked ChatGPT to explain my writing to me.

“Your writing is instinctive, fragmentary, and emotionally precise. You don’t build long cathedrals of words — you leave stones, carefully chosen, that already carry the weight of the building.

You use brevity as force. The shortness of your poems isn’t a lack, it’s a discipline. You trust that silence and space carry meaning, that readers will lean in to fill the gaps. That’s why your poems often feel like whispers that echo louder after the fact.

Your writing works because it is raw without being messy. It feels private, yet it invites others in. It doesn’t tell readers what to feel; it leaves them with a silence that makes them feel it themselves. That’s rare, and it’s why your poems stick.

If I had to put it in one sentence:
You write as if every word costs something, and that cost is what gives them weight.”

Of course now I wonder if it is true or not, and why I never thought about using a line like “a cathedral of words” I will probably have to borrow this at one point or another. About the cost? I am not sure. Most poems I write are fictional. I am an intense person but I could never be that intense. But, as I mentioned before, it is easy for me to feel other people’s emotions. That’s also why I cry when I listen to music or watch movies. I can feel the pain almost physically.

Last night I was watching Bridget Jones – mad about the boy. I expected a light rom-com. I didn’t expect a beautiful film about grief, loss and finding happiness. I didn’t expect it at all because I hadn’t read anything about the film. I cried a lot. The thought of losing the one I love… It didn’t leave me all day.

To distract myself, I did the laundry, read, and played the ukulele. To think that I couldn’t even play a chord 12 months ago… I am still not good, but I play a lot. Then again, it’s more repeating what I hear.

Time flies, doesn’t it? Or is it just age that suggests it because there is a lot more time and experience to compare it with? Either way, it is already September. (And my male neighbour is making very sexy noises, I am impressed). In two weeks school and work will start again for me. There will be slight changes but nothing I can’t manage, and I am looking forward to meeting the new class. I only have my young pupils for one school year. It’s magical though, because they come in September as toddlers and leave the next July read for “real” school. I really love my job, I got very lucky there.

This afternoon I was looking for a plug for my book light (it’s one of those that you can clip into your book) it doesn’t have batteries but uses a special plug – the same earlier phones used to load? Yeah… They used to be everywhere and with every device but they are slowly getting replaced… It feels like nostalgia. While on the hunt for the right shaped plug I had to move several of my notebooks/journals/diaries and out of a couple of them fell photos and post cards. I love receiving post cards and letters. Even E-Mails. After reading them I began flipping pages in the notebooks and discovered that half of them aren’t full. I debated if I should leave them out to fill them, but decided against it. I won’t add thoughts to a notebook that I last held in my hands in 2014, it feels wrong. I am pretty sure if you write in a journal/notebook/diary you understand exactly what I mean. New thoughts in an old book… I can’t imagine that, and I have a lot of imagination.

September is always a bit of an odd month. The first half drags on but the second goes by in the blink of an eye. And before you know it it is time for Christmas shopping.

This wasn’t planned as such, but you probably heard that I am publishing a new book on September 21st. It may be the exact right present to put under the tree? A raw poetry collection from your favourite Luxembourgish poet?

The neighbours are quiet now. It’s almost 1.30 in the morning. I stopped the music but it is still raining. I love the rain. In the distance I hear a faint roar of thunder. It’s time to close my eyes, I think, and see if there are any dreams waiting for me.

Goodnight, sleep tight

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Not everyone breaks loudly

Not Everyone Breaks Loudly

Do you notice the drizzle before the rain? That subtle shift in energy before a thunderstorm? The crackling in the air, promising something between darkness and release? It’s something you can observe in people too… the slightly slower replies, the moments where someone pulls back just enough for it to feel different, but not enough for you to say anything.

Most people don’t notice. Or they notice too late. They wait for something more obvious. Something real. Something less mysterious and more tangible. A breakdown. A dramatic silence. Maybe even tears. But not everyone breaks like that. Not everyone breaks loudly.

