I previously published a brief introduction to these thoughts right here on Medium. Truthfully, I was questioning — as I often do — my devotion to writing. I wondered if it might be better to step away. (Was writing taking me too far from reality and the immediate necessity of finding a job?)

I’ve spent over a year unemployed. Was it because of my creative pursuits? Had my passion for writing subtly distracted me from looking for work? These doubts lingered in my mind, urging me to abandon creative writing altogether and focus solely on sending out resumes.

At the same time, I felt I was spending too much effort on posts that weren’t actually moving my literary path forward. Writing here satisfies my love for personal essays and journal entries, but I didn’t produce a major body of work this year — no finished hundred-page play, for instance, only a few poems. Why? Have I lost faith in the creative process itself? That question haunted me like a ghost. And then, of course, there is AI, an undeniably powerful tool reshaping writing and every other profession.

I also found myself questioning Medium itself. I felt the paywall offered little real value to a struggling writer, so I cancelled my membership for now. Frankly, I gain more by selling an old book from my shelf. I’m simply trying to explore alternative ways to survive and sustain my creative soul.

What are those other ways? I’m still figuring that out. To give you context: I don’t market myself as a brand on social media. I deleted all my accounts — Instagram was the last to go. I’m an anonymous writer without a social media presence, which is precisely how I like it. But then again, perhaps only truly established writers can afford to remain completely invisible, right?

For now, I’m immersing myself in reading. Truthfully, I’ve always loved reading more than writing. Returning to books feels like returning to my origin: reading by the pulse of light. After spending ten years on Instagram, I realized I had forgotten how to deeply read and embrace silence; social media constantly demands our attention.

Reclaiming quiet reading feels like a rebirth. To foster this, I created a small, minimal blog¹, free from comment sections, algorithms, or the pressure to seek validation. It’s in Spanish, as I’ve lived in Spain for nearly twenty-five years and read primarily in Spanish.

This brings me to the question of language. I constantly hesitate between writing here in English — since most of my readers write in English — and Spanish, which allows me to express myself on a deeper, more spiritual level. Writing in English often requires me to consult a dictionary, whereas Spanish flows effortlessly. Still, I wonder how to approach my Medium page. Should I continue writing in English to refine my skills, or should I publish bilingual pieces?

I’ve also been contemplating other paths. I’m considering pursuing a second degree in languages and literature. Although I already hold a degree, I’m not working in that field and never fully loved it. However, the state only grants scholarships for a first degree, meaning I’d have to finance a second one myself, something I cannot currently afford. For now, it remains a quiet ambition.

Additionally, because I love discussing books, I’ve thought about starting a Spanish YouTube channel to share my reflections (completely independent of Instagram or other platforms). I’m naturally timid, I don’t consider myself a great communicator, and I lack equipment like a camera. Yet these are all areas I can improve, and perhaps once I find a job, I can invest in proper gear.

To sum it up, nothing is completely clear yet, but I treasure this community, the warmth I’ve received, and the wonderful pieces I’ve discovered here. Without an active membership, I can only read a few stories a day via free links, but who knows? Once things settle, I may return to the Partner Program, though I try not to be overly naive about it.

Beyond this, I want to nurture my nature-focused projects, keep writing, and encourage others who share a similar spark. Right now, I find myself dreaming more about returning to university than being a writer — does that sound reasonable to you?

Please feel free to share your thoughts, your experiences, or your journey below. I would be genuinely delighted to read your stories and get to know you better. Thank you, my beloved reader.

¹ My literary blog: https://lit.thoughts.page/

Volver al origen de la creación

This story is published in “A Place Called Home” — a warm corner for real voices and honest hearts. Have a story of your own? Share it with us,“Where Your Words Feel Home.”

'A Place Called Home' —  Welcome To Our New Publication

Writing, Survival, and the Search for Meaning was originally published in A Place Called Home on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Notas de una mirada sensible, vol. 1 — Diario Literario

OCT 21, 2026–05:17PM

Vivo en una quietud eterna, sobre todo desde que cumplí con todos mis supuestos deberes y, ahora, no sé qué hacer con la vida. Leo: La vida es actividad incesante, aun en su quietud (p. 113), y más abajo: Toda vida, aun la más activa, tiene necesidad de andar encerrada en una forma, y solo dentro de ella se hace actuante¹. Levanto la vista. Mi mirada divaga, incapaz de retener nada en esta tarde somnolienta. Me pregunto si acaso mi alma se entrega mejor a los libros en esos instantes alegres, despojados de ideas y con el pensamiento desnudo.

