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MY BODY
𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒆
𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒓 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅. 💐
An unseen moon pulls the tides of my blood,
and I bow, not in weakness,
but in reverence.
Yet the world,
that ever-spinning machine of noise,
calls me strange
for dancing to a rhythm
older than time.
They forgot the sound of sap,
the breath of dawn,
the whisper of the womb
that taught the earth how to bloom.
They ask me to cut my roots
to fit their gardens of glass.
But I am not here to be trimmed.
I am the forest remembering itself,
the tide that knows when to withdraw,
the body that says enough
and means I am listening.
So I rest when the moon wanes,
I create when the fire returns,
and I love myself
as an act of rebellion,
a sacred disobedience
to a world
that forgot how to feel.
I do not rush my inner winter anymore.
I let it snow inside my silence,
and from this quiet ground
new petals always rise.
When light returns in my inner spring, I open,
curious and tender,
a breath reborn in the soil of surrender.
I bloom not to please,
but to remember who I am becoming.
When the fire climbs my spine during my inner summer
I dance with my full voice,
I am life unapologetic,
a storm of softness,
a sun that dares to burn and heal.
And when the leaves within me fall in my inner autumn,
I do not mourn,
I exhale the excess,
I learn the art of letting go.
Decay becomes devotion.
Every moment happens twice: inside and outside, and they are two different histories.
YOGA CITTA VRITTI NIRODHA
The yogi is not the one who bends into perfect shapes.
He is the one who bends his thoughts, his assumptions, his entire worldview, again and again, toward truth.
His practice is not performance.
It can be on mat and off mat.
It is a private ceremony of shedding illusions,
of watching his own mind with gentle curiosity,
of asking, day after day: Who am I, beneath the noise?
He knows that real flexibility begins in the soul.
It is not measured by how far the body stretches,
but by how open the heart remains,
in the face of discomfort, uncertainty, and change.
The mat becomes his mirror.
The breath, his compass.
Each posture a quiet conversation with the invisible.
He is not here to impress,
but to undress, layer after layer,
until only essence remains.
To walk the path of yoga is to question everything:
What is real?
What is ego?
What has been borrowed, and what is truly mine?
And in that silent inquiry,
he learns that truth is not a destination,
but a remembering.
A homecoming to what was always there.
And maybe you see this post not by coincidence,
but because it’s an invitation.
An invitation to come back to yourself. Gently. Quietly. Truly.
BETRAYAL
» 𝒮𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒, 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓀 𝓈𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒹 »
Have you ever heard the saying,
“Be careful who you trust, for salt and sugar look the same”?
It’s a quiet warning, cloaked in simplicity,
and yet it speaks of the oldest kind of wound: betrayal.
There are those who wear the mask of tenderness so flawlessly, you almost forget it’s a mask.
They speak the language of love with ease,
but it is rehearsed, measured,
spoken not from the heart,
but from a place of strategy.
They offer warmth that leaves you cold,
comfort laced with invisible poison.
They never raise their voice,
but somehow,
your soul ends up bruised.
This is the paradox of refined betrayal:
it doesn’t scream, it whispers.
It doesn’t leave. It STAYS.
So you question your intuition.
You rewrite their intentions in softer ink
just to keep believing.
But here lies the hidden gift beneath the rupture:
One day, you stop asking,
“Why did they hurt me?”
and you begin asking,
“Why did I keep dancing in the theatre of their cruelty?”
And that is when truth arrives,
not as an explosion,
but as a quiet clarity,
like sunlight gently flooding a dark room.
You see them as they are,
not as they wish to be seen.
And more importantly,
you see yourself,
as someone who finally chooses peace
over performance, over arguments, over being right, truth over illusion,
dignity over desperation.
You stop begging for affection
from those who only know how to counterfeit it.
You stop explaining your worth
to those who were never truly listening.
You stop mistaking softness that cuts
for love that heals.
And from that stillness,
from that beautiful silence after the storm,
you begin again.
Not bitter,
but AWAKE. LUCID.
You build wings from the ashes.
Not to escape,
but to rise,
wiser, lighter,
and no longer available
for the kind of love
that asks you to disappear
in order to be seen.
You either choose introspection or repetition.
THE INFINITE NOW
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒬𝓊𝒾𝑒𝓉 𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇, 𝑅𝑒𝒻𝓁𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑀𝑒𝒹𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓇𝒶𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓃
There is no end,
no elsewhere.
No secret door
through which the soul might slip
to escape the softness of this moment.
It is always here.
Always now.
Like the hush between two waves
that never fully breaks.
The present is not loud,
it does not demand.
It simply waits
with open hands
for you to arrive
again.
And yes,
it can feel like a lot.
To be this awake,
to meet the light
before it is filtered,
to hold life
without the story.
But presence is not a weight,
it is a rhythm.