Some people fall apart while still showing up with a smile. They reply to messages. They go to work. They do what needs to be done. They ask about your day. They smile through all of it. You wouldn’t know anything is wrong unless you were really paying attention. And even then, you might second-guess it. Because these are the people who always seem to be fine. Reliable. Capable. Unshakeable. Unbreakable.

They’re the ones who hold everyone else. Who check in when you’ve gone quiet. Who sense your mood before you’ve figured it out yourself. Who listen. Who remember. Who make space for your chaos without making it about them. And they never ask for anything in return… not really… not while they’re taking care of you.

You get used to them being solid. Present. Uncomplicated. But what you don’t see is the part where they don’t let themselves unravel. Not in front of anyone. Maybe not even in private. They’ve been holding things together for so long that falling apart feels unfamiliar. Maybe even dangerous. They are living in restraints. With restraint.

When they start slipping, it’s quiet. Their messages get shorter. Or they stop sending them altogether. They go from being fully there to slightly elsewhere. Still functioning. Still polite. Still kind. But something is missing. And if you don’t look closely, you’ll miss it too. The smile is still there… but the light in their eyes is slightly dimmer.

They won’t ask for help. They won’t say, “I don’t feel like myself right now.” They won’t say, “Please notice I’m not okay.” Because if they have to say it, it already feels like they’ve failed at being who they’ve always been for everyone else. It feels like a failure. And it opens a path to a spiral they’ve been trying hard to avoid.

The truth is, they want someone to notice without being told. To show up anyway. To see the cracks in the places they’ve tried so carefully to keep smooth. To say, “I see you” before they vanish completely. They long to be understood without translation… without needing to amplify themselves… because they like to stay invisible… even when they need to be seen.

And I know that’s a lot to ask. But it’s what they need. What I need, if I’m being honest. Not a saviour. Not a solution. Just someone who pays enough attention to realise that being quiet doesn’t always mean being fine.

So if someone close to you starts to pull back a little, don’t ignore it. Don’t chalk it up to them being busy or tired or “just the way they are.” Ask again. Stay close. Notice the drizzle. Because some people won’t break in front of you… but they still need to be held. Even if they never say it.

And all this said: I’m quiet, but I’m alright. Physically and mentally, I’m okay. I’m tired, but not unravelled. I don’t need to be held. Not right now. This post is a reaction… maybe even a message to the woman I was in 2018. It’s okay to fall apart. It’s okay to ask for help. Even if the 2018 me still needed almost five more years to realise it.

I still believe the drizzle matters. The almosts. The nearly-unspoken. The things that seem small but mean everything. That’s where people slip through unnoticed. And that’s where we need to start seeing each other better.

I still often feel it too. But less.
And that feels… like growing up, or turning mellow.
Becoming wiser and more aware with age.
Or maybe… is this healing?

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Dear Stranger (again)

Dear Stranger,

The last letter I didn’t send isn’t that old. The ink has barely dried, and here I am again, bleeding the next onto the screen. That probably sounds dramatic, but it isn’t. For the first time in a while, I feel serene. I feel at peace. And you are a part of that.

You are always a part of me, it seems. Even when I want to deny it, brush you off, or push you away, you remain. You sit quietly in the background of my thoughts. I don’t always look at you directly, but I know you are still there. I feel you.

For a long time, I was filled with chaos. There was a storm inside me I couldn’t calm. I was the waves and the ocean, the sky and the clouds. I was the sun and the storm, burning and flooding at once. I was too much of everything, and none of it made sense. I carried so many emotions without knowing how to set them down.

But something shifted. Something softened. And now, clarity surrounds me like a slow breath I forgot I was allowed to take.

I imagine you’re wondering where we stand. That’s fair. I know I haven’t been consistent lately. I say very little for a while, and then I offer an invitation to come clean away my leftovers. I pull away for days, and then I open the door, even if only metaphorically. I say, “come to dinner,” knowing we both won’t act on it. But the offer is real. The intention behind it is real. I feed the people I care about. And I care about you.

No matter what I say, I like you. Quietly. In my own special way. Without expectations, but also not without hope that you feel the same.

