I don’t usually say “no” out loud. Not like people imagine—with steely resolve or loud announcements.
But I speak quietly—in small decisions, in between invitations, or when I left several trivial texts unanswered.
When I moved to Taipei two decades ago (for work), I didn’t have a set list of goals. I arrived with curiosity and a bag full of lonely ambition. The first several months felt like a jumble of polite conversations and an endless stream of data on spreadsheets. I attended dinners with coworkers because I had to, not because I wanted to. I replied yes because of responsibility but no in my heart.
However, I gradually began to make other choices.
I stopped wasting my evenings with pointless nonsense. I found cafes with fogged-up windows and dim lighting where I could write. I stopped accepting weekend plans simply to avoid being alone. I began declining activities that diverted my attention away from what was important: reflection, art, and authentic experiences.
Some people express “no” by closing doors. I say it while slowly walking in the opposite direction.
I may not always know where I’m heading, but I do know what I’m no longer willing to participate in. That’s a start.
These days, my “no” does not imply rejection. It’s a diversion or a simple acknowledgment of the space I require to breathe, create, and exist.
I recall the moment I nodded and allowedhimto sit across from me in that café. It was hardly anything. However, it was pregnant with meaning.
I had always said no to strangers, spontaneous encounters, and anything that threatened the careful solitude I had built around myself like armor. But that day, I didn’t.
I didn’t say “yes” aloud. I simply didn’t say “no”.
And sometimes, that’s okay.
Quiet Nod
It wasn’t a yes. Just a twitch in my neck and a rebellion beneath my breasts— a dare whispered to the soft animal of my body: Stay.
You dragged the chair and stirred something feral I’d buried beneath work and loneliness.
You sat and asked nothing. Still, I answered by not running.
And maybe that’s how it starts— without longing, but with the smallest betrayal of your own solitude.
Maybe the truest ‘no’ is the one we say to fear—so that something else can finally answer yes.
I discovered Annie Ernaux’s writing pretty recently and at a time when I was learning to trust my own voice. I’ve been writing for a long time, but apart from blog updates, I almost never published my work. (I published 4 poems in online literary journals last year). Though I love writing, I spent the last 15 years focusing on my art, pushing writing to the back burner.
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I write poetry and short stories now and then. They are nothing grand or serious because I don’t feel compelled to write a whole book with a complete plotline and characters. I collected my short stories; some are purely fiction, and some are based on true experiences and stories. I have never met anyone who writes like me until I came across Annie Ernaux’s work.
Reading Ernaux was like finding a mirror I never knew existed. Ernaux, like me, dissects the past obsessively. She revisits memories repeatedly, searching for meaning in fragmented events of the past. But there was a difference I couldn’t ignore. Ernaux writes with a stark, almost clinical detachment. She lays out the details of her life as if she is simply recording facts. She does not romanticize or dramatize; she just records the experiences. Her writing reads like an autopsy of the past, as if she had already processed it, wrapped it up, and put it on a shelf labeled “This happened in the past.” She records the details of her love affairs, including the lurid moments, without nostalgia, shame, or guilt. This is what she wrote about one of her lovers:
“The man for whom I had learned them had ceased to exist in me, and I no longer cared whether he was alive or dead.” ~ Getting Lost
And that, I realized, is where she and I diverge.
I don’t just remember the past—I relive it. Every emotion returns, undiluted by time. I don’t just recall what happened; I feel it as if it’s still unfolding inside me. The joy, the pain, the longing, the grief—they rush back in full force. Because of this, my writing is anything but detached. When I write essays, blog posts, poems, or stories inspired by past events, they carry the pulse of my emotions. They are raw and undiminished. And for a long, long time, I felt ashamed of my voice and lacked confidence in expressing myself. I thought that was a flaw.
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I admired Ernaux’s ability to write without apology or hesitation. I wondered if I needed to learn detachment and strip my words of emotions so they could be seen as more “literary” and taken more seriously. After all, isn’t that what makes writing powerful—the ability to observe without being consumed? But the more I wrote, the more I realized: I don’t have to be like her. I don’t have to sever myself from my emotions to be a writer.