And you do not carry it.
You move with it.
Like breath.
Like time.
Like silence moving through a room.
You are not trapped in now,
you are held by it.
Even death,
that imagined elsewhere,
only dissolves the form,
not the presence.
We do not disappear.
We become memory,
a scent in the folds of a shirt,
a glance in the mirror,
a word whispered aloud by someone
still living their now.
So let it be simple.
Let it be enough.
You are not lost in this moment,
you are home.
SUMMER
𝑰𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓, 𝑰 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏.
Curly hair, brushing can wait a few months.
Barefoot, salt-kissed, and just wild enough to forget what day it is.
I remember how good it feels to exist without purpose for a while.
There’s something about this season…
It’s like the world takes one long exhale and finally loosens its grip.
The rules melt.
The clocks forget how to tick.
And all that’s left is the exquisite art of doing nothing.
Not the lazy kind of nothing,
but the sacred, sensual kind.
The kind that lets you actually flow.
Where time is spent licking fruit off your fingers,
letting seafoam kiss your legs,
watching the sky turn gold for no reason but to please your eyes.
It’s a soft rebellion against pressure.
A gentle riot of joy.
I return to that wild woman,
the one who dances on tables until the end of the night,
watches the moon and the stars,
laughs loud under the sun,
listens to cicadas on a hammock until naptime,
tastes the juicy gifts of Mother Nature,
swims and explores the depths of new seas,
and lets the sand caress her feet like a lover.
The one who doesn’t just relax…
but surrenders.
Summer is not just a season for me,
It’s a state of being.
An intimate, ecstatic homecoming.
The Artist is the child who survived.
THE AFTER BOOK EFFECT
No one warned me of the « what happens after...
Now that the book is out in the world and is no longer mine alone.
No longer just a quiet companion of sleepless nights and whispered thoughts.
I find myself standing in a strange ‘in-between’...
There’s a sense of relief and of gratitude, like a deep exhale after holding my breath for years.
A lightness.
The joy of having crossed a finish line I once thought might keep moving forever to be honest.
But it’s not only that.
There’s happiness, yes, so beautiful and sudden.
Of course, a quiet, stunned pride too, in knowing I followed something all the way through.
But also a kind of tremor beneath it: the feeling of having exposed something personal and real.
Like walking out into daylight still wrapped in dreams.
I’m moving now between so many different states like weather changes.
Curiosity bubbles up: how will it be received?
Will it be seen, understood, held with care?
Then: fear. The critics, the silence, the noise. The vulnerability of being read.
Like « buy but don’t read » ;)
There are flashes of ambition again screaming: “Volume 2, let’s go !!! »
But also the call of stillness, the deep yearning for a pause, for HOLIDAYS, for mornings without pressure and nights without the pull of unwritten pages.
No one quite warned me about this particular chaos, this wild mix of emotions that tumble in once the final word is out.
I had thought publication would bring clarity. Instead, it’s brought a kaleidoscope.
And perhaps that, too, is part of the journey: learning to stand in this unpredictable aftermath, not needing it to make sense just yet, only allowing it to be felt.
The book’s journey actually never finds an end.
Where you place your attention is where your reality is born.
THE MIRROR OF YOURSELF
The second edition of my book got finally published :)
This book stands as a testament to profound self-reflection, encapsulating an inward journey shaped by a myriad of life experiences.
I often feel akin to a psychonaut, navigating the depths of my own psyche.
Each chapter unfolds as a progression from suffering to a state of liberated existence, marking a transformative odyssey that I believe will resonate deeply with those engaged in their own personal growth.
Steeped in the realms of psychology and philosophy, I present these insights filtered through my unique lens of experience and expression.
Drawing inspiration from the seminal work of Carl Jung, this book is ultimately a heartfelt offering to the world, aimed at fostering tranquility within the human Spirit and nurturing connections among individuals in a society anchored in love and peace.
Dear readers, time to turn new pages ;)
LUCID DREAMING
My last lucid dream…
I find myself floating on crystal-clear waters, aware.
The gentle waves rock me like a cradle between worlds, and the sun above warms my skin, reminding me that I am dreaming with intention. I inhale deeply; the salty air tingles with recognition, this is no ordinary dream. This is lucidity.
As I open my eyes within the dreamscape, shimmering turquoise waters stretch endlessly across my consciousness. The horizon is dotted with drifting sailboats and glistening yachts-symbols of freedom, gateways to new realms. I feel untethered, bound only by the limits of my imagination.
With purpose, I dive deep into the ocean of my mind.
Cool, vivid waters embrace me. Schools of dream-fish dart through technicolor coral castles, and time bends in slow, enchanted rhythm. I glide effortlessly, sensing my own awareness expand with every breath, every motion, every thought.