OCT 19, 2026–11:16AM

Fuera diluvia. En el interior, busco las palabras para dar cauce a un torrente de reflexiones íntimas. Este mismo año me adentré en los diarios de Sofía y algo cambió en mí: se me cayeron las vendas de los ojos y el corazón quedó al desnudo, despojado de toda ciega veneración. Hoy, tras abordar esta obra de marcado carácter autobiográfico, ¿De quién es la culpa?, y con el eco de sus diarios aún resonando en mi memoria, se abre paso en mí una certeza dolorosa: el genio de los grandes escritores que admiramos, ese talento casi sobrenatural como el de Lev Tolstói, florece muy a menudo sobre el silencio de mujeres invisibilizadas, condenadas a sostener solas el peso entero de la vida: el hogar, la crianza, el tedio de lo cotidiano…

¿Acaso habría visto la luz una obra maestra como Anna Karénina sin el silente armazón que erigió su joven esposa, Sofia Behrs?

En la página 172, un pasaje de sus diarios lo atestigua:

«Beethoven me hizo comprender el egoísmo y la indiferencia de Lev Nikoláievich hacia todo lo que hay a su alrededor. Para él, el mundo es simplemente el medio que rodea a su genio y toma de él lo que puede ser útil a su obra. El resto lo desecha. Coge de mí, por ejemplo, mi labor de copista, mi preocupación por su bienestar físico, mi cuerpo. Mi vida espiritual no representa nada para él. […] Ni siquiera se ha molestado nunca de entenderla. Y, sin embargo, el mundo entero venera a hombres así»².

OCT 17, 2026–07:12PM

En apenas una página se cruzan dos miradas antagónicas y bellísimas sobre la educación infantil. Por un lado, la convicción de que: […] toda educación consistía en la influencia que se lograba ejercer sobre los hijos, que era esencial estar con ellos, seguir la evolución de su carácter y de su alma, y ayudarlos. Por otro, la postura contraria: lo mejor era dejarlos hacer por sí mismos, que en los niños todo era innato, que con la educación no se obtenía resultado alguno y que lo mejor era respetar su personalidad³. (p.88)

Frente a este dilema, me pregunto qué camino es realmente el acertado: ¿debemos guiar con presencia y afecto, o es preferible permitir que la vida y el tiempo moldeen la personalidad de forma natural?

OCT 16, 2026–07:17PM

Tras varios días de silencio literario (absorbida, a mi pesar, por otras ocupaciones), me apena reencontrarme con una Anna ya mudada: una Anna infinitamente más triste y quebrantada. Una Anna que, con su sensibilidad pura y romántica, anhela un amor transparente, único, incólume. Ella, apenas una joven de dieciocho años, busca un vínculo espiritual antes que carnal; solo rodeada de niños recupera la ligereza y la alegría.

«Se ejerció violencia sobre una niña; ella no estaba preparada para el matrimonio; la pasión femenina que había emergido en ella momentáneamente por los celos se sosegó de nuevo, aplastada por la vergüenza y la resistencia al amor carnal del príncipe. Quedaron el agotamiento, la depresión, la vergüenza y el miedo». (p. 42)

Al tomar distancia de las páginas, me resulta imposible no traslucir a la autora tras la figura de Anna, y a todos nos consta qué escritor se oculta tras el marido. Anna, mi pobre Anna, no florece a su lado: pierde pétalos, se marchita. Con el paso de los años llegan los hijos y ella, exhausta y sin tiempo propio, sostiene todo el cuidado y el amor que jamás recibe del padre. Y aun exhausta bajo semejante peso, a Anna se le impone la obligación de seguir siendo hermosa, apasionada, mágica, extraordinaria, sumisa, fiel, leal y pura.

«¿Es este el destino de la mujer? […] ¿Poner el cuerpo a disposición de un niño de pecho y luego del marido? Uno detrás de otro, ¡siempre! ¿Pero dónde está mi vida? ¿Dónde está mi yo? ¿Ese auténtico yo que una vez aspiró a elevarse y a servir a Dios y a sus propios ideales? Rendida, exhausta, sucumbo. No tengo una vida propia, ni terrena ni espiritual. Y, sin embargo, Dios me lo ha dado todo: salud, fuerza, talento… e incluso felicidad. ¿Por qué, pues, me siento tan infeliz?»⁴. (p. 67)

OCT 10, 2026–08:40PM

Me encuentro con Anna Aleksándrovna, ser apasionado, tierno, inclinado a la oración, quien conversa con su hermana, Natasha. Y yo, aquí, lejana, me entremezclo en la imagen que invocan sus dos distintas almas: una espiritual; la otra, mucho más asida a esta realidad terrenal. Ay, Anna… Ella, tan dada a la vida, una vida que le es robada por una voz del otro sexo, mucho más experimentada, con ese afán de conquistar lo que no es propiedad de nadie: el corazón. Anna, pobrecita mía, que no alcanza a ver las verdaderas intenciones porque ninguna otra persona tan joven, en su lugar, las vería. Y así, entre este murmullo y esta duda, sigo apegada a las páginas.

« — ¿Es ese tu ideal, Anna? ¡Oh, no te equivoques! Una no puede vivir únicamente de florecillas y pajaritos, sobre todo en la miseria! Existe también eso que se llama la prosa de la vida: las enfermedades, la cocina y las peleas… Pero tú pareces evitarla a propósito, tanto en la vida como en tu novela.

