Fragments of the Divine

There are days when everything inside me wants to bloom—and yet nothing moves.

This isn’t a grand revelation or a how-to on unlocking your purpose. It’s more of a spiritual side note from a confused soul with too many tabs open. No expectations for enlightenment—just an honest, slightly messy reflection from the middle of the process.

There are days when I feel like I’ve dreamed too much for too long.

When I sit in a room full of unfinished ideas—
brushes that dried before the canvas could speak,
cards half-channeled,
a blog post blinking at me like “Are we still doing this?”

And I ask myself, honestly:
“Is this soul work, or am I just collecting hobbies like Pokémon cards?”

I start things. I feel the spark.
I rearrange the cosmos in my mind for about 4.5 days.
And then—
splat.
The stillness. The void. The part where inspiration disappears like it left the stove on.

In case you’re curious, here’s a short list of what I (or maybe my soul?) has tried to turn into the thing:

• Oracle cards with poetic whispers and symbolic codes
• A blog that would help ease humanity’s existential ache (casually)
• A painting practice that definitely had a moment—until the brushes dried in spiritual protest
• A brief but intense love affair with AI-generated art (very 2023 of me)
• Stock market books, because maybe I’m just a misunderstood Warren Buffett
• And now… photography. Because apparently, my soul woke up today and said:
  “You know what we need? Depth of field.”

Shoutout to my stoic terrace companion, Sir Croaksalot, who has watched me reincarnate creatively five times this week.
He’s been silently observing my personality pivots for a while now—
watched me go from
“This is it, I’m making oracle cards,” to
“Wait, I’m opening an Etsy for my paintings,” to
“I’m totally rebranding as a moody photographer.”

He says nothing. Just sits there.
Still. Unbothered.
Legs crossed. Eyes closed.

Honestly? He’s probably ascended three timelines ahead of me.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s my higher self and just isn’t ready to break it to me yet.

And here’s the weird part:
I’m not bad at any of these.
I actually love them. For a while.
And then they float away, like a dream I almost remembered.

It’s hard to explain the ache of having so much inside, and yet nothing that fully lands.
To feel like you were made to build something meaningful, but all your bricks are different colors and no one gave you the glue.

People say to push through, pick one, find your niche, focus.

But sometimes, I don’t want to force myself into a lane.
I want to be a field.
A fragmented, beautiful, messy field of things that tried to become something.

And maybe—just maybe—these days when nothing moves
aren’t a punishment.
Maybe they’re just the soul stretching, in silence.
Making space for the pieces to find each other.

So if you’re here too…
wondering what to do with all your almosts, your half-born projects, and your new “obsession” that might fizzle out by Thursday—

Sit with me.

We’re not broken.
We’re just in between.
And that’s still part of the story. Maybe, this too, is something sacred becoming itself.