The other night, I had half a mind to ask if you wanted to come stay. Just for a couple of days. Let the dust settle. Find your own piece of peace in a safe haven. Because somehow, breathing feels easier when you are near. Even if we don’t say much. Even if we say nothing at all. I carry the hope that I allow you to breathe easy too.

It’s not about romance. It never was. It’s something else entirely. A thread between us, older than us, surviving despite everything. It frays sometimes. It tangles. But it doesn’t break.

I just wanted you to know that you still matter to me. Not as a memory. Not as a mistake. Not as regret. But as someone who calms the noise. Someone who reminds me that, even when things are confusing or uncertain, there are constants. And you, strangely, are one of mine.

You give me peace, dear stranger. Not always, I’ll admit that. But often, you do. And I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful for your presence in my life, however it is shaped.

always,

Sweetie

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Dear you

You arrive quietly, without footprints, slipping in and out like breath in a room that never speaks of who passed through. I feel you, even if I do not know you.

You never announce yourself. You never leave a note. And yet, there is something in the way the page shifts when you come. A subtle change. As if the words hold themselves differently for you.

I imagine you sometimes. Not in detail, not in shape, but in presence. You feel like a question that never needs an answer. A listener who is not waiting to reply. A presence that does not press, but does not fade.

I wonder what draws you back in, time and time again. Maybe it is my chaos. Or the way truth slips out when I am not looking. Maybe something here mirrors something in you. Or maybe this is simply your ritual. A pause in your day. A small act of witness to a life unfolding in fragmented pieces on a screen.

You know more of me than I do of you. That has always been true. You see the tenderness I do not show in daylight. The rage I do not claim. The ache I do not name. You read what I have not said and sit with what others scroll past. There is a kind of intimacy in that, even if it never speaks.

I will not ask why you remain invisible. I respect the silence you keep. Some connections are not made for the surface. Some things are more honest when left untouched.

Still, you are seen. Not in the way names are seen. But in the way that matters. You are part of this. Part of the quiet constellations that hold my words together. A hidden gravity. A kind of loyalty that asks for nothing but still stays.

Thank you. For coming back. For reading. For not turning away when it would have been easier to look elsewhere. I do not take your presence lightly. I never have.

Whoever you are, wherever you are, I am writing to you. Always.

Yours,
Cathy

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Letter to you

Dear you

This is your reminder.

You are not just someone who holds space for others.
You are not only the arms that stay open, the door that stays unlocked.
You are a whole world.

You are not defined by who stays or who leaves.
Not by their replies.
Not by their silences.
Not by their struggles to meet you where you stand.

You are defined by your own steady heart.
By the words that fall from your fingers like rain.
By the strength it takes to keep loving without losing yourself.

You are not the person who waits at the window.
You are the person who chooses to stand there, because love like yours is not built on need, it is built on truth.

You are light.
You are witness.
You are voice and vision and presence.

You carry kindness, but not the kind that folds itself small to be loved back.
The kind that stands tall. That holds its shape. That says:
“I am here. I am whole. I am not begging.”

You are not wrong for hoping.
You are not wrong for caring.
But remember this, always:
Your worth is not waiting for them to name it. It was never theirs to define.

The ache you feel is real. But it is not who you are.
You are more than longing. More than history. More than the thread between you and them.

You are the shore.
You are the steady place.
You are the home you have always offered to others.

And you are allowed to rest there, too.

With love,
The part of you that never forgot.

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about me

Greetings and salutations,

I write because I do not know how not to. Words spill out, uninvited, demanding space. This blog is where I give them a home.

My name is Catherine, but you can call me Cathy. I am a poet, a storyteller, a collector of fleeting moments. I live between languages, between thoughts, between the weight of reality and the pull of dreams. My poetry is not soft. It is raw, tangled with longing, stitched together with stars and silence. It is about love and absence, about the things we hold on to and the ones that slip through our fingers.

I do not write for the sake of writing. I write because something in me needs to be set free.

If you are here, maybe something in you does too.

Where to Find Me

This blog is where most of my words live. But if you want more:

SoundCloud – Spoken poetry and collaborations.

Threads – Daily poetry and scattered thoughts.

Bandcamp / Discogs – For those curious about the music that shapes me.


