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Some days, I feel like I am not one self —

but many selves, scattered like torn pieces of felt

adrift on a shifting sea.

Each fragment holds a mood, a memory,

a silence I never dared to speak aloud.

I am a collection of floating islands,

stitched together only by longing.

Some islands burn with fury.

Some tremble with nostalgia.

Some are quiet — content to simply exist

without being named.

These islands don’t always belong to the same geography.

They drift — Persian, German, Woman, Artist, Witness,

none fully anchored,

yet none fully lost.

There are islands shaped by exile,

by the unspoken ache of leaving

and the impossible yearning to return.

Some islands were shaped by familiarity —

not the kind that grows loud over time,

but the kind that arrived like a breeze

through a half-open window.

Brief, sunlit places

where I was known

without needing to explain myself.

Where quiet presence was enough,

and understanding lived between silences.

These moments didn’t ask for names.

They weren’t promises,

but recognitions —

small gestures that said: I see you.

And for a while,

that was more than enough.