— Es que no tiene por qué ser así; es decir, no hay que prestar atención a eso. Hay que vivir una vida espiritual, mientras que todo lo demás es fortuito. Siento que podría alcanzar tal elevación espiritual que ni siquiera tendría ganas de comer. ¿Acaso no basta un pedazo de pan para sostener la vida? ¿Verdad que sí? Pues bien, será provisto. ¿Sabes, Natasha? A veces, cuando corro, me parece que , si siguiera avanzando un poco más y hundiera los pies en el suelo con más fuerza, podría contar un, dos, tres, y echar a volar. Lo mismo pasa con el alma, sí, sobre todo con el alma, siempre debe estar dispuesta a volar al infinito…»⁵ (p. 16)

OCT 09, 2026–06:14PM

Me es regalado un libro de poesía que brota desde el exilio forzoso, donde la autora misma es la voz de sus versos — transformada en un grito que reclama la patria perdida, arrancada. Y yo, con mi visión inocente, algo infantil, la imagino regresando a su casa al pie del bosque, a ese verde atemporal, y junto a ella, la tierra es renovada porque mientras existan los versos…

«Mis poemas, declamados, desafinan el teclado de mi corazón. Si aún fueran niños los que sobre mis rimas palpando teclearan las notas para mí. (¡Por favor, no digáis más!) Todavía hoy me siento en el último banco de la clase, como entonces… Pero con el corazón tardíamente hundido: de 1000 y dos años, que no está a la altura del cuento.

¡Estoy vagando! Mi cabeza vuela lejos como un pájaro, querida madre. Nadie debe robar mi libertad. Muero al borde del camino donde, querida madre, vienes y me llevas contigo al cielo azul. Sé que te ha conmovido mi flotar solitario y el ágil tictac de mi corazón y del corazón de mi preciado hijo»⁶. (p. 79)

OCT 09, 2026–12:55PM

Llevo el alma alegre, aunque no por ello de piedra. Alegre y honda a la vez; sensible hasta doler, delicada como una planta nerviosa y temblorosa. Como ella, como Mathilda. Cabe imaginarla: Siento mi pulso, late deprisa; pongo mi mano delgada en la mejilla, arde; noto dentro de mí una leve y viva energía que emite ya sus últimos destellos. ¿Qué amable estrella ilumina su corazón? ¿Qué otra no tan amable oscurece su mirada?

«No sabemos lo que todo este vasto mundo significa; esa extraña mezcla del bien y del mal. Pero fuimos colocados aquí y se nos ordena vivir y esperar. No sé lo que tenemos que esperar; pero hay un bien que no alcanzamos a ver y debemos buscarlo; esa es nuestra tarea en la tierra. Si tropezamos con el infortunio, hemos de combatirlo; debemos apartarlo de nosotros, y seguir adelante hasta averiguar qué es lo que normalmente deseamos». (p. 227) […] «Oh, creedme, si vierais en unos labios pálidos por el pesar una sonrisa de júbilo y de gratitud, y supierais que vos sois la causa de esa sonrisa, y que sin vos nunca habría existido, sentiríais una dicha tan pura y cordial que desearíais vivir para siempre y disfrutar una vez y otra vez del mismo deleite»⁷. (p. 229)

OCT 07, 2026–09:49AM

El corazón no es fuego. Escribe María Zambrano. Es como un espacio que dentro de la persona se abre para dar acogida a ciertas realidades. Expone también: Es ancho y es también profundo, tiene un fondo de donde salen las grandes resoluciones, las grandes verdades que son certidumbres. Palabras después, su propio corazón imprime: Y a veces arde en él una llama que sirve de guía a través de situaciones complicadas y difíciles, una luz propia que permite abrirse paso allí donde parecía no haber paso alguno; descubrir los poros de la realidad cuando se muestra cerrada⁸. (p.86).

OCT 07, 2026–09:10AM

Esta necesidad mía de expresarme creando, pero creando desde el silencio, sin más espacios que el propio, que mi voz sincera frente a la propia imagen. Ya no existe el latido dentro de una claridad común. Apegada a cultivar la mirada literaria, a pesar de la quietud. Las manos han estado imaginando desde un momento anterior a mí misma, un lugar en el tiempo que no alcanzo a recordar. Y, así, con este deseo ardiente, siguen los dedos atrapando. Regreso a ese principio, donde todavía no existían las luchas internas, donde podía ser yo misma. Ese instante sagrado cuando leía sin pretensiones, escribía desde la imperfección, habitaba sin la necesidad de hacer de la vivencia un algo extraordinario. En forma de contemplación secreta, escribo.

🕯 Publicado originalmente en lit.thoughts.page · Un Diario Literario.

Diana Dolea - Un Diario Literario

La lectura es el corazón de mi mirada, y lo es en tanta medida que deseo comprar un libro cada mes, financiado enteramente por mis letras. Si deseas alimentar mi alma, puedes invitarme a un café. ¡Gracias por tu apoyo!