I realized that I don’t have to strive to be as detached as Ernaux. I can learn to be confident in my voice and embrace my own way of writing. My writing is where memory stays alive, where emotions breathe between the lines, unfiltered, unsoftened.
My words do not have to be clinical to be valid. They do not have to be detached to hold power. I am learning to write without shame, guilt, and hesitation. I will not erase the emotions—I will let them exist freely.
Perhaps I will never reach the kind of distance Ernaux has from her past. But that’s okay; my voice is mine, and it is enough.
So I wonder—must we detach from memory to write about it? Or is feeling everything deeply has its own power?
Obsession is not just in longing; it’s also loving him in fragments. Here’s a series of short fragmented thoughts about him—scattered images, sensations, memories, desires. They are pieces of my obsession.
His hair gently brushing his forehead, blown by the fan as he sleeps on our bed.
Him standing on the kitchen sink washing the dishes after dinner. The slope of his bare shoulders, the muscles on his back, the scratches I made, naked except for his dark boxers.
The way he hums as he unloads the laundry.
He sits on the couch, shirtless, scrolling through the reels, smirking, chuckling depending on what he watches.
His prolonged silence after I uttered some cutting remarks.
The way my eyes drift lower, tracing the shift of fabric, wondering what lies beneath.
As he passes me on the way to the bathroom, I reach out, my fingers grazing over him in a teasing touch.
The curve of his shoulder in the half-light when we took a nap in the afternoon.
The way he stares at me, intense and serious, before he smiles.
The way his voice cracks when he’s tired, rough and tender at the edges.
The smell of earth and salt on his skin after rain.
As he shifts in his sleep, the fabric rides up, revealing just enough to make my breath catch.
The smell of his skin after a shower.
His hands, always his hands, calloused and tender, mapping my body in the late afternoon while the curtain gently blew by the breeze.
His gentle snores, and sometimes he snorted while sleeping. Depending on how tired I am, it either amuses me or annoys me.
The way he looks at me when he thinks I am not watching.
I gently kiss his scars on his arms and chest.
The taste of his lips.
The heat of his body against mine. The weight of his arm across my waist while spooning.
The sound of his key in the door. I could hear it jangle as he exited the lift.
The shadow of his stubble in the morning.
The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall.
The way he holds my legs and rests them on his shoulders, his breath mingling with mine as we dissolve into one another.
The way his mouth finds me, his tongue teasing, drawing a gasp from my lips.
The way he looks at the ocean and squeezes my hand gently.
The way his eyes turn dark after a desperate “I love you” right before he shatters.
The way he says “look at me” right before I unravel.
The way he moves through a room.
His pain and grief over the people he couldn’t save.
The emptiness he leaves behind, a hollow I carry with me, a shape I can’t stop trying to fill.
Obsession doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes, it exists in the way his fingers grasp my arm and let go too slowly, or in the way I watch him without speaking. It’s in the moments I don’t say aloud. The glances stolen across a dinner table, or the scent of his cologne in a silent car ride home. I don’t need to explain this love. I only need to describe it—as it exists in my memory, in my body, in every small, quiet way it consumes me.
I didn’t like the things he said to me, so I retorted. He stared at me, raised his cup to his lips, and kept eating. We continued to eat amidst the clinks of cutlery and conversations around us. We finished our food, got up from our chairs, paid for it, and left. The air was balmy as we walked to the car. Nothing moved, not even a leaf. He switched the ignition; I reached for the AC, and seconds later, the radio. The DJ chattered on about a celebrity’s antics that I had no interest in, but I listened intently. When the ad came on, I kept listening. It was a promotion for a new fragrance. I thought about my almost empty perfume bottle at home. I glanced his way, taking a quick look at his jaw, hair, nose, lips, and eyes. Especially his eyes. He navigated the traffic cautiously, signaled before switching lanes, and braked when he needed to stop. The DJ continued to talk, the AC continued to hum—diffusing the heat between us.
It was late evening. The sky was deep navy, and the moon peeked gently over the clouds. I didn’t expect to see the stars, but a few dotted the sky. We had been sitting on the park bench right after leaving the cafe. We were in no rush to go home, though it was getting late. He wanted to walk me home, and I said okay. Trees lined the street. Their branches swaying softly in the breeze. Suddenly I misstepped slightly on the uneven sidewalk and stumbled. His hand darted out to steady me. His fingers wrapped around my arm, and he asked if I was okay. His grasp was firm, and after ensuring I was alright, his grip loosened but lingered slightly longer than necessary. I didn’t say anything but continued to walk, secretly hoping I would stumble again.
