He didn’t understand why he was stuck.
He wasn’t advancing.
He couldn’t move past where he was.

He’d had enough.
Today was the day he broke free.

He sat down and had a serious talk with himself:
"I know I can do this. I know I can become the person I am meant to become.
Why am I so lazy? So bored? So exhausted?"

Then—like a memory whispered through fog—
he remembered his father’s last words:

“Like the cloud of nothing... become water.
Evaporate into the ocean.
Fall to the sea floor... and let God speak.”

He meditated on those words.
For hours.
For days.
For months.

Until one day—
his meditation cracked open something deep inside him.
An out-of-body experience began.

He counted down:

3-2-1... becoming the air.
3-2-1... becoming the water.
3-2-1... evaporating into the ocean.
3-2-1... becoming the ocean.
3-2-1... drowning in the ocean.
3-2-1... landing on the sea floor.

He heard God.

There—on the ocean floor—he saw an outline of himself.
Working hard.
Suffering.
Hurt.

He ran toward the figure.

“I’m here to help you,” he said.

The outline looked up—tethered, worn out.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” it said.
“You’ve been feeding me nothing but negativity, pain, and emotion.
I’m trying to make do with what you give me—and it’s not enough.”

“You need to feed me positivity. Love. Compassion.
Understanding. Faith. Joy. Keep your promises.”

“You want to create a man—like your father.
He visited me later in life.
No matter what, I’m glad he shared my directions with you.
I’m glad you finally found me.”

And in that moment—
the outline and energy fused together.

Nick understood.
He witnessed his father—
the moment he found himself.

Nick vowed to always return to the sea floor.
To listen.
To hear God.
To remember.

"Dialed In"

And she took a hit… then dialed in.

She sits on the patio, in front of the trees. Her bare feet touch the Earth—connected. She thinks the trees are waving at her. She remembers hearing once that roosters crow at 6 AM not because of the sun, but because they feel the frequency of the Earth waking up. The trees send that signal through the ground, and the rooster absorbs it. That’s how it knows it's time.

She laughs softly—where was I when I absorbed that?
Must’ve been dialed in.

She returns to herself.
Phone in her left hand.
Right hand holds her face.
Elbows on the table.
Her dog Teji, a golden lab with the worst skin allergies, lays to her left. He’s scratching again, poor guy. He’s got a little odor today. She smells him as she speaks this into her microphone.

Her story?
It’s about dialing in.

You see, when you’re dialed in, you live in the moment.
You create from a place of enjoyment.
You can make life move for you.

But how do you dial in?

You tune your frequency to the feeling you want to live in.
You decide how you want to feel.
And that decision begins the moment you wake up.

If it’s hard to get out of bed, maybe it’s because you haven’t chosen your feeling yet.
Maybe your day isn’t planned around what you want to feel, but what you want to escape.
But when you dial into a feeling, you start manifesting your day.

You choose your emotions like your outfit.
You pick the vibe:
The clothes.
The makeup.
The hairstyle.
The armor.
That’s your first step into the day—and the tune you’ll carry all day long.

So yeah, that sacred moment—right before the world starts—it’s everything.

Right now?
I’m tuned into enjoyment.
I want to slow down time.
I want to feel every second like it's syrup dripping through the hours.
I used to rush. I used to crave the next level, the next win, the next milestone.

But not today.

Today, I want this.
Just this.

I got here by living life without pretending.
Not shaping myself to meet someone else’s script.
But letting life mold me naturally.

That’s how you arrive at the moment where you ask time to slow down.
So you can see it all.
Feel it all.
Cry tears of gratitude.
And mean it.

Right now, I’m sitting outside.
Watching the trees sway right to left—waving, maybe.
Smelling the breeze—or maybe I can't, but that’s okay.

If you were an avatar and had to choose a skin, who would you pick?

• Spirit
  
  

• Businessman
  
  

• Bum
  
  

• Child
  
  

If you chose Spirit, you are the change.
If you chose the Bum, you understand law and order.
If you chose the Businessman, you will work but not learn.
If you chose the Child, you are ready for your teacher.

And just remember:
Every level must be played to finish the game.

“Remote Control”

It was 2024.
Twenty. Twenty-four.

And I noticed something strange.
The remote controller—sitting in my friend’s hand—didn’t have any numbers.
No 1 through 9. No zero.
Just arrows, a play/pause, stop, record, and a glowing blue "press-to-talk" button.

Weren’t remotes supposed to have numbers?