¹ ⁸ Hacia un saber sobre el alma de María Zambrano
² ³ ⁴ ⁵ ¿De quién es la culpa? de Sofia Tolstaia
⁶ Mi piano azul de Else Lasker-Schüler
⁷ Mathilda de Mary W. Shelley

10 essential reads to inspire your journey into the natural world

Dear naturalist soul, have you yet to answer the call of our publication? If you are searching for a touch of light or a quiet clarity, wander through our notes and reviews, or linger among the free passages waiting on our lists.

Does it still take courage to step onto this path of love, nature, and perhaps the divine, where every leaf seems a sacred whisper? We hope to share this journey with you alongside Holly Stoddard and Billie Grisdale. Until then, moving with the silent grace of a blossom turning to greet the sun.

Welcome to The Eco-Archive — a living collection of timeless books curated to nourish your creative well. My commitment is to keep building on these volumes, truly igniting your own writing journey.

1. The flowers and gardens of Japan by Florence Du Cane

Florence Du Cane’s early 20th-century work explores Japanese horticulture, contrasting its serene, symbolic, and nature-harmonized landscape design principles with Western styles.

2. Egyptian Birds by Charles Whymper

A practical resource for travelers and birdwatchers exploring the Nile Valley. Blending personal field observations with species descriptions, the book highlights easily spotted local wildlife and offers practical tips for identification.

3. Wild Life Near Home by Dallas Lore Sharp

Highlighting the wildlife coexisting with human life, the opening sets an autumn scene featuring seasonal changes and resident birds.

4. The New Forest by Elizabeth Godfrey

Elizabeth Godfrey’s early 20th-century work, The New Forest, explores the Hampshire region through a mix of natural history and local heritage.

5. Bog-trotting for orchids by Grace Greylock Niles

Merging vivid field notes with local geology, folklore, and a strong conservation ethic, the illustrated work details strenuous explorations of bogs and streams alongside companions like her hound.

6. The Romance of Plant Life by G. F. Scott Elliot

Challenging the traditional view that flora are passive and immobile, the book highlights how certain plants exhibit striking movement and responsiveness.

7. The Sea and Its Living Wonders by G. Hartwig

G. Hartwig’s late 19th-century book examines the physical mysteries of the ocean, marine life, and the history of maritime exploration.

8. The Human Side of Animals by Royal Dixon

Focusing on animal behavior, Royal Dixon counters the purely instinct-driven view of wildlife by detailing their complex emotions, intelligence, and survival adaptations.

9. The Life and Love of the Insect by Jean-Henri Fabre

A collection of essays explores the complex behaviors, mating habits, and survival instincts of various insects, using the meticulous nesting routines of the Sacred Beetle to merge scientific observation with a poetic appreciation for nature.

10. The honey-bee: its nature, homes and products by William Hetherington Harris

A late 19th-century publication examines the biology, social structure, and historical significance of honey bees, combining practical beekeeping with insights into the roles of queens, drones, and workers.

Whether nature writing is already your home or you’re just beginning to explore these paths, you’re welcome to take root here. Before you send your work, give our submission guidelines a gentle read to ensure our vision resonates with your soul.

I hope to see your words here soon. Warmly, Diana.

Want to Write for Us? Start With These Free Public Domain Books — Vol. 3 was originally published in The Nature Writing Review on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Awakening to the Desert Through Mary Hunter Austin

The present moment is defined solely by its own continuum, wherein time resides exclusively in the now. As I sit sequestered upon a hushed stage with a volume whose pages were reserved entirely for myself until the completion of the text, an introduction is forged with Mary Hunter Austin — an author whose identity vastly transcends any prior conceptions held within my imagination.

Composed as a series of evocative glimpses, the text portrays the landscapes and inhabitants of California’s Owens Valley and the Mojave Desert. A profound reverence for both the desert ecosystem and Native American communities is reflected throughout the work, wherein lyrical observations are fused with the cultural comprehension of the region’s flora and fauna.

Characterized concurrently as a travel journal, a memoir, an early environmental treatise, and a socio-cultural study, the book resists definitive genre classification.

“I am the white flower of twining,
Little white flower by the river;
Oh, flower that twines close by the river;
Oh, trembling flower!
So trembles the maiden heart.

So sang Seyavi of the campoodie before she made baskets, and in her later days laid her arms upon her knees and laughed in them at the recollection.” (Austin, 1903)

Thus, a composition of minor elements presents itself: a scattering of sand, patches of loam, a grassy plot, stony rises, a full brown stream, and subtle traces of human presence. From the vantage of a saddle, one looks down upon clean expanses within a shifting yellow soil, where small flakes of whiteness flutter at the sand’s edge.

Envision the call of the burrowing owl drifting from the late slant light of the mesa, while the red fox and coyote claim the freedom of the night hours. Observe, too, the solitary hawks sailing above the plateau, an eagle suspended dizzily on the thermal currents, and buzzards riding high in the thin air, accompanied by antelope, rabbits, and lizards.