I love him so intensely that it aches. My heart clenches at the mere thought of him—and I think of him constantly. Never in my life have I experienced such overwhelming love for someone. Never did I believe such a love was possible. I don’t even know how to put my feelings for him into words, but I’m trying. Maybe not by proclaiming to the world how much he means to me or delving into philosophical debates about the nature of our love. My own thoughts feel jumbled and incoherent, so why bother explaining them to anyone else? Instead, why not simply describe the love itself? Describe the actions, the moments, and the way it unfolds in my memory?
He rarely talks about his work. I know he analyzes criminal behavior and patterns, making critical decisions based on his findings. I know he works long hours and is often gone for days at a time. He spares me the details, and I never ask. Not because I don’t care, but because I don’t want to be the one to remind him of the darkness he faces. Still, I can’t help but imagine it.
On the days he is with me, I see his eyes—the shadows lurking in their depths that he tries to hide. Sometimes, he stares into the distance, to a place I will never reach. I hear his quiet sighs. And at night, when we sleep, I feel his muscles tense as he thrashes in his dreams. On nights like these, I gently grasp his wrist and call his name, coaxing him back to me. His forehead and brows are damp with sweat, soaking his pillow. He wakes, startled, before his eyes focus and relief washes over him. On nights like these, I hold him in my arms, rocking him like a frightened child. He clings to me without a word, and we stay like that until we fall asleep. On nights like these, I pray—shamelessly, desperately—for God to pull him from the abyss, from demons I can neither see nor fight.
Writing requires an intimacy few are ready for. To write with vulnerability on the page is to bare your soul, to peel back what protects you, to expose the raw truths of your life, some of which you may not, in fact, fully grasp yourself. It’s frightening, messy, and gut-wrenchingly human. But instead, it is that vulnerability that makes writing not just words on a page but a lifeline that connects us to other people. This is the fundamental truth of vulnerability that enables stories to resonate, yet achieving it is not effortless.
For the majority of us, the fear of being judged is ever present. Vulnerability means revealing your fears, desires, and truths—and thus relinquishing control over how others see you. You are declaring to the world, “This is who I am,” and inviting the world to respond. Do they embrace you, or do they consider your words mere piffle and your truths undesirable? This fear silences many writers, imprisoning their deepest truths.
“Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.” ~ Natalie Goldberg
I know this fear very well because I am still struggling with it. And I want to dig deep; I want to uncover what is beneath the surface. But whenever I come close to it, I waver. What happens if I face judgment? What if what I expose is too much? And yet, I also recognized that my writing without vulnerability will never touch the depths I so admire in others.
Recently, I wrote in my journal about this struggle, attempting to give shape to my thoughts. Here is an excerpt:
I have a muse, and I don’t know how long this affair with him will last. Let’s call him a “he.” He has inspired me in ways I never anticipated, uncovering memories and stories I had buried deep within myself for nearly 30 years. These memories are ripe with potential, rich material for my writing. But they are also deeply personal. Writing them down makes me feel exposed, as if I’ve peeled back the protective layers I’ve spent decades building.
For so long, I felt compelled to bury these memories, weighed down by a profound sense of shame. Even though many of these experiences were beautiful in their time, I couldn’t separate them from the shame I carried. Now, as I write them down one by one, I’m finally allowing myself to face them. If you ever read these stories, you may think of them as trash, boring, or mediocre. That’s okay. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I am writing them as honestly as I can. I’m capturing the vulnerability, the yearning, the fear, the exhilaration, the fantasy, the lust, the love. I don’t know where these words will take me, but for now, I’m writing for myself. I’m writing the truth.
Reading back on this, I see how much I have hidden myself over the years. No one taught me to embrace vulnerability. Instead, I learned to shield myself, to appear strong and impervious. But writing requires the opposite. It invites you to soften, to let down your defenses, and to allow the world in. For me, this process resembles the gradual opening of a long-closed door.
