Reflection.

𝐈𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧—

Lonely thoughts of yesterday— will come back to haunt you. Memories of the future, will creep in. Isolation, desolation —captivation. These shall be of things that you can be proud of. You may not be alone, but you are still alone.

And where does the soul reside? Where do you think it lives? What kind of environment do you think it thrives in? Would you say it thrives in solitude? Or perhaps when we're abandoned? That doesn’t sound like a very satisfying answer. But what about when we're completely isolated? We've become so lonely. We've become so disconnected from ourselves. Do we need this much silence? We lose sight of the beauty around us— the beauty in us. And what happens when there isn't enough of ourselves around to remind us? When there aren't any voices left to tell us otherwise?

In solitude; alone, then you may feel like your loneliness is overwhelming. Or does it us the strength to face loneliness and still be happy? To exist is hard. You need energy, a soul—find it, in isolation.

🤍

reminder to self: u are worthy and loved, good things are coming ur way !!!!

Space is like a shelter in many forms. The way that space feels both accessible and far beyond. How elaborate the voyage details are. When Earth has reached its nadir, how hazy the soul remains.

Within many ways, I am a drawback. Just to re-trail, I trail. I forget so I can recall. I think back to position myself in time. When was? Where am I supposed to be? What should I do still?

Space. Stars, dreams, and imaginative creations are the foundation of my life. These are real yet far away. I am the galaxy, yet the burned out stars are the only ones that call me home.

I'm constantly looking for my position on this planet. I'm broken, blind, and ecstatic that I still have a path ahead of me...

𝐎𝐜𝐭’ 3𝐫𝐝, 89’

𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑙 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠. 𝐽𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡𝒉𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑠...𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡𝒉𝑓𝑢𝑙. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑦. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦. 𝐼 𝒉𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝒉𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑠..𝐼 𝒉𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑧𝑜𝑜.

Auroras glow above Jupiter and moon, 1981

Ron Miller

— Solo—

She felt most like herself between the break of dawn and the start of a new day. While passing her eyes quickly over the script in front of her, Angelina stuck the final sticky note in her journal. A strand of her platinum blonde hair was doodled and knotted by her free hand. Her schedule was as disorganized as her mind. Unorganized and unsure, but extremely feasible.

Angelina had never been happier as she planned the next few stages in her career. Her third person perspective story, was published in LIFE magazine last week. She had gained confidence in her acting abilities and was firmly established. But, the sheer satisfaction of being a writer, however, produced more dopamine than any Golden Globe, Oscar, or honor from an acting guild. Every action stunt the stunning actress ever performed was eclipsed by that sensation. She pushed her personal journal closer to herself while tugging at her bottom lip between her teeth.

She would have appeared insane to anyone who had been looking if they had. She may have been schizophrenic based on the way she gnawed on her lower lip when concentrating. As she recorded the racing ideas and epiphanies, her big eyes grew larger and more intense. Angelina's writing was inspired by the conviction that nothing in the outside world could ever equal to the apocalyptic feeling she experienced. She felt deeply theatrical in everything, and her writing technique reflected that.

What came next? The phrase "writers block" was never one Angelina like using. She really preferred to imagine her ideas as lightning strikes. Inconspicuous sparks and soft lightning. The third-person narrative of her article depicted the disasters that befell unfortunate people on the planet. Naturally, the general population believed Angelina was unaware of the world's calamities.

“𝑊𝒉𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒'𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑑, 𝑡𝒉𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐𝒉 𝑐𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛... 𝐼𝑛 𝑤𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑐𝑦𝑐𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑡?”

Based on her humanitarian travels, Angelina had written it from a distance. Additionally, she had written that from a faint sense of self-awareness. She nevertheless encountered criticism from the public.

With the pen in her hand, writing, crossing out, scribbling, she penned her bold perspectives. Her mind was struggling mightily to keep up as her black ink doused across the lined paper. Would she make this public? There was no answer. Maybe she would be the only one to see this project. Maybe she would publish a book every six years. Or maybe, just maybe, in the future she'd make the move from actress to author slowly but surely.

Stuck at her kitchen table in the upright posture. Her mind, reeling from the furious ideas, eyes fixed on the paper, and mouth slightly parted. The blue-eyed beauty interrupted her limited amount of focus to look around the untidy table for a cigarette and lighter. She lit the cigarette, taking a dainty puff of nicotine, and exhaled deeply.

Just the sprinkling of morning sunlight; no music, lights, or TV. Beautiful sunshine was pouring through her blinds, illuminating various rooms in her opulent house. Serenely lovely; unquestionably a source of inspiration and incentive for Angelina to keep writing.

The bottom of her page was coated with ashes as she scrawled the final words. The majority of this piece of work was incoherent. But it had the qualities of an excellent phenomenon. The actress murmured softly as she ran her hand through her hair.

Angelina wasn't motivated to write because she wanted to become a well-known novelist. Knowing that perhaps her writing might reach someone was an art. Someone who required the words: ‘𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝, 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧— 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥-𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬.’

Of course, Angelina might have tried her hand at writing romantic, adventure, or film noir-style stories. But how tightly can the soul grasp that?

She believed that romance could begin from anything, in her warped and wicked mind. The intense desire to triumph over such catastrophes could be perceived as romantic and exciting. Standing up from the chair, she looked at the morning sun. Her scripts, notes, and camera were all scattered across the table. Each and every one of Angelina's exploding personalities.

Heeeeelllll yeaaaaah.

Don't ask me "wyd" i really just be in my room going insane and being a danger to myself

To the imagination, the soul, and the mind that never seems at rest. Oh...wide eyed girl...so pretty.

Do you sense that? She nervously questioned. Feeling what? Does the Earth sway? The stars assemble? Are there winds? I can sense it. Enjoy it? My favorite.

All the great authors, poets, and grim wordsmiths put their words on paper, to inquire, "Can I feel it?" Is the new galaxy putting me in difficult circumstances? Feel the conflicts between my left and right brain caused by who I am and who I will become.

Witness the manifestations in action. Is my optimistic side trying to kick my pessimistic side in the hopes? Sensed that.

Yes, I did feel that. Felt what? That. I could feel it! I experienced my two parts merging together to form my entire self.

Despite everything I am, I am not. I am capable of being anything. I won't for all that I do. I'll continue to do what I've done. It is both senseless and sensible. Knowing there is more to "me" than "me" is both magnificent and difficult. It is now and every day moving forward. It appears and then vanishes. It's changing—up it's and down. Change that is heartbreaking, breathtaking, infuriating, and hilarious. I blossom like a flower. similar to my philosophy. I rotate like the world.