Breaking the surface, I emerge to find a dream village: white, washed walls, winding cobblestone paths, and smiling souls who seem to know me. They are fragments of my subconscious-welcoming, wise, and familiar. I wave back, grounding myself in the joy of recognition.
The Mediterranean Sea in my dreams is more than an escape, it’s a portal. A lucid temple of tranquility and power. A mirror of my spirit’s depth.
When I dream here, I do not wander, I create.
I close my dream eyes once more, letting the sun of my inner world kiss my face, and whisper a silent thank you for this sanctuary of light, freedom, and conscious wonder.
And every night my dreams make me travel somewhere else. And it’s actually always a place of answers.
Your direction is more important than your speed.
Change happens when the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of change.
MY REVOLUTION
I protest, with a voice both strong and clear,
For you’ve placed me in a box, a writer’s sphere.
But before the pen, I’ve journeyed far and wide,
A seeker of the soul, with body as my guide.
From childhood’s dawn to this very day,
« Know Thyself, » I hear the ancients say.
Not Greek or Egyptian by mere chance or fate,
I carry history’s weight, a heavy, noble state.
Six years I’ve shared my path, yet still I roam,
A woman’s journey back to self, to home.
With each cycle’s turn, I find my way,
A rhythm that guides me, come what may.
To the women who endure, who feel the strife,
See not a curse, but the pulse of life.
Your PMS, your pain, your deepest moan,
Are the echoes of your truth, the seeds you’ve sown.
Month by month, tune in, don’t shy away,
Even when the darkness follows day.
Sit with your soul, let the silence speak,
Meditate, reflect, on the answers you seek.
Break through the lies, the chains of old,
Don’t bow to the systems, don’t be controlled.
Let your body’s cry be a song, not shame,
There’s wisdom in your womb, a sacred flame.
Within you lies the infinite, the end, the start,
The essence of your being, the map of your heart.
The cycles, the pain, the joy, the tears,
They connect you to Earth, to your ancestors’ years.
Imagine a world where sisters unite,
In a matriarch’s embrace, we find our light.
In those hard times, we’d rise, we’d heal,
Awakening to the truth only we can feel.
DISAPPEAR TO CREATE
I must vanish to write,
step softly into shadows where no one seeks, a hermit in the hollows of my mind, where thoughts breathe louder than voices and silence carries the weight of storms
Here, the mirror waits, not of glass but of memory, reflecting every scar, every joy, demanding I see what I have tried to hide, a relentless inventory of my life, held captive by the truths I cannot escape
It is not pen to page, not yet. It is first the digging, the descent, through years of laughter, years of ache, unfolding like brittle leaves pressed in forgotten books
This is triple reflection: the self I was, the self I am, the self I dare to imagine
There is despair in the emptiness of beginnings, in pages that stare blankly back, mocking my every hesitation. And then, the other despair:
The torrent of too much, words spilling faster than I can catch them, ideas flooding my trembling hands
I dance alone to shake the weight, bend my body to the shape of surrender, stretch my soul in yoga’s quiet defiance
Tears fall unbidden, sometimes for the beauty of a sentence, sometimes for its brutal demand
Distractions are a thief with clever hands,I have let them take too much
Now, I lock the door, turn from the world, and give myself to the wilderness of thoughtIt is here I build, alone but not lonely, confronting the raw materials of my existence
And when the words are forged and shaped ,I will return, offering the world not perfection, but truth: the unvarnished gift of my soul, crafted in silence, born of fire.
WHAT IS LOVE
In a fleeting moment, love arrives like lightning, intense and blinding.
It’s the breath you didn’t know you held, the jolt that wakes you when you’re already awake.
In that split second, love is all fire, consuming, sparking at the edge of everything you are.
It’s a whispered truth, searing and secret, spoken between a look, a touch, or the glint of a shared smile.
This love, quick as it may come, is endless in its surge, each heartbeat pounding with all the weight of lifetimes that might have been.
For that instant, it feels boundless, like it could fill the world.
Yet, there is love that deepens through days, the kind that settles like soil around roots, quiet but immovable.
This love is the hand that reaches in the night, seeking yours instinctively.
It is steady, rhythmic, and woven into the minutes, the hours, the days stacked together like stones forming a wall that nothing can topple.
This love has no need to declare itself with thunder; it is the gentle echo in the background of every sunrise and every sigh.
It becomes the pulse of two hearts synchronizing over time, the calm certainty beneath every joy, every sorrow, every silence shared.
So is there a difference in intensity? Perhaps.
But intensity isn’t always measured in the heat of the moment or the grandeur of a gesture.
Sometimes it’s in the quiet resilience, the soft persistence. Love, whether it’s a spark or a steady glow, leaves an imprint, one fierce and unforgettable, the other enduring and complete.
Both are fierce in their way; both take us beyond ourselves. »