Writing with vulnerability is akin to navigating a narrow path. It asks you to face your own truths without self-censorship and resist the temptation to embellish or dramatize for effect. Authentic vulnerability is subtle; it doesn’t shout, “Look at me!” It tells truths—truths that ring true because they’re passionately felt.
And despite this knowledge, vulnerability remains elusive. Writing for myself, as I have done with my journal, is one thing; it’s another to share that writing with others. This process of exposing your vulnerability is analogous to entering a stage naked under the bright glare of a spotlight. It is terrifying, but it is also necessary.
I frequently reflect on my reasons for writing. Do I write to make myself heard, to understand others, or just to connect? Perhaps it’s all three. What I do know is that the writers I admire most are those who are unafraid to be vulnerable. Their words linger, because they have the bravery to speak their truths, however flawed or uncomfortable. This is the kind of writer I aspire to be—one who writes with honesty and heart, one who has enough courage to be exposed.
The process of getting to this level of openness is ongoing. There are days when I feel courageous enough to face my truths and days when I slink back, too scared to face judgment. But every word I write brings me a little closer to that ideal. Vulnerability is not weakness but strength, I tell myself. It’s what makes us human, and it’s what makes writing worth reading.
So here I am, writing my truths, one hesitant word at a time. I don’t know where I’ll go from here, but I do know that I’m finally beginning to embrace the vulnerability that once terrified me. And in doing so, I hope to uncover not only the stories within me but also the courage to share them with the world.
I spent years believing I had to measure up to something or to someone. Like many people, the idea that I wasn’t good enough was planted early by well-meaning adults who thought comparisons were a form of encouragement. I believe the term was “reverse psychology.” This is especially prevalent in Asian households. Asian parents love comparing their kids to their peers. We have to study hard so we can be at the top of the class or outshine so-and-so’s son or daughter. We have to be more obedient, more successful, and more beautiful. The adults meant well, but what they didn’t realize was that they reinforced the belief that being “enough” is conditional. It’s exhausting. I spent years trying to prove I was enough. But enough for who?
I remember hints of comparison were occasionally discussed among the adults. I was a plain-looking child and didn’t resemble my siblings. My mom was a beauty in her younger days. And there was I, an awkward, sullen, pimply, tomboyish teenager who always scowled. I wasn’t graceful or dainty; I hated skirts and dresses. I was always wearing sneakers. I believed I was lacking in so many ways. To compensate for my perceived lack, I vowed to excel in school and get good grades—which I did, graduating magna cum laude with a BSc. (Hons) in Information Technology in 2002. And later on career successes and many other achievements. They became the measure of my worth.
After these impressive achievements, did I feel enough? Not even close. When I inevitably fell short, the voice in my head whispered, “See? You’re still not enough.”
It took me well into my 40s to realize that no finish line existed. I wish I could say that I woke up one day and felt instantly enlightened—“Stop this b******t. I am enough as I am!” No. The realization came gradually.
This happened after years of some pretty impressive achievements—publishing books, radio interviews, being featured in magazines and a newspaper, collaborating on projects with artists worldwide, and publishing my poems. Despite all of that, I always felt a huge void in my heart because I felt I needed to achieve more and more things in life. No final achievement or external approval would ever silence the feeling of not being enough. Even when I reached milestones, the goalposts moved. Even when I improved, it still wasn’t enough—because the world always demands more. I was completely burned out. I had reached my lowest point and required months of counseling to achieve a breakthrough. Writing and making art helped. I channeled my frustrations and heartbreak into my work.
Then I quit.
I quit chasing an undefined version of “more.” I quit tying my worth to productivity, praise, validation, or comparisons. Along with that decision, I asked myself, “What if I was enough exactly as I am?”
I started to ask myself, what does being enough mean to me? Not according to the eyes of society, family, or anyone else, but me? This is what I discovered: enough is waking up and existing with all my flaws, my fears, my joys, and my struggles. Enough is embracing my experiences, my voice, my thoughts, my pace, my perspectives, and my opinions—without feeling ashamed and the need for external validation. Enough is understanding that I don’t have to prove my worth or anything to anyone because I exist simply as I am, complete as God intended me to be.