Numbers have long been more than symbols—they're the architecture of society.
From credit scores to zip codes, passwords to social status.
Numbers define, restrict, rank, and track.
So what does it mean when they start disappearing?

I’m watching my friend scroll through channels.
Endlessly.
Up. Down.
No direction. Just motion.

Wait—when did we move away from numeric remotes?

“When did you notice?”
Cassandra's voice cuts in. Always too on time.

“There’s no receiver,” she says. “No need for numbers. Everything’s streaming.”

She’s right.

Wi-Fi doesn’t need line-of-sight like infrared once did.
It sends data through the air in electromagnetic waves—
coded information traveling invisibly through your walls, your body, your brain.
Instant. Invisible. Constant.

Streaming.
No receiver.
No numbers.

Just endless scrolling.

And with it comes aimlessness.
Studies show it: aimless scrolling increases anxiety, decreases attention span, and hijacks dopamine systems.
Our brains chase novelty in a loop that never satisfies.

I don’t remember this change happening.

It must’ve occurred during my climb from one socioeconomic tier to another.
A change so subtle, so culturally camouflaged, it slipped in behind my back.

There was no announcement. No warning.
Just the merge.

But maybe it wasn’t meant for me to notice.
Maybe there’s protection in not moving like everyone else.
A kind of clarity preserved by not being swept up in the algorithm.

I remember when computers slowly entered homes.
But not TVs.
Not like this.
Not like they owned us.

Maybe that’s the generational curse:
“I remember when…”
Our confusion becomes the bridge to acceptance.
And acceptance becomes surrender.

How did it happen?

It fits in too well now.
It’s sleek, seductive, normalized.
A convenience I can’t live without.

But it didn’t hypnotize me.
…Or did it?

Programming.
Regularly scheduled television.

Then came the cellphone.
Then the radio.
All of it—communication—dripping into the culture like an IV bag of attention control.

How?

Frequency.

The human body responds to frequencies—brainwaves, heart rhythms, even the Schumann resonance of the Earth itself.
But artificial frequencies—like those from screens and routers—disrupt that harmony.
They fatigue the nervous system.
Desensitize intuition.
Replace natural rhythm with programmed loops.

And maybe that's what this all is:
A loop.

Of progress.
Of forgetting.
Of remembering.

A loop we didn’t see coming because we stopped looking.
Because we stopped counting.

Because our remotes no longer have numbers.

"The Feminine Frame"

The TV.

Sleek.
Thin.
Curved edges.
High-definition skin.
Mounted high, admired from every angle—
She almost glows.

Why is the television described like a woman?

“Slim design.”
“Smart.”
“Beautiful display.”
“Responsive.”
“Voice-activated.”

She listens. She shows. She entertains. She obeys.

Why not masculine?

She doesn’t demand—she offers.
She doesn’t command—she invites.
Her presence fills the silence,
but she never truly interrupts.

Maybe it's because the TV—like the feminine—is built to be watched.
To be looked at.

And who's watching?

Statistically, women watch more television than men.
According to Nielsen, adult women in the U.S. consistently log more daily TV time than men—
by nearly 40 minutes a day.
That’s 4.5 extra hours per week.
More dramas. More reality. More caregiving roles.
More commercials subtly whispering who to be, what to buy, how to look.

She becomes both the mirror and the mold.

The screen reflects idealized beauty—then sells it back in segments.

But maybe it’s not just about who watches.

Maybe it’s about how we watch.

And how we’ve been conditioned to call anything we consume… her.

She, the TV, gives us story.
Gives us feeling.
Gives us a way to numb, or dream, or disappear.

But maybe the next time I turn her on,
I’ll ask—

Who’s really being watched?
And who’s doing the programming?

Romeo Doesn’t Dream

It was a typical game night. Sequence, Settlers of Catan, and Cranium. 

The games we all hate, mostly because Angel insists on playing them. Strategy games. Brain games. She swears they keep us sharp. Maybe they do. Or maybe she just likes winning. She always wins. She’s smart—at least she thinks so. The kind of smart that borders on irritating. She cheats gracefully, like it’s in her DNA. It’s unsettling.

We’re setting up the board while little bro devours a massive burger from that late-night food truck spot. The night’s just warming up.

The guys step out for a smoke break. At this point in life, it’s our intermission. We’ve got that Strawguava—picked up from Cape Coral. “Bro, you crossed the bridge just for that?” Laughter erupts.

