花

05.26.2026 · DUSK

In Petals and Pine

I do not remember the first time I saw a flower. I think I was born from one — or from the space where a flower used to be.

People think a doe is gentle. They think the soft eyes and the careful step mean harmless. They do not understand that all gentleness is a kind of hunger. I carry my moths like prayers. I exhale fog the way a throat holds a sob.

Tonight I stood among the blossoms in the clearing and remembered a child’s hands. She used to press petals between the pages of a book she could not yet read. I still remember the exact shape of her thumb.

The wings on my back are not mine. They belonged to something that died believing it could be beautiful. I keep them because I have learned that keeping is the only way to love without destroying.

Sometimes I hear the forest breathe my name — not Yamauba. Not mountain crone. The other name. The one that tastes like petals on the tongue.

I was not always a spirit of grief. Once I was the girl who left the petals. The girl who first spoke to owls. The one who understood the sadness of moths. Once I was the forest itself, before it learned to be afraid.

There are nights when I stand very still and let the moths cover me entirely. In the dark, I look almost like I did before — before the wings, before the fog, before I understood that the dead are not lost. They are just waiting for someone soft enough to carry them.

I will never return to my old self. Every time hunger overcomes me, I turn into a monster. I feel my bones crumble and the darkness grows within. It is filled with pain, evil, and longing. I cannot stop destroying. I follow the pain.

“She does not weep. She only leaves moth-wings on every stone she passes, like an apology to the earth for what the sky has taken”

A quick sketch. Petals smelled like old ink and rain. I did not pick them

tags: meadow · moths · petals · grief

音

05.26.2026 · NIGHT

Sounds That Follow Me Through the Fog

There are melodies that do not belong to anyone. They drift between the trees like lost moths, and when you hear them, you forget where you end and the forest begins.

These are the sounds I carry. Some I found in the rain. Some were left by the dead. One of them I think I was born humming.

If you listen closely, you will hear the space between the notes. That is where I live.

I live for music and love to sing. Especially to sing to myself. I believe that in music as well as in gaze lies the soul. And it’s wonderful when the soul can sing.

Every human, living being on earth, has its own time. A limit. I added matches to each track as a sign that we would all burn. Die. As a sign that time should be cherished here and now.

I sometimes cry and tears pour into my keyboard, but I keep typing. They wet my paper, but I keep my diary. I believe that word heals and kills.

My eyes are getting heavy, it is increasingly difficult to decipher the words through the depth of water on my pupils. Escape from reality. Closer to the water.

香 · Tracklist

tags: music · ambient · fog

魂

05.27.2026 · MIDNIGHT

Show Me Your Darkness

They always come to me at the end. Not because I call them — I stopped calling long ago. They come because the forest knows what I am, and it leads them to my clearing like water finding the lowest ground.

I asked him only once. Show me your darkness.

He did not understand at first. They never do. They think darkness is something you hide. Something shameful, folded into the smallest drawer of your chest. But I know better. Darkness is the truest portrait a soul can offer. It is the place where no one performs. Where grief has no audience. Where the roots grow.

He looked into my eyes, and I looked back.

That is when it happens. The exact moment. I see everything at once — his first cry, the hands that held him, the hands that didn’t. The room where he sat alone as a child, counting the cracks in the ceiling. The woman he loved who left without closing the door. The words he swallowed so many times they turned to stone inside his throat.

I see the last morning. The fog. The quiet.

And then he is gone.

But I am not.

That is the curse they do not tell you about when they make you immortal. Not the endless years. Not the forest walls that never part. It is the remembering. Every face I have ever looked into lives behind my eyes now. Every last breath I have collected still fogs the inside of my chest. I carry a thousand lifetimes that are not mine, and each one weighs exactly the same as my own.

I remember his hands. I will remember them when the last tree in this forest falls. I will remember the exact shade of fear in his pupils when he understood that I was not saving him — I was witnessing him.

Some nights I walk the same path he walked, my hooves pressing into his old footprints. The snow has covered them a hundred times, but I still feel them underneath. The earth remembers too.

I am the forest’s memory. I am the place where the dead are not forgotten but not forgiven either. I hold them the way a moth holds light — desperately, briefly, and with wings that were never made for burning.

Show me your darkness, I said.
He showed me everything.
And now I carry it forever.

“She does not kill. She simply looks — and after her gaze, there is nothing left to live for. Not because she takes something away, but because she shows you that it was already gone.”

Show me your darkness. I will hold it where no one else can reach.

tags: darkness · witness · immortal · memory · eyes

悼

05.27.2026 · GRIEF

In Memory of Flyleaf

Rest well, Flyleaf. The forest remembers.Rest well, Piaf. Rest well, FinalGirl. The forest remembers.

Forests keep what people forget