It’s a radical shift but a necessary one. And believe me, it doesn’t happen overnight. Some days the negative thoughts return, but I’m learning to meet them with kindness and grace. I keep reminding myself every day, like a mantra—even when I’m unproductive, have no achievements, think lustful thoughts, write explicit fictions, gain weight, have more and more gray hairs, financially struggle, be perimenopausal, not pray or read my Bible, curse, hate, or love—I am still enough.
Change is not sustainable without changing old habits. This includes rewiring my brain to speak kindly to myself. Instead of chastising myself for not doing better, I remind myself, “That was a good experience. You’re learning, and that is enough.” I also started to be mindful of my excuses and my sense of guilt and shame. I stop over-explaining things to people or bending to meet expectations that don’t align with me. And most important of all, I give myself the love, kindness, and grace to be fully human. I am not a robot. I have emotions, I make mistakes, and I get tired. It’s okay if I can’t anymore. I am free to rest without guilt.
There is nothing more exhausting than trying to justify your existence. And nothing more freeing than realizing you never had to. Here is a poem I wrote months ago that encapsulates this whole thing.
Enough
I peel the mask, layers like sunburned skin— soft, blistered—beneath the face forgotten in mirrors.
Naked, I walk into the jaws of daylight, each step a confession, bones rattling truth like marbles in a jar, heavy with silence, weighted with breath.
I wear the scars like medals, silvered lines map the wars I never won— but here, in the raw air— I am enough.
This piece captures the meaningful moments of a young narrator, an 18-year-old girl, as she deals with the unexpected shift in her reality. The clipped sentences show her youthful hesitancy. There is no over-explanation, only feeling—raw and unfiltered—told in a voice still learning how to express the depth of its own desire.
At first he was just another presence in the background, like a page in a book that I kept flipping back to without knowing why. He was handsome, though I had never given it much thought. Until one day the words slipped out before I could stop them.
I hadn’t expected it to become anything more. But my friend decided otherwise. She took my offhand comment and made sure it reached him.
Days passed before I learned what she had done. It was a casual mention, out of my silent observation, but now it had become something larger. But much to my relief, nothing came of it. No reaction. No acknowledgment. Life moved on, and that one blunder faded into the stream of ordinary days.
Then one afternoon, everything completely changed.
The bus ride home was a blur of exhaustion. The lull of the engine hummed in the background. My thoughts drifted aimlessly as the scenery flickered past the window. And then, he was there.
The bus was pretty empty, with plenty of free seats, but he walked up to where I was sitting and took the seat next to mine. For a second I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The entire world had shifted on its axis.
I risked a glance in his direction. He had a black jacket on top of a navy blue t-shirt, dark trousers, and brown shoes. His short, straight black hair framed his face. His hands were tucked into his pockets.
The silence stretched between us, saved for the sounds of late afternoon traffic and the occasional ring of the bell.
And then, a simple invitation.
I wasn’t prepared for it or expecting it, but the answer left my lips before doubt could take hold. And with that, the path was set. The bus rattled forward as if nothing had changed. But everything had.
When we arrived at our stop, he met my gaze. Then he turned towards the street. Without hesitation, I followed.
We walked side by side in silence. The long shadows of the streetlights lay on the pavement, and the faint chatter of office workers rushing home floated in the air. Once we reached the door, he stepped ahead and held it open for me. His hands rested lightly against the frame.
I stepped inside. The warmth of the cafe wrapped around us. For a moment, I wasn’t able to even look at him. A flurry of emotions brewed in my chest; my heart pounded. But when I finally looked up, there he was, a slight smile on his lips.
And in that moment, I felt it. A soft, trembling hope for something I didn’t know if I was ready for, but I couldn’t help wanting it anyway.
I have been wanting to read books by the French author, Annie Ernaux, since she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2022, but I never got around to it until about a week ago. I was scrolling through my reading list on Everand and came across Ernaux’s book, Simple Passion. Since the book is short, 80 pages, I gave it a go. It took me one afternoon, in between daily routines, to finish it.
I’ve been a Scribd, and later Everand’s subscriber since 2018.
I’m blown away. Some books tell a story. Simple Passion does not. Instead, it captures her obsession with a man in its purest form. In this book, Ernaux presents a raw, unembellished account of her affair with a married man. This is an autofiction. Yes, it’s autobiographical with elements of fiction woven into the story.