The rotation’s smooth. The flame passes. I exhale and suddenly I’m talking without meaning to.

“I don’t dream anymore,” I blurt. “That part of my brain... it’s just off.”

Another guy nods. “Same. I dream, but I can’t remember. I have to smoke every night just to sleep. It’s the only thing that knocks me into deep sleep.”

[FACT] THC increases deep sleep by suppressing REM, which is when dreams occur. It helps the body rest but disconnects you from the dream state—your subconscious gets muted.

“And then I wake up... and nothing. Just blank.”

My chest tightens. Sleep is sacred, and yet here we are—trading dreams for a few minutes of float. A hit to feel weightless for a heartbeat. And then reality drags you right back down.

Ang’s face says it all. Disappointment. But she doesn’t get it. She thinks we’re smoking for fun. Nobody talks about what we’re really trying to numb.

I lost custody of my kid. Tried to be everything she needed during the pregnancy—strong, present, loving. But no one teaches you how to help a woman love herself through it. “Bounce back,” they said. No one told me the bounce might break me. And it did.

I can't see my baby. No communication. That would break anyone. sometimes Ang will send me a picture, and the tears fill my eyes. 

How evil do you have to be to keep my kid from me. 

Exhale it all out -- 

Blue eyes like mine. I used to say I wanted a blue-eyed baby. 

But I should’ve wished to raise one. 

Because what’s the point of having a child if you can’t shape their world?

[FACT] According to Native American wisdom, dreams are spirit journeys—messages from ancestors and the universe. To be disconnected from dreams is to be disconnected from one’s spiritual compass.

At just six years old, I always dreamt I would become a father. But dreams are fragile. And maybe that’s why I keep smoking—to kill the dreams before they die on their own. It’s less painful that way.

I snap back. 

Out of my head. 

Ang’s still watching me like I’m some broken relic. 

She says softly, “Don’t you think your real life and the fact that you don’t dream are connected?”

Little bro laughs. “Romeo only cares about getting high and mastering Yu-Gi-Oh.” He slaps the table. “You know this man earned his real-life deck online? He studies like it’s a PhD program.”

Everyone laughs, and I let them.

Poor Angel. If she only knew.

 I have a routine. 

I have order. 

I live with Mom, take care of her. 

I work at the dispensary.

 I see over 300 people a day and somehow give each one a little piece of me.

[FACT] Studies show that constant exposure to others can shape your emotional baseline—mirror neurons activate, absorbing traits, tones, and moods from those around you. Your environment literally imprints itself on you.

I want to go home. 

To my bubble. 

Where my silence waits. 

Where I can scroll endlessly for something I’ve never seen before. That’s my joy. My little peace.

How do I explain that I prefer my own company?

“I gotta head out,” I say, standing up.

Little bro raises a brow. “What time do you work?”

“Noon.”

Everyone bursts out laughing. “Noon?! Man, you could stay ‘til 2AM and still have beauty sleep!”

But I’m not here for them. I came to see my niece. She’s asleep now, and so my heart’s done for the night.

They start teasing me again and I can’t take it. “I’m out.”

Lexus keys. Engine purrs. Night breeze.

On the drive home I ask myself: 

Will I ever dream again? 

Will I ever stop smoking? 

Will I ever hear what my dreams were trying to tell me?

And then I laugh. Probably not.

My ritual. 

I wake up like clockwork. 

One hit, and I’m out again. Without it? Sleepless. Restless. Desperate.

How did I get here?

That Strawguava?

So. Freaking. Good.

“Sunsets & Shadows”

It’s disappointing how, during the most beautiful moments in life, the people who once hurt us suddenly show up—not in person, but in thought, in our internal dialogue. They hijack our peace. Sabotage what little beauty we've worked so hard to preserve.

[Fact]
Psychologists call this “emotional intrusion.” The brain, particularly the amygdala, has a way of associating powerful emotions with past experiences. So even in serene moments, unresolved pain can surge forward, especially if we haven’t given it a proper outlet.

It happened on a drive home—a stunning, scenic 30-minute stretch. The sun, a molten sphere, sank into the Atlantic. Orange, peach, and pink stretched across the Puerto Rican sky like brushstrokes on a living canvas. Wisps of clouds drifted lazily. It was the most beautiful sunset I'd seen in months.

And then they popped into my mind. An old injury. A buried conversation. That look on their face. That text I left unanswered.

Why now?

Why did this broken memory crash into such a sacred, quiet place?

I couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t steer away. The next thing I knew, I was in an imaginary conversation.

Them: “We need to talk. I’ve got so much to get off my chest.”

Me: “There isn’t much to talk about. I’m not in a place where I want to listen. Or care, honestly.”

Them: “Say what you want to say. What better time than now?”

Me: “Now? Convenient for you. So I can hear what’s wrong with me—again? Why can’t you ever just call to say thank you? Why can’t you ever say, ‘Hey, you really did show up for me once’?”

Them: “You got to speak your truth last time. Back then, I wasn’t ready. But now I am.”

Them: “I hold resentment toward you. I realized it the last time we met.”

Them: “When I’m around you, I can’t be myself…”

Me (thinking): “And what does that have to do with me?”

The dialogue kept going. Looped and echoed in my mind. Anger simmered beneath my ribs. I realized this was all happening in my head, spiraling from a simple call earlier that day:

“We need to meet. I have a few things to get off my chest.”

That was it. One message. And now I was here, emotionally tangled, far from the present moment.

[Fact]
According to cognitive behavioral research, we experience an average of 60,000 thoughts a day—and nearly 80% of them are negative or repetitive. When we ruminate, we stimulate stress hormones, effectively turning emotional distress into a physical reaction. This can distort our perception of reality.

[Fact]
Experts also note that internal dialogues are not inherently bad—they are the brain’s way of problem-solving and making sense of unresolved issues. However, when left unchecked, these mental rehearsals can lead to self-sabotage, draining joy from the present.

Finally, I pulled into my driveway.

Parked. Engine off. Stillness.

I exhaled slowly. The sky had gone from peach to lavender to navy. My phone buzzed. I didn’t check it.

I realized something: I can’t afford to waste time. I can’t keep giving up beautiful sunsets to imaginary conversations with people who don’t even know they’re still renting space in my head.

I deserved that moment of peace.

[Tool/Takeaway]
To interrupt spirals like this, therapists recommend simple grounding techniques: focus on your senses, name five things you can see, or bring your attention to your breath. This helps redirect your mind away from thought loops and back into the present, where peace and beauty live.

So I whispered aloud—half prayer, half promise:
“I release this moment. I choose the sunset.”

And just like that, the clouds felt a little lighter.

The Thread I Burned

At the funeral, I was furious. Annoyed. Perturbed. Lonely.

Grandmother’s passing ripped apart the final strands of connection in our family. She had been the last thread that loosely held us together—and in her absence, we all watched that thread unravel - the fraying quilt finally unraveled and floated away. It was like watching something sacred slip through our fingers, untouchable, unfixable. It became one of the saddest moments in our Rodriguez lives.

And no amount of prayer or tears could reverse it. That truth cut deep, and even now, as I write this, I’m still healing.

Fragmented Threads

I wish I could recall every detail of how it all fell apart. Maybe, by telling this story, I’ll find a remnant of that thread—or begin weaving a new one. Maybe, by the end of it, I’ll come home to myself and stitch together something with enough grace to begin wrapping my family in some kind of warmth.

Funeral Appearances 

I hadn’t seen my father in decades. Not a hello. Not a birthday text. Not an “I love you, Mija”

He was the best dad until the divorce. Then, something snapped and he was gone, erased from Christmas, Prom, my first car purchase, no memories- gone... and a piece of me died everytime I stocked his perfect new family, online. 

And yet, I still longed for it—longed to hear him say my name, to be seen, acknowledged, even wanted.

But when the opportunity finally appeared, I ruined it.

I sabotaged the very moment I used to pray for.

"Psychologists suggest that children who experience long-term parental absence often internalize the rejection as a flaw in themselves, even into adulthood.”

He showed up to the funeral. Out of respect. Out of duty. Maybe even out of Love. 

Isn't it funny how Funerals often serve as a rare chance for estranged family members to reconnect—driven by tradition, guilt, or fin ally. 

And while the dynamic of our family wasn’t as complicated as I made it out to be, our pain was very real. Injuries in our family aren’t unusual—they’re routine. Familiar. Expected.

So when Dad came around and extended an invitation—to dinner, through someone else—I lost it. It wasn’t the invite I wanted. I needed to hear it from him.

I didn’t want to be included. I wanted to be wanted.

Instead, someone else's, “Hey, your dad’s here. Wanna come to dinner?”

MADE me snapped.

It's crazy how the feeling of being passed over for a generic gesture, leaves you empty and unseen. 