What astonished me was the realization that a desert could possess such profound beauty, having previously imagined it as a barren wasteland devoid of life. My sensibilities had always leaned toward verdant landscapes, yet Austin effected a deep internal shift, expanding my vision toward unfamiliar sceneries that called my living heart to animation.

Poppies rise ankle-deep, and the peacock-painted bubbles of calochortus blossom atop tall stems, all within a narrow valley — a mere trough between hills serving as a draft for passing storms. At sundown, the sharp scent of burning sage from campoodies and sheep camps drifts on thin blue wisps of smoke. Such striking imagery is difficult to fully comprehend without experiencing it.

“So in her blanket Seyavi, sometime basket maker, sits by the unlit hearths of her tribe and digests her life, nourishing her spirit against the time of the spirit’s need, for she knows in fact quite as mucho of these matters as you who have a larger hope, though she has none but the certainty that having borne herself courageously to this end she will not be reborn a coyote”. (Austin, 1903)

“Every Indian woman is an artist,” writes Austin, who adds that every Indian woman sees, feels, and creates without philosophizing about her processes. In the golden hours of youth, Seyavi gathered willows for basketry, selected her flowers, wreathed herself in blossoms, and danced in the twilight as youthful longings stirred. She sang as her heart dictated, expressing precisely what the wind pronounced through the flora.

Her domain is the hills, where the ceaseless drone of bees, the chatter of jays, and the restless activity of squirrels fill the hot, fragrant air. She withstands the bitterest storms without sign of distress. Her soul is elevated to song — possessing no voice save for the wind, and sending no sound to the high places other than that of her own beating heart.

“The origin of mountain streams is like the origin of tears, patent to the understanding but mysterious to the sense. They are always at it, but one so seldom catches them in the act.” (Austin, 1903)

The trail now descends as I begin to take root, much as Seyavi is already rooted, and Austin as well. This is not a text from which I derived a vital lesson concerning nature, ecology, the environment, or life. Rather, it is a volume meant to be perused slowly, allowing every word and its underlying meaning to be fully absorbed. It evokes the sensation of remaining at home, accompanied by a benevolent and affectionate voice echoing from the past.

List: The Nature Writing Review | Curated by Diana Dolea | Medium

The Land of Little Rain by Mary Hunter Austin was originally published in The Nature Writing Review on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

(Today, I read a piece by Words By Egypt 𓇢𓆸, It’s Safer To ‘Not Grow’ On Here, and it resonated with me so deeply that it inspired this reflection.)

After stepping away from Instagram after a decade, I can finally say I’m done with social media. I’m trying to live a quieter life away from the noise. At first, I thought Medium might be the safe haven I needed, a place where I could simply be a writer by focusing strictly on the craft. Yet, even without Instagram, I recognize the same old patterns creeping back in. I spend too much time writing, revising, editing, and publishing — leaving me to wonder where this path is actually leading.

Please don’t get me wrong: I genuinely love reading your work, leaving comments, and supporting you all. My stepping back has nothing to do with your content, which I deeply appreciate. It’s simply about where I am in life right now. I can’t keep torturing myself over making a living from my writing or constantly refreshing my earnings dashboard. I treat writing like a real job, pouring my mornings into the work, but the financial return just isn’t justifying the toll it takes. Ultimately, I’m doing this to protect my mindset and my mental health.

Looking ahead, I will keep writing, but entirely on my own terms. I plan to focus on raw, private stories for a future book or perhaps something entirely unexpected. I need to balance my writing with real life — seeking out a proper job, starting a new career path, or studying something new to secure a clearer future.

Writing is where I belong, that is certain, but I need to be gentle with myself and stop tethering my work to a platform without a broader plan. I need financial independence first, and perhaps years from now, I can truly pursue a writing career. But I feel that now is not the time. There are other blank spaces in my life that need to be filled.

More than anything, this marks the end of an era: the days of creating content specifically tailored for a platform. Starting next month, I will be stepping down from the Partner Program and publishing here only on occasion, with all of my future writing open and free to everyone.

Even so, the community remains the absolute best part of Medium. I will continue to share pieces here from time to time simply because of the love and care so many of you have shown me.

To sum it up, I’m taking my writing to a different place this season as I look for a job and pursue practical courses. My goal is to build a life where I can comfortably buy books, travel with my partner, and eventually purchase a home — and then, in time, share my stories with the world. I need space, time, and financial stability first. That said, my stories will still take shape by the light of a candle.

Lines from the edge of silence

My most dormant roots guide me toward
a different fleetingness, foreign to all I
once knew — one that does not fracture
into past, present, and future.
And thus, through the luminous gap that
shatters linearity, I let myself be carried
away by the keys of a piano:
they are the keys of my imaginary friend, whom I
have known for some time now, Marina
Tsvetaeva, daughter of a pianist and
a museum’s founder.