The affair took place in the 80s, and I made a quick calculation. Ernaux would be in her late 40s when these events took place. Ernaux was divorced with two sons. The man was a lot younger, and I thought that was hot, but I digress.
Ernaux’s writing is fragmented, which surprised me. They bear resemblance to my (fiction) writing style. Ernaux’s narrative is not chronological. It’s like she’s jotting down memories and insights as they come to her. This rawness is what makes Simple Passion so devastatingly honest. She confesses:
I am incapable of describing the way in which my passion for A developed day by day. I can only freeze certain moments in time and single out isolated symptoms of a phenomenon whose chronology remains uncertain—as in the case of historical events.
Like I mentioned, this is my first Ernaux book. I wouldn’t say I love the language (perhaps the translation from French loses something), but I do admire the way she lays her experience bare. Ernaux wrote without using big, bombastic words and without self-pity. She stripped unnecessary details, and it’s brutal in the best way.
Her grief after her lover leaves for his home country is palpable. However, Ernaux doesn’t indulge us with the details of her feelings. She shows us instead through her actions, through her emptiness in her daily routine, and through the strange ways she tries to keep him close even in his absence.
One day, lying on my stomach, I gave myself an orgasm; somehow I felt that it was his orgasm.
It’s as if they were one entity, inseparable, even when apart.
And then there’s the bargaining. The desperate, irrational belief that she could will him back:
If he calls me before the end of the month, I’ll give five hundred francs to a charity.
She clings to the past by recreating moments as if reliving them could make moments repeat themselves:
If I went somewhere I had been to last year, when he was here—to the dentist or a staff meeting—I would wear the same suit as before, trying to convince myself that identical circumstances produce identical effects and that he would call me that evening.
Her lover did end up calling her one day, a week after the Gulf War was declared. After months of grieving for her lover, she finally got her closure. They had one last moment together, and that was the end of it. What remains now is her grief—for him and for the person she was when she was with him.
I had decided to learn his language. I kept, without washing it, a glass from which he had drunk.
I grieved with her. Not because I have lived her story, but because I have lived a version of it. I, too, have known an all-consuming love that was never meant to last. I have felt the bittersweet ache of moving forward without someone who once defined my existence. I have wondered, in private moments, what life would have been like if it had been him. If our child had been his. If he remembers me in passing thoughts, or comparing others to me. These are the kinds of things we don’t speak aloud, not even to our closest friends, but they remain, surfacing in the most unexpected moments.
One of the most striking passages in the book is this:
I do not wish to explain my passion, that would imply that it was a mistake or some disorder I need to justify—I just want to describe it.
In my opinion, this is what makes Ernaux’s writing so powerful. She does not seek redemption or understanding. She does not attempt to explain away her feelings. She simply describes them, and in doing so, she gives permission to readers to experience them in their own terms.
Ernaux did not write this book to boast about herself or her lover. She wrote it as a gift to those who have felt this same kind of passion and loss. In her own words, it’s an offering. As all great writers do, Ernaux knew that certain experiences are universal no matter how unique they seem.
I haven’t written a book about him, neither have I written a book about myself. All I have done is translate into words the way in which his existence has affected my life. An offering of a sort, bequeathed to others.
And that is exactly what Simple Passion feels like to me—an offering. It lingers in my mind even days after I turned the final page.
Note:There is a movie adaptation if you are interested. It was released in 2020. I haven’t watch it but here’s the trailer. In the novel, Ernaux described that her lover look a bit like Alain Delon which was wow.
There’s a Facebook post circulating about James Harrison, an Australian man whose blood plasma donations saved 2.4 million babies. I never would have heard of this amazing man had I not stumbled upon this post on my newsfeed. So I did a quick Google search and found out he had passed away very recently at the age of 88. Harrison started donating his blood in 1954, and it was later discovered that his blood contained a high level of anti-D antibodies. I don’t know how to explain this, so I am going to quote Wikipedia verbatim:
Blood which contains a high level of anti-D antibodies can be processed to create immunoglobulin-based products used to prevent haemolytic disease of the newborn (HDN). These products are given to Rh(D) negative mothers of unknown or Rh(D) positive babies during and after pregnancy to prevent the creation of antibodies to the blood of the Rh(D) positive child. This antigen sensitization and subsequent incompatibility phenomenon causes Rh disease, the most common form of HDN. Source
Through his donations, he had provided countless doses of anti-D and helped prevent neonatal deaths and stillbirths. That is an extraordinary feat of kindness and human generosity.