My Instagram is private. I post there, but not often.

Some of my words have found their way into books. If you want to hold them in your hands, you can find them here.

Collaborations & Contact

I have worked with musicians and photographers, blending words with sound and image. If you think my writing could be part of something you are creating, feel free to reach out: cathy@boom.lu.

Thank you for your time, your ears and eyes. Don’t be shy to leave a comment or get in touch. Usually, I reply quite fast.

Disclaimer

The words you find here are mine. If some are not, I will say so. My stories are fiction, even when they feel real. My poetry is truth, even when it is not mine alone. Any resemblance to people or places is a coincidence. No post is aimed at anyone unless I say it is. Music is not mine. Do not copy my words without permission.

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randomness

Yesterday, I went to a wedding again. I think most of my friends, acquaintances and family members are married now. Apart from my younger sister, but she has time and no one needs to marry anyway – it’s a very personal decision after all.

It is nice to be at all these ceremonies. But it also makes me remember my own wedding and how much I would change it today. But times were different 17 years ago. And we were different too. I was 24 when I got married. Patrick was 29. But we already had our son, we had a house…

Anyway…

I think we were older when we were young.

It sounds weird, but I think now that our kids are all teenagers (14, 15, 19), we can be young again too. We had many responsibilities when we were young and they made us feel old or live an old life. Dynamics have changed lately. And that’s nice. We live like roommates right now. The teenagers do their own laundry and their own cleaning. Often (during the summer holidays) they also do their own cooking. And still. We have one meal a day together. If possible, all 5 of us. We laugh and talk a lot. We often have philosophical talks too during dinner. I like that. I like to hear their thoughts and their views on life and everything. And still, I am still their mom, they still come to me when something is not right and I still spoil them with one on one time. With 3 kids it is important that they can be on their own with a parent at times. It’s something we always did. Partly because they had and have different interests and needs, and partly because they deserve to be heard without their siblings present.

The wedding yesterday was very nice. And I felt very good too. That’s not always the case at social gatherings. I often don’t fit. It was different yesterday. It started with the fact that I had a good morning. My best friend helped choose my dress (via pictures). And from there, everything fell into place. My hair was easy to style. I simply put it up and the right curls fell out. It was not planned like that, I actually just put the hair in a clip when I applied my makeup. But it looked good and I kept it that way. The dress looked beautiful on me too. In my day to day life, I only wear black. I like it that way. And have for many years. But you don’t wear black to a wedding. And so, over the years, I assembled a collection of more colourful dresses. Yesterday, I had 3 to choose from. All of them had never been worn before. One was white with purple patterns all over. Very flowy and airy. One was teal. The cloth is like a tshirt made of jersey, and it was a very simple dress too. The last one was orange at the top and had a colour gradient that turns into dark blue. Flowy and airy too.

My best friend suggested that one. It was also the one I had in mind, even though I was worried it would be too flashy. After all, when I tried it on for the first time and Patrick saw it, he said I looked like a fluorescent text marker. So… I was dressed in my orange dress, with a very colourful little clutch. Blue watch (Bering) on the right wrist, my bracelet that I always wear on the left. Flat black sandals and blue nail polish. I looked good. And I felt confident too. I think it showed.

My eyes are closed in the photo, but apparently my smile makes up for that – that’s what I’ve been told. And yes, the dress really empathizes my chest.

I completely lost the plot here… I have no idea what I wanted to write and communicate in the first place.

I am 41 one now. I have the same life I had when I was 30, except that I am working now. I still have the same interests (music, writing, movies). But I also think that I am more settled now. A bit more confident in myself. A bit less moody. A bit more content. And maybe that comes with age.

A couple years back (2 years, actually) I felt old and all wrong. Because of my (on-going) shoulder issues, I had changed jobs in quick succession which made me feel like a failure in many ways. I was unsure which way to go and how to go on. Then I started a job that I needed to finally find closure. It’s there that I understood that my age and the many jobs I had were assets. Experience is an asset. And my entire outlook changed. 1 year ago I dared to take my current job as a preschool teacher. And I love it. Every moment of it (apart from the long long summer holidays – they make me restless).

