PatiencePassions

“Universe, I beg you—get me out of here.” Bonita, 18, future star of somewhere not here, whispered this prayer like she always did before bed. Her little brother Sizwe was already asleep, drooling across his pillow like a kid auditioning for a waterfall. Their mother Agnes was exhausted, and granny was busy telling them her nightly tale of the comet. Now, Granny didn’t just gossip about regular rocks in the sky. No, this comet, she said, had moods. It had powers . Nobody knew what kind, but according to her, it was the kind of comet that might grant your heart’s secret wishes—if you caught it passing by. Naturally, everyone fell asleep. Naturally, the comet passed anyway. And naturally—chaos followed. The first sign came in the morning when Sizwe ran into the living room and screamed: “WHEN did we get a big flat screen TV!?” Agnes, sipping her instant coffee, blinked at him like he had just asked when the family adopted a giraffe. “What flat screen?” “This one!” he pointed. And sure en...

Long before the first heartbeat, long before light had even learned to shine, the universe existed in perfect order. Stars burned without falter, galaxies spun in rhythm, and worlds glowed with such harmony that even silence seemed like music. But eternity has enemies. Two brothers, ancient wanderers who had tasted the marrow of countless worlds, grew restless. To them, perfection was a prison, beauty was monotony, and order was unbearable. One whispered to the other, “ If all remains pure, there can be no story. Let us carve a wound into the universe, and from its bleeding, let life learn fear.” So they began. They sought the Fountain of Origins, hidden deep within the marrow of creation. It was said that this fountain contained the first waters ever spoken into being, waters that remembered everything—the births, the deaths, the forgotten. There, where light and shadow kissed, they planted their intent. From envy, they poured. From hunger, they poured. From cruelty, they poured. And ...

There was once a library that held everything — the victories, the failures, the secrets, and the sins of every soul who walked the earth. Some called it a prison, others a school. The wise whispered its true name: The Records. In that place, nothing was given freely. Every seeker was measured by their obstacles, their falls, their resilience. Before a gate would open, a trial would arrive. Some failed and wandered in confusion, others pressed forward with determination, never realizing that each obstacle was a mirror of their own hidden weaknesses. The Records never handed out wisdom without cost. Knowledge was not placed in idle hands. Instead, the seeker had to prove — again and again — that they could carry it without crumbling beneath its weight. That is why the guardians of the library would weave tests disguised as struggles, betrayals, even heartbreak. Each challenge was a riddle, demanding the seeker’s patience, integrity, and persistence. And still, the strangest truth remain...

By day, Granny Mercy was the village’s blessing. Her bent back carried herbs and healing, her voice soothed restless babies, and her weathered hands stitched together the wounds of neighbors. Children skipped beside her, laughing at her silly humming, and mothers swore no kinder woman had ever lived. But when night fell, Mercy became something else. The smile slipped. Her eyes shifted — slits like a serpent’s, glistening, cold. In her hut, the air thickened with whispers that never belonged to human tongues. Candles burned without flame, shadows crawled without bodies. People said the earth itself seemed to hold its breath around her home. She had not been born this way. She was forged. Her father — cruel, violent, relentless — had broken her spirit long before she touched the dark. He struck her mother down in front of her, forced her to sleep on the dirt floor like a dog while he brought strange women into the bed. The sound of laughter echoing through the thin walls became Mercy’s l...

There was a man named Self-Made . No one knew where he came from. One night, he simply appeared on the doorstep of an old woman named Lucy—no parents, no note, not even a receipt. Just a baby bundled in cloth, blinking at the stars like he owned them. Lucy, practical but fond of the dramatic, decided to name him Self-Made . After all, who else but a child of the cosmos could arrive without explanation? She considered calling him Tax Refund —since for all she knew, he had been dropped off by the Revenue Office—but Self-Made sounded more dignified. She raised him as though he were a sacred mystery. But mysteries attract suspicion, and when Self-Made grew old enough to wander, the neighbourhood kids mocked him. “Self-Made? What are you, a motivational poster that learned to walk?” He grew up misunderstood, bullied, and quietly aching for love. His childhood was not filled with playground games, but with questions too large for his small shoulders. Years later, after Lucy passed away, he ...

This year’s retrogrades carry an undeniable force — a kind of divine mirror reflecting our deepest blockages back at us with piercing clarity. I’ve started to see myself in full awareness, layer by layer, and it’s both uncomfortable and liberating. Take Mercury Retrograde in Leo for instance. In the past, it exposed how much I feared expressing myself. Shyness, fear of judgment, and second-guessing my every word kept me locked in silence. But this retrograde was different. It challenged me to release my voice, to speak without hesitation, and to stop shrinking just to fit into the comfort of others. I realized I had been holding myself back for far too long. Mercury didn’t just disrupt my flow — it freed me. Then came Saturn Retrograde , the father planet, the strict teacher. Normally Saturn’s lessons sting, but this year, Saturn took a gentler approach. Almost like a nurturing parent, it guided me to look at my shortcomings with compassion instead of criticism. It revealed my lack o...