However, underneath that Facebook post, a discussion erupted. Some commentators argued that he is more deserving of recognition than celebrities or authors who have won Nobel prizes. They said, after all, what is literature compared to saving human lives?
I beg to differ.
There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that saving a life through blood or plasma donation is unquestionably noble. His noble deed is tangible, irrefutable, with an immediate positive effect. But to dismiss the contributions of literature or to suggest that books and the written word (regardless of their form) do not save lives is to misunderstand the very essence of what it means to be human.
I was a reader long before I was an artist or a writer. Books have been my refuge since I was eight years old. They were my loyal and constant companions when the world felt too lonely, too loud, or too indifferent. And I believe with all my heart I am not alone in this. Across the world, people have found comfort in literature, be it in the carefully written stories of others or in poetry. There are countless, nameless people who stood on the edge of despair and were ready to give up their lives, only to find themselves pulled back from that edge by a book, a passage, a poem, or even a fictional character. All of these elements of literature become a reminder that they were never alone in facing their darkness.
My latest read. It’s a comforting read for those suffering from depression (MDD or dysthymia).
Books do not just entertain. They also bring healing to those who invest time reading them. I wrote a post about this a couple of months ago, where I discussed the transformative power of literature. Literature and the written word offer clarity where confusion resides. They offer hope where darkness lingers. They validate the lonely, challenge the complacent, and give voice to the voiceless.
If a blood donor saves a body, an author can save a mind, a heart, and a reason to keep going.
So, should James Harrison be honored? Absolutely. But so should the authors, the poets, and all storytellers who brought comfort to the broken souls. There is a reason for every good thing we accomplished in this world. Our life is not just about survival. We can do good things too, just like blood/plasma donors, or write something to encourage someone. And both groups of people play their parts in making the world a place worth living in.
I wrote this introspective piece to capture unresolved emotions, the passage of time, and the delicate dance between nostalgia and moving forward. It’s about past love that is neither fully rekindled nor entirely lost. It’s fragmented because there is no backstory. It’s intentional because the absence of a backstory forces the reader to feel rather than just understand.However, it is related to another story I wrote previously – After All These Years.
The rain kept pouring, turning everything into a soft blend of grays and greens, like a painting that had come to life. It reflected the fog in my mind, the doubt that had brought me here. I didn’t want to go back at all. What was waiting for me when I got back to the city? Plenty of bills were sitting on the kitchen counter, ready for me to pick them up. There were tax notices in each envelope, and they kept coming on time. Of course, I was constantly getting glossy brochures from real estate agents advertising different homes for rent or sale, as if they could give me the security I really craved. They claimed that property was the foundation of our modern life. Have we forgotten what it means to belong in our quest for a place to call home?
The town was so different from the hectic pace of daily life that it felt like a different world. You could feel like time was moving slower here. When I walked into that little bookshop with its worn shelves and familiar atmosphere, it stirred up something deeper inside me. Not only did the past resurface again, but it also brought up something that hadn’t been resolved. Why does that feeling persist even after years of being apart? That question hung in the air.
Was it a spark that was about to go off again, or was it just the light of ashes from the past? To bring back an old love, you have to dig up what was hidden and accept both the joy and the pain that come with it. But could it be something else—a chance to put things to rest? Is it finally possible to break free from the maze of what-ifs and let the past rest?
There was also the issue of trust. Did it still matter that you understood instead of being validated after all this time? And even if it did, would that be enough to begin a new relationship? Maybe not love, but friendship for sure. We could have maintained a bright shared past, unaffected by the decisions we’ve made along the way.
I’ve learned that desire and lasting devotion aren’t the only things that define love. It was about the possibilities, the countless ways it could evolve, even after it had already slipped away from you once. With the sound of rain on the windows and the faint smell of books in the air, I stayed in that space and thought about whether love might just be being in the same room again after all this time and finding peace between us.
Olivia's Atelier 