A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
The light tore through me before I understood it was mine. A red current, blistering the dark behind my eyes, splitting memory from bone. They called it prophecy, a vision, but it felt more like a confession—everything I’d avoided now illuminated in a single brutal line. I didn’t ask for clarity. Still, it came, scorching a path forward, and wide, demanding I follow or burn.
Is it hard to be a beautiful woman? People think you have the world at your feet. They think doors open for you, heads turn for you, and life bends around your presence. But they don’t see the trade. They don’t see the constant calibration—how much of yourself you shave off each day to fit into someone else’s frame. Beauty is not freedom. It’s exposure. A spotlight you didn’t ask for, that you can’t turn off.
You’re seen before you’re heard. Assumed before you’re known. People don’t meet you—they meet the idea of you. Their version. Their fantasy. Their fear. And if you don’t match it? You become a threat. A disappointment. A target. It’s not just tiring—it’s erasure in slow motion.
So you patch yourself together—smile here, soften there, silence the part that wants to speak too loudly. Over time, your identity becomes a kind of repair job. You keep the strongest parts in storage, hidden from view, waiting for a time when it might be safe to bring them out. You begin to wonder: Who am I without all the edits? What’s left when I’m not translating myself for someone else’s comfort?
You learn to play roles just to survive. To be warm but not inviting. Assertive, but not “difficult.” Intelligent, but never intimidating. Every room becomes a stage. Every glance is a calculation. When will it be okay for you to step out from behind their idea of you, letting you be who you are, not who they’ve imagined or prefer? How many masks do you have to wear before one of them finally feels like skin?
The tension doesn’t just live in your body—it rewires it. It clutches your voice before you speak. It lingers in your posture, in your smile that’s a little too careful, in your silence that’s mistaken for grace. They don’t see the moments when you swallow yourself to keep the peace. When you feel the full ache of being looked at but never seen.
Every day, you make choices that feel small but cost you something: how to walk into a room, how to hold your face, when to speak, and when to stay quiet. You tell yourself it’s just for now. Just until it’s safe. Just until they see you for real. But how long can you stay edited before you forget the uncut version?
The woman in the photo is not just posing; she’s done shrinking. Her posture is not elegance—it’s exhaustion turned into boundary. It’s defiance without apology. It’s a question you can’t ignore anymore: What happens when a woman stops choosing what’s expected, and finally chooses herself?
Not your version of her. Not the one that plays nice. Just her. Fully, freely, finally.
Author’s Note
This piece was written for Esther’s Weekly Writing Prompt, with a word prompt from Fandango’s FOWC.
Big thanks to all of you for keeping the creative fire lit week after week, day after day. These prompts aren’t just words—they’re jumping-off points, gut checks, and sometimes lifelines. Appreciate what you do more than you know. Keep ‘em coming.
Larry built a rocket from lawn chairs, soda bottles, and sheer idiocy. “NASA’s overrated,” he said, seconds before launch. It flew for two glorious seconds. Then gravity reminded him who’s boss. The neighbors applauded politely. Larry, dazed but grinning, shouted, “Next time: chickens for thrust!” He’s now banned from Home Depot.
She stood in the kitchen, wielding a wooden spoon like a magic wand. “You’ve done it again!” she bellowed, eyes wide. “You turned the dishwasher into a science experiment!” He peeked over the counter, wearing a saucepan as a helmet. “It was…for science.” Soap bubbles floated through the air like tiny traitors. She poked a bubble mid-sentence. “Science doesn’t berate its assistants!” He shrugged, bubbles clinging to his head. She sighed, plopped the spoon down, and grabbed a mop. “Next time, at least invent a self-cleaning floor.”
Every morning, Elías stood before the vow tree—the one with his father’s face etched in bark. Its eyes never moved, but somehow, it watched. When Elías broke a promise, the mouth curled in silent disapproval. He learned to speak carefully, act deliberately. To commit was no longer abstract. It was rooted, ancient, and watching. The tree remembered. And it never forgave.