To return to her is to love, deeply,
the written word. In silence,
I conjure the limbs searching for the Russian poet
while music wells up within her, violent
and thunderous.

The soul, latent yet enduring, transcends
the boundaries of time. I acknowledge,
with the weight of certainty, that
at intervals I inhabit a blind gaze and
a pulseless love, grasping at empty air.
In that hollow, I long to build a home for
the spirit, until the truth breaks through
with absolute resonance:
I must revive the imagination.
Through reading,
writing…
Through creation.
Through the exercise of poetry.

(And there it is, a truth truer than all the rest: art is a spiritual practice; writing, a quiet dialogue with the divine.)

“Write,” whispers my heart, while
the body, obeying the heart, stretches out
toward the paper. Yet it cannot always reach.
Without the linkage of the fingers,
writing would not exist;
it would be an image trapped in an endless loop.

And yet, when the deadlock finally
breaks, I write.
I write as though there were no afterwards,
dissolving the borders between the beginning and
the end.
I melt into minutes that make time
a corner solely my own, where I
manage to curl up within my absolute unreality.
I do not know how to save the body, but I
know the secret for my soul to survive.

What is the scent of a verse?
Does it share the fragrance of my hands?
I let go of the keyboard and
search my palms for the trace of damp earth,
instead wondering how long it has been
since I surrendered to the flowering fields,
letting the grass and insects
brush against my bare skin.

I pull these ink-worn fingers away,
though not without parting from
the tenderness they held.
A shy smile shadows my gaze as I
contemplate the branches of a phantom canopy.
There exists within me a pulse that,
despite the briefness of the day,
leaps out to explore; because the sensitive
heart lives on wonder.

How I have longed for the death of my
love for writing,
dreaming it would set me free!
Freedom? The wind answers only with a laugh.
Am I not, in truth, blessed by the sheer
weight of my own capacity to feel?
Blessed by this fierce devotion to the sacred word!
I suppose that, like a child, I know
no future. There is only the now, and
for the child, the now is forever.
And so I surrender to this infinite present and
write.
I write so that I will never turn my back on myself again.

My words are running out and
sleep is overcoming me. Truth be told, I have
emptied my vision until I am utterly exhausted.
Therefore, beautiful souls on the other side,
accept for today, after so much said,
the gift of my silence (silentium).
Meanwhile, while I recover my speech,
let me go on imagining.

Diana Dolea © 2026

Edited and published by uninspiring alien

Hi, Poets, Dreamers and Wanderers!
Do you speak in symbols, think in verses, and feel in metaphors?

We are always looking for authentic, human-crafted poetry, poetic prose, and reflective essays to feature in our cozy sanctuary. If you wrap your rawest emotions in imagery and metaphors, your voice has a home here.

Read our guidelines and join our growing community:

Metaphors Club— Submission Guidelines

The Architecture of the Infinite Word was originally published in Metaphors Club on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Welcoming guest writers, new paths, and a look at our guidelines

Non-Medium members can read this article here

Welcome, travelers of the wild and written word. I’m the editor of The Nature Writing Review, and I have an essential confession to make: we are wandering down a new trail.

While our Submission Guidelines have received many kind comments, it has been difficult to gauge the literary style, experience, or genuine investment of newer writers without seeing their actual drafts.

Because of this, The Nature Writing Review is temporarily open to all guest writers. I wish to read your drafts, to feel the pulse of your writing, and to discover if our paths align before welcoming you to our permanent circle.

Though the path before us can only hold so many steps at once and I cannot welcome every traveler just yet, I promise to read your words with care and offer honest thoughts in return, so please never let a closed door discourage your soul. Consider each exchange simply as a quiet first step, a way for us to learn how our voices sound together.

Hitherto, offering a definitive “yes” proved challenging, as outside of a few marginal notes on the guidelines, genuine engagement with our vision remained scarce. I believe that anyone who truly wants to be part of a publication will take the time to connect with its spirit.

So, let us try this new way for a season. For now, The Nature Writing Review is open to all who wish to share their journey with us.

To help guide your steps, here are two sections you may wish to explore:

· Non-fiction: thoughtful journeys through nature writing

· Field Notes: personal reflections in the wild

List: The Nature Writing Review | Curated by Diana Dolea | Medium

This door is open for a season, a quiet space set aside to discover the voices meant to walk this path with us. If you feel the pull to join us, do not hesitate to step forward. I would be deeply moved to read your work and, in time, welcome you to make a permanent home among these pages.

With all my heart, I’m waiting to see where your words will take us.

Before you entrust your words to the wind, please pause to wander through our Submission Guidelines.

How to submit a story to a publication

“Writers have the option to submit to Contributing and Following publications. Publications shown under the Contributing tab accept submissions from approved writers (those that have been already added as a writer of the publication). Publications listed under the Following tab accept submissions from all writers who follow the publication. Publications may choose to close their publication to submissions as well.” — Medium, Help Center

A New Chapter for Submissions: Open to All was originally published in The Nature Writing Review on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’m writing here because I’ve outgrown my notebooks. Though these musings are already scattered across my journal in bits and pieces, today I need more room to breathe.

