It is here that the body.

Poems and favourites and art.

It is here that the body.

The mouth is a gateway,

a vessel for the world’s breath,

where words shape themselves

into meaning, where silence

gives way to the sound

of truth, of lies, of longing.

It is here that the body

meets the spirit, that the tongue

becomes an instrument,

crafting the melodies of love,

of anger, of sorrow. Each word

a note in the symphony

of human connection, each breath

a measure in the rhythm

of life.

In the act of speaking,

we carve our place in the world,

we declare our presence,

our desires, our fears. The mouth

is both a weapon and a balm,

capable of cutting deep

or healing the wounds

it has made.

But beyond speech, there is

the language of touch, the intimacy

of lips meeting lips, of breath

shared in the quiet darkness,

where words dissolve into sensation,

where meaning is found

not in what is said, but in

the gentle pressure of skin,

the warmth of another’s breath

against your own.

Oral, the act of giving voice,

of giving pleasure, is an offering,

a way of saying, “I see you,

I feel you, I am here with you.”

It is a communion,

a sacred exchange where bodies

speak the language of need,

of want, of deep, unspoken

connection.

In the mouth, we hold

the power to create, to destroy,

to comfort, to arouse.

It is a place of vulnerability,

where the inside meets the outside,

where the personal becomes

the shared. And in this meeting,

there is something holy,

something ancient and primal,

a reminder that we are, at our core,

creatures of desire, of language,

of the endless need

to be heard, to be felt,

to be known.

---

A Weight.

Depression is a weight,

a cold hand on the chest,

pressing down, squeezing

the breath from your lungs,

turning the world to shadow.

It comes without warning,

a fog that rolls in, thick

and unyielding, obscuring

the light you once knew.

Days blur into each other,

each one indistinguishable

from the last. The sun rises,

but its warmth doesn't reach you;

it stays distant, as if the light

has forgotten your name.

You move through the hours

in slow motion, a ghost

in your own life, the world

at arm's length, unreachable.

There is a silence inside you,

an absence of sound,

where once there was music.

The voice that speaks

in your mind is not your own;

it is darker, quieter,

whispering lies in the night,

telling you to give in,

to give up, to let go.

But even in the darkness,

a part of you remembers

the light, the way it felt

on your skin, the way it made

everything seem possible.

You hold onto that memory,

even as it fades, even as it

seems too far away to reach.

You tell yourself to keep going,

to take another step,

even if you can't see

where you're going,

even if the road ahead

is shrouded in mist.

Because somewhere, deep inside,

you know that the fog

will lift, that the sun

will break through,

and you will feel its warmth

on your skin again.

Depression is a journey

through the dark,

but it is not the end.

It is a passage, a place

you travel through,

not a place you stay.

And though the road

may be long, though the night

may be deep,

you are still here, still moving,

still alive, and that

is enough.

---

I’ve been so inspired by the work of

Maia Brown-Jackson

the last few weeks, you should all go and see Maia’s work and be as inspired and amazed as I have been.

Also been loving the artwork by

Elena Burcio

which I find so interesting and magical. I adore it so much.

My own artwork had been coming along, slowly. You can subscribe to my other substack here .

Just a few things I’ve been working on

I’ve also been listening to this on repeat pretty much all week.

And here’s a cool art documentary for you to enjoy.

Thank you all for reading! You can support me further by buying me a coffee!

TTFN, LRT.