Shizuki Okabe

You post stock lines and drop a link, They look like poems, or so you think. They copy form but miss the part Where words take risk and come from heart. Real poems don’t announce or sell, They sit. They fail. They don’t fit well. They’re written by a breathing mind, Not sorted, tagged, and reassigned. This space is for real voices here, Not prompts that echo, cold and clear. If that’s all you came to do, This isn’t your room. Please move through.

Happy New Year, Shizu! May 2026 be ever so kind to you, cause you deserve it. Thank you for being such a genuinely great friend and conversation partner. ❤️

Time feels different when you’re exhausted. Not slower exactly, just thinner, like the hours might crack if you lean on them too hard. Sleep stops being something you fall into and turns into something you bargain with. You adjust the blankets. Check the clock. Tell yourself just a few minutes more, even though it never works that way. Lying there, it almost feels like time is moving through me instead of past me, counting itself out one minute at a time. Eventually, you stop pushing against it. You let the tired settle in, heavy and familiar, and hope that when sleep finally shows up, it’s gentle enough to carry you somewhere that doesn’t ask anything of you.