Recently, I was triggered. A simple picture of someone stirred a storm inside me—doubt, fear, anxiety, longing, loneliness, even a hint of excitement. The emotions rushed in all at once, and for a moment, I felt like crying. It wasn’t just the picture; it was the memory of who I used to be when feelings like these came up. In the past, this kind of emotional wave would pull me straight into a rabbit hole. I would overthink, obsess, act impulsively, and chase after validation in people or situations. I confused desperation for connection, and longing for love. I thought if I could just do something about those feelings, they would go away. But they never did. Instead, they grew into jealousy, envy, and self-doubt. They ate away at my confidence, my peace, and my ability to simply be. But this time, something shifted. Instead of falling into the same old pattern, I caught myself. I paused. I gave myself a three-day “time out” to breathe, recenter, and ask myself the real question: Why do...

What’s wrong with you? No, really— what’s wrong with you? Why the obsession with being right when you’re standing knee-deep in wrong? Do you even see it, or do you just like the sound of your own voice bouncing off the walls of your ego’s echo chamber? You wear wisdom like a costume, but underneath— there’s nothing but air. You parade as the saint everyone supposedly “dislikes” for their kindness— but that’s not it. It’s the naivety, the desperate people-pleasing, the blindness to the hands steering you straight into a cliff. You call it kindness. I call it denial. You say you don’t care what people think, but you do. You say you hate attention, but I see you bathing in it— pretending to drown while secretly breathing it in. You say you’re warm, but your kindness has frostbite. You say you’re humble, but your eyes are glass daggers, your smile is a locked door. You point at everyone’s flaws like you’re holding court— Toxic. Mistake. Narcissist. But your own basket is overflowing, and y...

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my future. Not just a casual hmm , what’s for dinner tomorrow kind of thinking, but the deep, staring-at-the-ceiling, borderline philosophical type of contemplation. You know — the “What do I actually want from life?” conversations you have with yourself when no one’s watching. And here’s the thing: I’ve always dreamed of independence. Not just financial independence (though, yes please), but the every-aspect-of-my-life kind. The type of independence where my decisions, my space, and my peace are all mine. Picture this: I’m in a relationship, my partner lovingly says, “ Babe, why don’t you move in with me?” And me? I’d probably say no. Not because I don’t love them, but because I’ve always wanted to experience living alone — to know what it’s like to have a space that’s entirely mine. To arrange the furniture how I want. To leave dishes in the sink and answer to no one. To dance in the living room in mismatched socks without an audience. Someti...

Birthdays have always been a battlefield for me — a silent struggle hidden beneath the surface. Every year when my special day approaches, anxiety quietly creeps in, weaving a tangled web of questions and doubts: Will anyone remember? Will I be celebrated? Am I worthy of being seen ? For so long, I shoved these feelings under the rug, hiding the ache behind a veil of silence. Because the truth is, I crave celebration. I crave acknowledgment. I crave validation. And when those don’t come, when only a few remember or no one celebrates, I feel invisible — like I don’t matter. This year, I made a promise to myself. I told myself: No more hiding. No more silence. No more waiting. Why should I wait for others to validate my worth? Why should I lean on others to see my light? The answer hit me like a lightning bolt — because I haven’t truly seen myself. So today, on my birthday, I’m celebrating me. Not waiting for applause or recognition from the crowd. I’m honoring the milestones I’ve quiet...

Sometimes, my heart feels like it betrays me. You bend your back backwards for people, but they won’t even acknowledge it. No matter what you do, it’s taken as nothing — and it breaks you. What stings the most? These are grown adults. In the past, I let things slide just to keep the peace. But sometimes my emotions got the better of me, and I’d react. Not anymore. Now, it takes everything in me not to react the way I used to. When someone provokes me, I do my utmost best to respond — not react. It’s not easy. But it’s beautiful. Because here’s the twist — those same “adults” may not like your calm. You chose to respond with maturity. They chose to react with childishness. And that difference? That’s where your power lives.

Today, I found myself sitting in silence. Not the kind wrapped in serenity or peace. No, this silence was different — too quiet. The kind that hums with an unsettling stillness. The kind that feels like stagnancy. I thought I’d be used to it by now. But I’m not. And I won’t lie to you — it’s uncomfortable. Who wants to sit in the thick, slow energy of feeling stuck? Certainly not me. But here I am again, learning from it. Because stagnancy, I’ve come to learn, isn’t empty. It’s full. It’s just that what it’s full of… isn’t always pretty. It’s in these quiet seasons that things rise to the surface. Old wounds. Ancient doubts. The kind of feelings you thought you had buried under progress. The self-doubt. The anxiety. The overthinking. The looming fog of depression. The aching unease. It's like you want to trust the process, but it feels almost impossible to believe there is one. And each time it hits, I react the same. I break down. I cry to God — not softly, but angrily. Desperatel...

I've been feeling a surge of energy lately, and it's all thanks to the recent retrogrades. As someone who's recently discovered the world of astrology, I'm fascinated by how these celestial events impact our lives. This year's retrogrades have been particularly significant for me, and I'm excited to share my experiences with you. When Mercury retrograded in my sun sign, Leo, I initially panicked. I'd heard horror stories about Mercury retrograde's chaotic effects on communication. But this time, something felt different. The energy was lighter, yet more profound. Instead of chaos, I felt a nudge to be more expressive. I started blogging, which has helped me build confidence in my communication skills. As Saturn and Neptune retrograded, I gained new insights into my impulsive nature. I realized that I often act first and think later, letting my ego get in the way. These retrogrades taught me the value of responding instead of reacting. Silence can be a po...