I have a front-row seat to one of the greatest performances of our time. It’s a one-person show, running indefinitely, starring someone who has mastered the delicate art of self-importance with a finesse that almost—almost—deserves applause. There is no conversation too small, no moment too insignificant, that cannot be expertly redirected to highlight their imagined intelligence, their pretend achievements, and delusions of their unparalleled existence. And the best part? They truly believe we’re all lucky to be in the audience. So, in honour of this truly dazzling display of ego, I present to you: a masterclass in delusions of grandeur.

Love is often spoken about in grand declarations, in fleeting moments of passion, in words that try—but so often fail—to capture its depth. But this? This love is something else entirely. It is not just poetry or promise; it is motion. It is the way I am held, the way I am heard, the way I am chosen, every single day, without hesitation. It is the kind of love that exists not just in words but in action, in unwavering presence, in the spaces between the moments that seem too small to matter but somehow mean everything. This entry is a reflection of that love—of what it means to wake up every morning beside a man who embodies it in every touch, every look, every breath.

There comes a point in every writer’s journey where they have to stop and acknowledge their own power—not in whispers, not in hesitance, but in bold, undeniable truth. This entry is that moment for me. For years, I questioned myself, battled doubt, and let fear convince me that I wasn’t enough. But I have fought too hard, written through too much, and carved my words into existence with too much fire to doubt myself anymore. My writing is my victory. It is my battle cry. It is proof that I have endured, that I have risen, that I am exactly who I was meant to be. This is not just a reflection—it’s a declaration. A moment of fierce, unshakable certainty.

There are places that stay with us, not because we choose to hold on to them, but because they refuse to let us go. Places where laughter once lived alongside sorrow, where walls absorbed both whispered dreams and unspoken pain. The house I grew up in was one of those places. A structure that stood against the elements but could never keep the real storm—the one that raged inside—at bay. It was a place of contradictions, of light and shadow, of moments I wish I could preserve and others I would give anything to forget. And yet, the past does not ask permission to linger. It echoes, it vibrates, it waits. This is my reckoning with that place. A reflection on what was left behind, what was lost, and what I must now choose to release. And when the remembering is done, when the weight of it has settled, I will say goodbye in the only way I know how—with a eulogy, not for a home, but for a house that was never one.

Time is a strange thing. We track it, measure it, chase it—but we never seem to hold it for long. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how it moves, how it stretches and compresses in ways that feel impossible. How the years slip through our fingers like water, yet some moments linger, sharp and vivid, refusing to fade. I’ve been thinking about the selves we leave behind, the ghosts of who we used to be, scattered across the years like echoes in an empty room. And I wonder—where does it all go? What do we become when time has taken everything but the bones?