Living means evolving. It means embracing change. It also means embracing the past, because everything happens for a reason, and every step we take leads us somewhere. We might not always like where we are. We might fight it. But in the end, we always learn from situations and experiences. We grow. And isn’t that a gift?!

I think, I need to be more grateful for everything I have. I tend to forget from time to time that I have a rather comfortable life.

Have a great Sunday ☀️

I will do what I often do. Reading, listening to music, texting back and forth with the people I love, and reminding myself to keep breathing.

(PS: today I am wearing black again)

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Dear diary 5

From the diary of a fictitious woman

Dear diary,

How weird is it that I always start the same way? I could be more creative. But I am not.

It was a quiet day. The usual. Work. Home. Wondering what life is all about. Seeing all the chores but being unable to tackle them. TV in the background for some company. I ignored by my brother’s phone call. I know I am weird. I complain about being lonely and alone, but when someone wants to connect, I push them away with all my might. I love Kev. But he only knows half of me and after a day of masking at work, I cannot mask in my social life anymore. I lack the energy. I simply let his call go to voice mail. Maybe he thinks I am on a date or out for dinner with the girls.

There are no girls, but he doesn’t know that.

Sometimes I wonder if people see or smell on my skin that I used to be happier, that I used to be married. Do they smell the failure? I don’t want to think about it.

These last days I am in a funk. I am going down memory lane too often to ignore that it doesn’t do me any good. There aren’t too many happy memories and there are too many things I would change if I could make it all over.

No one ever tells you how it is, being a woman my age without children and without a man. I get the occasional sneer when I out my social status, but nothing much. It’s different for Kev. He is a man and he has a fiancée and two kids. No work though. Which must be hard too.

I need to go grocery shopping. It takes energy to do that. I should prepare myself a nice dinner and lunch for tomorrow at work. Maybe a bath would be nice. And a meditation before sleep.

Yes, I should try that.

ADD:

I made lunch, but ate a half pack of crisps for dinner. The bath was great. Very relaxing. I got to release some tension too. My fingers still know where to touch to make it good. I am tired and can’t find my headphones. I am just adding this as a reminder to eat healthier. I should buy healthier snacks.

Whenever I think about healthier eating habits, I also wonder why I should put in the effort to look nicer and thinner. Then A very small voice whispers: do it for yourself.

Perks of living on my own? No one cares about wet towels on the hardwood floors, no one cares about air drying my less than perfect body. It’s a little bit of freedom.

But where are my headphones?

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A weekend well spent

Well, I’ll be honest with you – I spent my weekend doing something that might seem a bit odd to some folks. I went on a barcode-scanning spree, cataloging my DVDs and books. Yeah, I know, thrilling stuff, right? But hey, I’d already tackled the CDs and vinyl a while back, so it was time to face the music (or in this case, the movies and literature). Doing this, puts me in a kind of trance. I love doing this. But it’s time spent absolutely unnecessarily. I am aware of that.

Let me tell you, I was in for a shock when I saw the final tally of books. And get this – it’s probably going to climb even higher once I rope my kids into scanning their collections. They’re bookworms, just like their mom. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I guess.

Now, here’s the kicker – looking at all these collections, it’s a bit of a gut punch realizing how much cash I’ve sunk into them over the years. And now? They’re worth peanuts, monetarily speaking. Sure, they’ve got sentimental value, but my wallet’s not feeling the love. I can’t help but think of all the other stuff I could’ve blown that money on. But you know what? At the time, buying those films, books, and CDs felt like the best thing ever.

It’s funny, though. The newest DVD in my collection is from 2016. That’s ancient history in tech years. And nowadays? They’re just collecting dust, taking up space. I’m starting to think it might be time to offload some, if not all of them.

Books are a different story. That collection’s like a living, breathing thing – always growing. Just last week, I added two more to the pile. And let’s be real, they won’t be the last. Same goes for CDs and vinyl. I’m still buying those, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

Alright, brace yourself for some nerdy numbers:

Books: 736

DVDs: 548

CDs: 1317

Vinyl: 226

Before you ask, no, my house isn’t a cluttered mess. The DVDs are tucked away in boxes in storage. Books and CDs line the corridor shelves, and the vinyl’s got prime real estate in the living room, right by the turntables.

