Disconnect to Reconnect

Finding Clarity in Words and Wilderness

It’s been over a year since I started writing on this platform—fifty posts and counting. Yet, I still can’t answer the magic question: “What do you write about?”

Honestly, I don’t have a proper answer.

I write. I hit upload. And I move on.

Not once have I stopped to ask myself: Does any of this make sense? Can people even connect the dots between my words?

I’ve written poems, essays, and short stories, leaping across topics like a restless wanderer. I’ve changed the name of this publication twice and rewritten its description countless times. This is my life story, across all factions.

And let me tell you, this past year has been chaos, a beautiful messy chaos. A massive swirl of intricately designed, unpredictable snowflakes, falling from heaven to form… what? An ice castle, maybe. At first, it looked like a shabby shack, something fragile enough to collapse with the first gust of wind. But somehow, it didn’t. Against all odds, it became something, something that could rival the strength of the Alhambra [Reference to an Islamic castle in Granada, Spain]

How?

I still don’t know.

Perhaps it’s God. Or faith. Or some higher creative power, quietly sketching blueprints within me. Perhaps it’s Love—love for this earth, for humanity, for the act of creation itself. Or maybe it’s Hope, the stubborn belief in a better world.

Whatever it is, the foundation feels strong.

Still, I remain unsure.

There’s something transformative about experiencing dreams more vivid than reality itself. When you’re soaring through the skies, fighting sea monsters that feel no more threatening than mosquitoes. You can taste freedom. This is how I know my castle can rival Granada’s fortress.

Compare that to the norm: fear, fleeing, being hunted by wild beasts in a relentless chase to always end up cornered to hell and forcing myself out of my own creation. My reality, in dream state and on the real world, felt like that for so long.

But why this shift? I am still figuring this one out.

What I do know is that this feeling didn’t come from scrolling through endless streams of information. No, it came when I finally disconnected. When I stepped away from the screen.

There’s something humbling about isolation, standing under an open sky, hearing only the rustle of leaves, the whisper of the wind, or the gentle murmur of a stream. It’s there, in the stillness, that my chaotic thoughts found order.

Out there, without notifications or digital noise, I remembered what it feels like to be truly human. To feel small and yet deeply connected to something vast. Something bigger than myself.

This hasn’t been a journey of luck. It’s been pain. Suffering.

I’ve read and written my soul out, pouring myself into words. I’ve cried on paper, literally. A fucking watery mess that took some time to dry out. I’ve listened, meditated, and—most importantly—stepped into the wild spaces where no signal could reach me. That’s where I’ve shared my most intimate emotions—with myself first, and then the world.

And here’s the surprising part: I don’t care if it’s messy if it feels good.

Through writing—and through stepping away from it when needed—I’ve found a strange kind of alchemy. A recipe of some kind in the swirling chaos, the snowflakes, the ice castle—they all make sense now. Each word I’ve written, each moment of silence, has been a step in creating something real, something lasting.

So, if you ask me again what I write about, I might finally have an answer:

I write about the mess. The beauty. The dreams. The clarity found in disconnecting. And the life I’m still learning to live—online and offline. Want to join me?

Thank you for reading! {Somewhere deep in Georgia}