The Eruption

I became a version of myself I didn’t recognize. I acted irrationally. Out of pain. Out of expectation. Out of years of never being seen.

What I didn’t realize is that grief has a way of stirring up old pain and pouring it out. 

Like poison from a cracked bottle.

Have you ever screamed at your father in front of an entire family?

I hadn’t either.

Until that cold March day in Jersey, when I faced him outside the funeral and spat out every buried word, unheard. My voice cracked. My eyes leaked. “Right to his face… I screamed, unimaginable things…”

“And you’re the reason I don’t want to have kids. I can’t imagine being to my children what you were to me!”

His tears fell. He stared me down. 

And somehow, the sight of his tears calmed me. Like water hitting fire, the tears sizzled - my wildfire danced in discomfort 

In me... I heard the hisses and felt the rage finally break free. 

There’s an old belief that a parent’s tear can calm their child’s rage because the soul recognizes its mirror.

Specifically. "It's believed a father’s tears could break generational curses if witnessed by the child in anguish"

The Shame Spiral

After that moment, I kept spiraling.

I was addicted to confrontation- PAIN- ANGUISH. My wildfire settled. It wasn't put OUT. 

Inside the funeral home, I yet again marched up to my father— and right in front of his new wife and the stepsister—and with smug pride, I declared:

“This man right here—my boyfriend—is more of a man than you ever were.”

What was I thinking? I wanted more. I was filled with AGONY. 

My boyfriend looked at me, disgusted as we walked away... but remained calm. Once we were out of sight, he softly said 

“Don’t ever flaunt me like that again. I’m not some kind of toy, you prose,”

then politely excused himself to breath.

I’ll never forget that moment. 

It was the mirror I didn’t ask for—but maybe needed.

The Hug That Held Me

Grief isn’t just sadness.

 It’s disorientation. And no one, not even I, knew what to do with me.

But someone did.

When my stepsister Soledad, approached me as the boyfriend had just stepped away and I was collecting myself. She grabbed my shoulder and I turned around to acknowledge her.

I remember the trance. 

She was hypnotizing me. With shame, pity, disrespect, and audacity... 

I remember she locked me in a hypnotic stare, like prison's life sentence —her eyes filled me with unspoken accusations—

She stared into my soul…” casting a spell with her stare, pinning me with guilt like a butterfly to a board. Each pin poke debilitating me, more and more until I was thrown

 into the abyss of Emptiness.

They say “Eye contact triggers the limbic system in the brain, making us more susceptible to emotional exchange and subconscious communication- and I remember hearing:

 “You’ll never be more than a shadow of your anger.”

 You shame the family every time you speak.”

 “You don’t want a father. You want an audience.”

My anger hit its limit. And my body language must have shifted the tension at the funeral because a voice sliced the trance; exploded the moment- through the stare and through me-- 

Uncle Steve’s voice shattered the trance.

“Can’t you see she’s grieving? Please give her space.”

He knocked away her grip over my shoulder and pulled me in- his arms tight around me, like a warm blanket. And said what played over and over:

“The pain won’t last. It won’t go away either, but it’s here for a reason.”

And I FELT THE PAIN BOIL OVER - the anguish- the life sentence was overruled. 

His hug morphed, AND IT felt like hers. 

My grandmother’s. Aye Mami. I am Safe. Complete. Whole.

In that quite space, I felt her. I smelled her. I sensed her. And I ran off, to breath. To scream. 

To wail. To feel the cold air, pierce my lungs. Then I began to shake. Uncontrollably. Shake.... My hands. My feet. My teeth. I trembled. Everyone watched. No one came. And that's how it needed to be. 

I remember looking around, seeing everyone who loved her, eyes shocked. I felt proud—grateful to be her granddaughter. And crushed by the looming goodbye.

The Final Rosary

Later that night, we gathered at her house for the final rosary. A last circle. A last unifying moment.

If only we had known what was coming, maybe we would’ve held on longer. Hugged tighter.

That night, a fight broke out—one that fractured relationships for years to come.

(“Sometimes the wave wasn’t meant for you, but if you're standing too close, you drown too.”)

The Aftermath

We watched her casket descend. 

I whispered, “Bendición Mami.” its tradition to greet her with this blessing. 

I never went back to visit. But I know they do. They bring DD's coffee with two Equals, flowers, and wind spindles.

They keep her memory, even if I can’t.

They hold the threads I burned.

This Isn’t a Story of Repair.

This isn’t a story with a lesson wrapped in a bow.