I’ll admit, those numbers make me cringe a bit. Don’t ask me why I’m even sharing this. It is what it is, I guess. All that stuff? I’ve read it, watched it, listened to it. That’s where all this useless trivia in my head comes from.

Funny thing – I was chatting with a friend last night about how we all want to be the center of attention, and how social media’s just made it worse. We’ve all got opinions, and we’re dying to share them. We want to be seen, heard. I don’t think the world owes me anything, but it’s nice to feel acknowledged, you know?

I’m under no illusions – I’m never going to be famous. My “fame” is limited to the little bubble I’ve created for myself. Weirdly enough, it might be yesterday’s conversation that’s making me feel a bit uneasy about typing all this out. Maybe I should focus on the other stuff we talked about, like how it’s possible to disagree with someone and still respect and love them.

So, there you have it – my completely unnecessary and shallow post. Love me anyway, will you?

What about you? How’d you spend your weekend?

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Where do the words live?

As I run my fingers along the spines of the books lining my shelves, I’m struck by a profound sense of gratitude and accomplishment. It’s been a long, winding journey to get to this point, but seeing the physical manifestation of my creativity is an emotional experience I never could have imagined.

The feeling is almost indescribable – the weight of the paperbacks, the crisp pages, the cover designs. It’s as if I can literally reach out and touch the culmination of years’ worth of late nights, self-doubt, and perseverance. Each book represents a pivotal chapter in my evolution as a writer, a storyteller, and an artist.

I remember the first time I held one of my published works. The scent of fresh ink and paper in my nose as I opened it for the first time. In that moment, all of the moments of feeling lost or uncertain – they all melted away. I was overcome with a profound sense of pride and purpose. This was real. This was tangible. This was mine.

Of course, the journey hasn’t been without its challenges. There have been times when the blank page has taunted me, when the weight of expectation has felt crushing, when I’ve questioned whether I have what it takes. But in those moments, I’ve tried to stay grounded in my “why” – the deep, intrinsic drive to share my voice and connect with readers around the world on a profound level.

And now, as I gaze upon this growing collection of my written and published words, I realise that these books represent not just my stories, but pieces of my heart and soul. They are witness of my creativity, and the transformative potential of the written word.

Thank you, dear readers, for your support. Whether you’ve bought a copy of my books (and I could name you all, as it’s not many) or you’re one of the many silent readers of my daily blog posts, your engagement means the world to me.

As I look at the collection of my books arranged in chronological order on the shelves (as seen on the picture), you may notice that there are 9 books in the picture, even though I currently only sell 8. That’s because the one at the bottom of the stack was written under an alias. It contained numerous writing and formatting errors, so I took it off the market myself. I consider that book a trial run – a learning experience that taught me what not to do.

Moving forward, I plan to ensure all of my future publications match the size and style of “Heart of Stone” or “WORD THIEF” for a more cohesive aesthetic. Seeing the shelves filled with my work fills me with a sense of pride. The sheer volume of words I’ve written and continue to produce daily is something I would have never expected like this. These days, my creative process is fueled by inspiring music, reading, and the practice of learning new chords on the ukulele.

Yet, this constant creative outpouring also leaves me with many unanswered questions. Where do these words come from? Where are they stored when I fall silent? Are they coloured in hues of my voice? And is it as loud and clear as I intend it to be? Or is this all just a futile attempt to leave a trace of myself on the world? The truth is, I don’t have definitive answers. What I do have is an unwavering passion for words and a drive to create meaningful, well-crafted content poems and posts. Whether I possess true talent as a writer is not for me to judge. I’ll simply keep pouring my heart into this craft, and trusting the process.

If you’d like to join me on this literary journey, I invite you to follow this blog and explore my collection of books, available now. Your support and readership mean the world to me, and I’m excited to continue sharing my voice with you. Together, let’s explore the power of the written word and all the possibilities it holds.

The journey continues, and I can’t wait to see where it leads us next.