Rather than seeking the spotlight, I’m simply leaving behind the breadcrumbs I needed to find a few hours ago. I spent the morning hunting for the kind of writing that isn’t a guide, but still helps you see things in a new light. So, prelude aside, let’s dive into the reflection.

I’m exhausted. It’s the kind of tiredness that’s been building for months, maybe even years. I constantly ask myself where this despondency comes from. Even though I can be cheerful and functional in my day-to-day life, something deep-seated catches up with me in my fragile moments.

It isn’t ordinary sadness, the kind that flares up with a fresh wound, it’s something denser, heavy with nostalgia.

It’s time to take stock. To re-envision who I am. I went through university, a master’s degree, vocational training; I delivered projects, completed international internships, and spent years volunteering. And yet, I still haven’t found myself.

I walked every path: from hospitality to factory work. I looked outward, I looked into civil service exams, I tried starting a podcast or using social media to promote myself as a writer. But to be honest, sometimes I feel like I’m trying to market something that doesn’t even exist.

My time was never truly meant for writing; it was swallowed up by my degree, jobs, and immediate demands.

Reading through this inventory, I finally understand my exhaustion. It makes sense. If I measure my life by results, the balance sheet looks like a failure. I see myself through other people’s eyes and can only imagine their pity: the promise that drifted off course. And yet, I ask myself: Is that judgment real, or is it just my shadow?

Is there a deadline for finding yourself? Is the final result the only thing that validates the journey?

I’m still trying to find my way back to myself. I try watercolor, searching for the child who used to draw, even if my brushstrokes now are just magicless smudges. I go running out of necessity, because money is tight and a gym membership is a luxury I can’t afford. Even therapy leaves me with doubts. It’s an immense financial effort only to feel, in the end, like I’m just delivering a monologue that lands nowhere.

I don’t ask for a different life; I could happily live the one I have. What I’m looking for is to decipher that thing that keeps me from being present in it. That knot that, no matter how hard I try, I still don’t know how to untangle.

Today, writing is the one thing holding me together. It allows me to look out the window and inhabit the world at a slower pace. Then reality hits: How do I sustain this rhythm without an income, while time falls — slowly, always slowly — upon my shoulders?

I wonder if there’s a reset button, a starting point to begin all over again. Still, how do you do that when your body and soul weigh more than your willpower?

I know dreams are overrated and that the spark isn’t the only priority; life is everything else. It isn’t healthy to chase purpose or meaning while neglecting what’s already right there: yourself, your partner, your family. I soak up reflections and theories, but putting it into practice — finding that balance between the spark and everyday life — is so much more complex.

My spark is, without a doubt, writing. And even though I know that for certain, I don’t claim to have a special talent or to write brilliantly; I simply know that it’s where I belong.

For a while, I tried to immerse myself in Eastern European literature; as a Romanian, I wanted to reconnect with my roots. However, the pace demanded by social media (constant posts, new releases, frantic research…) just isn’t mine. While I don’t discount its value, I’m stepping back from making that search a priority, choosing instead to live it more calmly and on my own terms.

I choose slowness and introspection, without any pretense of this being therapy, as I have no training for that, nor any interest in self-help. My hope is to learn to enjoy writing slowly and, above all, to live alongside it while life unfolds — to discover if it’s possible to be a writer while holding down a job and living an everyday life.

My goal is no longer to fulfill the dream of making a living from writing; instead, I want something far more real: to make time for writing within an ordinary life.

These lines set the course. They will redirect my path, both here and beyond. It’s time to let these pages breathe differently.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end, and for giving me the gift of your attention. If you decide to stay and join me on this journey, thank you for saving me from talking to myself.

My Reading Goal for August — ☕ tip of appreciation

I love books too much not to make reading a core part of my life, so my goal is to buy one new book each month, funded directly through my writing. If you’d like to support my work and help keep my bookshelf growing, feel free to buy me a coffee — thank you for your kindness!

This story is published in “A Place Called Home”— a warm corner for real voices and honest hearts. Have a story of your own? Share it with us,“Where Your Words Feel Home.”

'A Place Called Home' —  Welcome To Our New Publication

Diary of a Tired Writer: Writing Through an Ordinary Life was originally published in A Place Called Home on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A Calmer Frame: Visual Diary / 02

Tracing the footsteps of immortals across a day’s sacred reading

They all dwell as one: my soul, my body, my mind… Yet there are moments when the soul weeps, while the body shivers, while the mind grasps in vain. It finds no footing in these times — strange times for a voice drowning among so, so many (…) voices.

And my inner self, bound to soul, body, and mind, questions: WHY? Why are my hands not wings, and my words, pure music? Despite the wandering thoughts and the endless stream of imagery dragging my chest toward a longing ever grander, ever more divine, the soul (with body and mind) writes on. It brings forth a poem. It reveals itself now, within this letter sent to you with everlasting love.

