A weekly light — poetry, stories, and reflections from the strange in-between.

I make the storm on purpose.

I don’t wait for it.
I shut the door in my head
and let the pressure climb
until the air starts to move
on its own

This isn’t discipline.
It’s ignition.

I pace familiar thoughts.
prod the half-formed ones.
Invite everything unfinished
to start circling.

The noise is internal.
Static and wind in the skull.
I need the spin.

Ideas tear loose from their edges—
half-true, half-useless,
memories brushing against possibilities,
colliding until something sharp survives.

I don’t chase every thought.
That’s how you lose your footing
inside your own mind.

I wait for the heavy ones.
The ideas with gravity.
The ones that don’t lift
no matter how wild it gets.

This is the part people don’t see:
how you learn the angles of your own thoughts,
how you lean just enough
to stay upright
while everything else lifts.

When it settles,
I’m left with one real thing
and the echo of everything else
still rattling around upstairs.

I didn’t stumble into this.
I opened the door
from the inside.

🕯️ Lantern Note:
Inspiration doesn’t always arrive quietly. Sometimes it needs pressure, motion, and a willingness to let your thoughts get a little dangerous before something honest breaks through.

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The Lantern returns every Thursday