Opulence dazzles, but it doesn’t fill the void. Gilded walls, luxury cars, designer clothes—they impress, not satisfy. The chase for more becomes endless: bigger homes, flashier jewels, louder status. Yet behind the gloss is silence. Relationships shallow. Laughter forced. Meaning fades. Surrounded by everything, the soul starves for something real. Comfort becomes a cage, and abundance numbs. The high of acquisition dulls fast, and stillness creeps in. Opulence, once a dream, becomes a mirror—reflecting what’s missing, not what’s gained. In the echo of excess, we find the truth: wealth can buy things, but not worth.
Fierce burned in her chest—not anger, but resolve. Each setback was fuel. She didn’t flinch, didn’t fold. Determination wasn’t loud; it was steady. Quiet steps forward, no matter what. That’s how she wins.
Here is my response to the Weekend Writing Prompt
The Theory of Everything eluded him, dancing just beyond his grasp like starlight through fog. In his cluttered office, equations sprawled across chalkboards, each variable a stepping stone toward universal truth. Years of research had led to this moment, yet certainty remained a stranger. Coffee grew cold beside scattered papers, forgotten in the pursuit of understanding. Perhaps, he thought, watching dust motes spiral in the afternoon light, the beauty lay not in finding the answer but in the endless quest itself.
Here is my response to the Weekend Writing Prompt
The old swing creaked in the autumn wind, a spook of childhood laughter echoing through the empty yard. Shadows stretched long, whispering secrets only the moon could understand. The house remembered everything.
Here is my response to the Weekend Writing Prompt – Diamond
Fractured light danced through the diamond’s heart, each facet holding a universe of trapped rainbows and whispered secrets.
Here is my response to the Weekend Writing Prompt – Hunter
The hunter moved through mist that tasted of stardust and forgotten dreams. Her arrows, woven from moonbeams, hung weightless in a quiver made of twilight shadows. Each step left crystalline footprints that bloomed into phosphorescent flowers, their petals humming ancient lullabies. Above, constellations rearranged themselves like curious children watching her passage. She was hunting something that existed between heartbeats, a creature born in the space between reality and imagination. Its trail was a ribbon of liquid silver, leading her deeper into a forest where trees whispered in languages lost to time.
Here is my response to the Weekend Writing Prompt – Occident
Amidst the fading twilight of the Occident, ancient stories whispered through cobblestone streets, carrying echoes of empires long surrendered to time’s embrace.
thrills of change scatter plans, reflections of forgotten dreams, in the unexpected wind and rain.
CHALLENGE RESPONSE – WWP
Silence breathed whispers from the shadows, cloaked forgotten secrets slow dance. Memories and promises entwined like lovers, in madness in darkness.
The sky growled like it was angry, and the clouds began to shift. Then, its tears fell against my window. They call it Stormy Monday.
As the sun began to set, the world, usually at 1000 mph, seemed quiet. The hustle and bustle of life, the constant noise, and chatter fade. It was as if the earth had taken a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then, it repeated it. At that moment, everything was calm; everything was still. It was a moment of perfect pause.
In the dimly lit room, an ancient cabinet stood solemnly against the wall. Its wood, dark and glossy, whispered tales of forgotten eras. As the key turned in its lock, a soft sigh escaped, revealing secrets nestled within its heart.
Here is my response to the Weekend Writing Prompt hosted by Sammi Cox. This is my first time participating. I hope I get right.
In the quietude of twilight, a solitary tap resonates through the empty corridors, echoing off the dimly lit walls. It’s a gentle, rhythmic sound, almost musical as if the universe itself were keeping time. With each tap, memories flicker, casting shadows that dance in the mind’s eye. It’s a moment of connection, a simple, unassuming tap that bridges past and present, conjuring a symphony of silent reflections.
Memoirs of Madness 