Are you present? Are you absent? Will you write to me? Will you not? Does it even matter?, asks the spirit with stark lucidity. (Silence). You drift through the window, longing to uncover my way of existing while absent. But how does one master such an elusive presence? (The curtain sways upward as you, my reader’s soul, read me from a stage entirely your own).

A long silence since I last read with such depth, anguish, and passion…

What will be left when the inner eye/hand can no longer read or write?

Welcome to A Calmer Frame

Chronicles of a Mortal Soul: My First Ascent of The Odyssey

“There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.”
― Homer, The Odyssey

lo!, my maiden voyage into The Odyssey
hold on, ye gods — even a quest needs coffee first
the voice of Athena filleth mine ears

beyond her stand countless gods and goddesses, and a longing to know them all
thus standeth the work of long hours past
I crave now a pause, for too much knowledge burdeneth my mind

my rest is past; the hero summoneth my return
yet no homecoming is brightened without a flame
page upon page, in varied cadences, to feed my soul

a second cup is demnded, lest Hypnos drag me into the shadows of sleep
ere long, another secret of the myth is laid bare, for Zeus overhead biddeth me approach
yet a mortal soul cannot abide forever in the realm of the divine; yield me grace, my hero

as we part company until the dawn

My Reading Goal for August — ☕ tip of appreciation

I love books too much not to make reading a core part of my life, so my goal is to buy one new book each month, funded directly through my writing. If you’d like to support my work and help keep my bookshelf growing, feel free to buy me a coffee — thank you for your kindness!

All of a sudden today I’m sending K. voice notes, talking all about myself for minutes on end. I quiet my voice as I don’t want my heart to abuse her time. Yet I notice that this murmur continues to stir in my chest — it needs a space, wider, whiter, where it can let go.

A bird on the windowsill murmurs sweet nothings, and the tree’s branch, with shy movements, approaches to learn the romantic language, nearer and nearer. What lies beneath the truth of the bird and the truth of the human soul?

Thirty-three years I carry, a multitude of selves yearning to take root, and still I stand unformed. I sense that, as the daughter of immigrants, it’s my destiny to face certain difficulties. I was born in Romania but grew up, practically, in Spain. Around my tenth year, I was carried to this new soil where the future was said to shine so brightly.

As the grieving writer wanders in her thoughts, silent trails are forged across her desk by indefatigable ants drawn to an open sugar packet: a soft whisper calling them to the ambrosial feast.

My parents clearly had their goals: to build a solid home, although initially, it was just about earning some money to live better in Romania. That didn’t happen; we ended up staying, and, with that decision, my being grew like a fragile stem, very fragile.

Elsewhere in the house, a pair of hands arranges delicate posies — blooms that cling to life in stale water, keeping their beauty solely for an assured demise.

The effort to belong was exhausting. Every call to speak in the classroom only served to press my innate shyness deeper. The more they pressured me, the worse it was for me. Against the odds, I managed to inhabit the whitespace between the edges of my early life’s narrative. I went through it all blindfolded.

And now, from this time, is when I demand certain things; when certain truths imprison me, when I wish I could go back to tell that little girl: Diana, you don’t always have to listen to others. You don’t have to be so obedient. (You were born for more than the grace of submission.)

Twirling, twirling over and over again, a young girl searches for herself in the open air, somewhere out there, while butterflies mistake her for a blossom to rest upon. And on she spins — all of this happening somewhere far away, or simply within a writer’s own imagination.

I would have loved so much to be guided, to be led through it all. Yet I know it’s unfair to blame anyone, much less myself. My parents did the very best they knew how, even as I still catch myself wishing we had been closer, wishing they hadn’t spent their days working from sunup to sundown. Still, I suppose those are just the tender, unavoidable truths of ordinary lives. Things couldn’t have unfolded any other way.

Thinking about it, this is the diary of a writer. But the writer has all these words that are hers and occupy a part of her spirit. Therefore, I must give them space: a corner to speak as the foreigner I am and, without a doubt, always will be.

Bzz. A tiny bee lights upon the vase where the flowers are barely beginning to open. Startled by the insect, a pair of angelic hands pulls away, and in that small flash of surprise, the vase slips to the floor. As the bee wanders off, the writer looks up from her corner, catching sight of the bird at the window and the line of ants savoring the sugar. Listening to the quiet stirring of her heart, she realizes that despite growing up far from her homeland, she is still visited by the birds, the ants, and the verses she speaks with.

My Reading Goal for August — ☕ tip of appreciation

I love books too much not to make reading a core part of my life, so my goal is to buy one new book each month, funded directly through my writing. If you’d like to support my work and help keep my bookshelf growing, feel free to buy me a coffee — thank you for your kindness!

List: Slow Living, Presence, and Creativity | Curated by Diana Dolea | Medium

Blossoms on Foreign Branches was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.