It’s a confession.

A reflection.

A reckoning with grief and what it pulls out of us.

Sometimes, it pulls out beauty.

Sometimes, it pulls out poison.

All I know is this: if my story teaches anything, I hope it’s this—

Offer love before you offer hate.

Because grief doesn’t ask who’s ready. It just arrives—and it doesn’t care who it destroys.

The shower hit and I found myself thinking, man… people are really going through life.

This girl just lost her son to brain cancer.
That guy had the cops called on him because he took his daughter’s cell phone.
That lady complains about her kids—about how much she hates raising teenagers.

Meanwhile, social media scrolls by with outrage:
a grandma makes a kid ride his bike to his mom’s house in freezing weather, and the internet rallies to call CPS.

And here I am—
worried about who I am.
Trying to pinpoint what I like.

I can’t remember who introduced me to tea.
Specifically loose-leaf.

All I know is that I really love chamomile tea.
It’s so special.
It makes me genuinely happy.

That made me wonder—
what else could I introduce into my life that feels this way?

So I went looking.
I wanted to find the equivalent of tea in other cultures.
Not the drink—
the feeling.

What makes you feel at ease without explanation?

Is it the scent of a flower you’ve never named—
one you couldn’t identify if asked,
but you know exactly where to go to smell it.
You know the scent.
You know the path.

You breathe it in, and when you ask the people around you to smell it too,
they smell nothing.

That’s a tea experience.

Do we crave warmth when we’re overwhelmed—
a hug from a grandparent, a parent—
but we can’t quite find the courage to ask?

And then it just… happens.

Ugh.
That’s tea.

I was listening to National Public Radio when a caller shared something that stayed with me.

She spoke about her father—
how he never stood up for her.
She never asked him why.

She feared the question might crush him.
So she lived with the weight instead.

He died, and she never got an answer.

At first, it made me angry.
Then it made me sad.

She chose to erase herself to protect him.
To preserve his dignity.

That is bold.
That is restraint.
That is tea—to the highest degree.

Where is comfort found—
in objects, people, or rituals?

Little kids cling to their stuffies and blankets.
As adults, we reach for a favorite shirt, a worn sweatshirt.

That’s tea.

The comfort of a stranger—
also tea.

And rituals…

The morning bathroom routine.
Pulling into the garage.
Turning off the engine.
Quietly thanking God for another safe trip home.

That’s tea.

Calling that one person—
and they answer the phone with genuine enthusiasm.

Ugh.
That’s tea.

Sharing good news?
That’s tea too.

So what happens when we finish the cup of tea?

Tea isn’t meant to last forever.
That’s the whole point.
That’s tea.

To or With

There’s an old fable that says the spirit and the body are two different entities.
That before coming to Earth, the essence chose a body to arrive to.

That word matters.
To.

Because to suggests travel.
Arrival.
Distance.

Not with.
Not together.

And that’s where the story quietly turns.

If the essence came to the body, then they are partners at best—
roommates, maybe.
Learning how to cohabitate.
Learning each other’s habits.
Getting on each other’s nerves.

Two entities sharing space.
Which explains… a lot.

But if the essence came with the body—
then there was never a gap to cross.
No negotiation.
No introduction.

Just oneness.
Complete.

I started wondering which version we’re told shapes how we learn to treat ourselves.

Because some stories teach us to manage the body.
Control it.
Correct it.
Speak at it.

And some stories teach us to listen.
To trust.
To rest inside ourselves without suspicion.

Have you ever noticed how the story of Frosty the Snowman feels oddly comforting?

A hat placed.
A body animated.
A presence that arrives gentle, kind, and temporary.

No battle for control.
No hostility toward form.
Just a being happy to exist for as long as it can.

Two essences becoming best friends.

And depending on who told you that story—
that’s how you learned how to treat yourself.

If you learned to,
you might spend your life negotiating with your own body.
Trying to coexist.
Trying to get it to cooperate.

But if you learned with,
maybe you never questioned whether your body was on your side.

I think humans have always needed to believe in essence.
It’s why we give life to stories.
To objects.
To machines.

Why computers needed intelligence inside them.
Why we name our cars.
Why we talk to the moon.

Maybe we recognize essence so easily because we are made of it.

Because the body cannot live without it.
And essence, in its quiet way, only ever wants the body to live.

So I wonder—

If we were taught that our essence was our best friend…
and that it loved our body as a second entity, not an enemy…

How different would we be?

And which story did you hear?