reflections of an unquiet mind

Brace for war
We never really saw
We never really saw

Tumbling down the clouds
Crumbling in our doubts

Dance
Dance
DANCE

We don’t know
We don’t know

Flowers on our graves
Cold shoulders without grace

Brace for war
The sky is losing a star
The sky is losing a star

All the love we lost
Fading into dust

Dance
Dance
DANCE

We don’t
Know
Never
Know

If my moon is calling your waves
and my colours awaken your soul,
then my walls need to crumble.

My reflection shivers in your window
when the sun rises at midnight.
Ride with me on our last breath.

We will meet again
in sandcastles built on clouds.
Because we are soap bubbles,
a blink of an eye.
Born of stardust,
drowning in the sky.

I spent a bit of time with the blog today, just quietly rearranging things. Nothing dramatic. But the menu at the top makes a bit more sense now.
You’ll find poetry, writing, spoken pieces, music reviews, and the stream of consciousness posts in clearer sections. It’s still the same space, just a little easier to navigate.

This blog has been here for more than a decade and, as you probably know, the archives are… a lot. I didn’t always tag things consistently, and I rarely thought about how someone else might try to find something later. I wrote and posted and moved on.

So now I’m trying to make the older work more available, instead of letting it drown under the newer pieces. There is good writing in those early years too, if you find it, lol. Even now, there is still a lot hidden underneath the surface.

I’ll keep slowly sorting, re-tagging, and making the paths through this place a little clearer. I also noticed links that aren’t working anymore or photos and videos that aren’t loading. I’ll sort it out slowly.

If you feel like wandering, wander. You will notice there aren’t many likes or comments. But I guess that’s because of the tone and voice of the blog. Don’t be shy. If you encounter something and want to say something, do. I am quite available (even if I don’t look like it.)

There is no right order, no recommended starting point. Just follow whatever title feels like it speaks to you. Or don’t. The space is here either way.

Just a small change.
But it feels good to have touched the roots again.

My dreams are burning,
flames licking at my feet,
setting fire to broken bones
on a new moon night.

There is no air,
only smoke and dust,
and I am suffocating
with every breath I take.

Once I had a future waiting.
Now only the past breaks me.
I stand in the ashes of who I pretended to be;
an invisible stain on a clear sky.

I pray for the rain to wash me away,
to fade me out before you see me.
But the stars show no mercy.
I am a lighthouse no more.

Ruins ablaze, cold to the touch,
I hide my face and shatter.
Hold me one more time
before nothing of me remains.

I wake with loss clinging to my skin.
My heart racing without aim.
Nothing is everything. It is all the same.
I close my eyes and give myself to darkness again.

She arrives like light settling on the evening table,
quiet, certain, without hurry.

The air shifts before she speaks,
the way weather changes before rain,
a fine electricity beneath the skin.

She sees what surrounds her as it is,
and holds her shape until she unfolds.
There are rooms in her built from memory and bone,
and doors that open when it is least expected.

Her love moves the way the ocean reshapes stone,
not sudden, not loud,
a persistence that leaves an imprint.

She touches without claiming,
and the body adjusts around her,
as if making space were something it always knew how to do.

When she leaves, nothing collapses.
The room keeps its shape.
The day continues.

Yet the body remembers
what the mind sets aside,
turning, almost involuntarily,
at the slightest trace of her.

Such a dramatic title, but here is what happened. For weeks I had this idea sitting in my head, taking up too much space. I wanted to create a new method for my class, something short and simple to help the children move from free play to more focused activities without losing their calm. Nothing complicated. Just something that works and feels natural.

Until now, I’d been using the Méthode Félicitée. It’s meant to help children transition from one activity to another, using a mix of movement and calm moments. In theory, it’s great. In practice, I never felt trained enough in it, so I kept improvising my way through. I used it for two years and always felt slightly off, like I was following a map drawn by someone who had never met my class. And this year’s group is different again. They are more lively, more sensitive, and they don’t respond well to routines that feel too strict. So I decided to make my own version.

In my head, it was all very clear. I could see the flow, the order, the balance between calm and movement. It made perfect sense in theory. But when I finally started creating it last week, it was a complete mess. The cards didn’t look right, the activities didn’t connect, and the whole thing felt flat. I got frustrated. I started doubting the idea. I almost convinced myself to give up and just use the old method again.

And then today it happened. Out of nowhere. I sat down, started from scratch, and somehow it all came together. I worked for hours without a break, completely focused. Ten small exercises, a mix of relaxation and movement, about fifteen minutes in total. I called it Vague d’équilibre, the wave of balance. It felt right immediately. Like something clicked into place.

To anyone else, it’s just a bunch of cards. But to me, it’s so much more than that. It’s the relief of finally making something that matches the idea in my head. It’s the quiet joy of not giving up. I showed it to a few people and tried to explain how happy I was, but no one really understood. Someone even made fun of me for being so invested in “school stuff.” I just laughed it off, but still. They don’t know how much this meant to me.

I hope these cards actually help. Maybe not just me, but someone else too. Maybe another teacher will use them one day and it’ll make their mornings easier. That would be nice.

Today was also the last day of a French training I’d been following. It was about how children learn new languages, and it turned out to be much harder than I expected. I thought it would be about songs, stories, and playful activities. Instead, it went deep into language acquisition, how children build meaning from tone, rhythm, and context long before they can speak properly. It made me rethink how much learning happens between the lines, how much depends on how we talk and not just what we say.

It was all in French, which is fine for me, but it still took a lot of focus. Reading theory in another language is one thing. Writing reflections about it and trying to sound intelligent is another. I caught myself rereading the same lines over and over because my brain refused to cooperate. But I got through it. Slowly. One cup of coffee at a time.

By the end of the day, I realised I’d been working for nine hours straight. No lunch, no breaks, just me trying to finish everything before my brain shut down. It’s been one of those days where exhaustion and satisfaction walk hand in hand. I’m proud. Quietly proud.

There’s no applause for this kind of thing. No one is going to give me a certificate for making flashcards or finishing a training module. But still, it feels good. I did it.

Now I can rest. Or at least try to. Because knowing myself, it won’t be long before my overthinking mind wants to convince me that it is time for something new again.

By the way, I can’t remember if I mentioned it here on the blog: last July I was convinced that I would write a new novel in November (for NaNoWriMo) – I don’t think that will happen.

It’s midnight 🙂 Goodnight

Where are you tonight?
I can’t feel your mind in mine.
Where’s your moon tonight?
Hiding behind clouds? No sign.
I can see the truth tonight.
Featherless wings will never fly.
We’re lost at sea tonight,
waves like cellophane alight.
We forgot how to dream tonight.
Even stars lose their shine
before they fade from sight.
Where are you tonight?

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🤎🖤🩶🤍🩷

I woke up in the middle of the night and this fell onto my screen. Only half awake, I don’t know what those words mean and I have no idea if they make any sense or if I remember them when I wake up. What does this mean?

If you are looking at this collage, you see all the books I’ve published to date. It doesn’t mean they are selling like crazy, it just means that there is a trace of me, of my thoughts, my fantasies, my inspirations; there is a trace of my unquiet mind on paper. And it is easily and readily available for everyone curious.

But it also means something else: if you have been in my life, on my mind, under my skin, in my dreams and in my blood since 2015, you are probably mentioned in more than one of these books.

Welcome to my world. Thank you for being my muse.

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.