🕸️ REBORN IN THE SPACES BETWEEN 🕸️
I was once told that parts of my soul drifted off like embers the night the fire went cold.
They didn’t ask permission. They slipped out of my bones while I watched older boys play basketball on cracked pavement, too scared to ask if I could run with them.
I stayed on the sidelines, the quiet one, the maybe-one-day kid.
Maybe one day I’d be taller. Maybe one day I’d be louder. Maybe one day I’d be enough.
That was the first piece that left me.
I know him now. I found him again.
He’s taller now. He wears my face and calls me home every time I dare to feel small.
Another piece splintered off when anger filled the house like gas in a locked room. Rage that slammed doors, left bruises on air.
You learn to listen for the click of the door, the sharp intake of breath before the thunder.
You learn to scan the weather of a person’s face before they speak.
It’s survival, they say.
A psychic gift, they whisper.
A curse, I say — when you can’t sit at a beach without your mind hunting shadows behind every wave.
Another shard wandered off under the cold hum of streetlights.
Homeless. Hungry. Watching bats dart through amber halos of sodium lamps.
Bats don’t like light — but hunger breaks instinct.
So did I.
I learned to chew on shame like stale bread, learned that charity sometimes stings worse than hunger.
They help you but only enough to tell themselves they did.
They see your ribs but not your spirit.
They toss you coins but not warmth.
I found him too — that boy under the streetlight. He’s warmer now.
He stands beside a version of me who is not afraid of the night anymore.
He knows the night is his cathedral.
And then there was the sucker punch of a cruel word, spat by a girl too hollow to hold her own kindness.
I gave her too much power over my sun.
Solar plexus dimmed, chest caved in.
Sometimes we swallow shame so deep it knots our breath for years.
I found that piece too.
I stand up straighter now. I protect that sun.
✨✨✨
So here I am.
A collection of fragments stitched with gold thread.
A human kintsugi bowl — broken, mended, gleaming at the seams.
Not perfect. Not done.
But whole enough to sing.
I tell you this because maybe your soul has scattered too.
Maybe you see your own face in mine: the kid on the sidelines, the psychic who scans the storm, the one who slept on concrete, the one who flinched at a word meant to crush.
Maybe you think you’re too far gone.
I promise you: you are not.
Your missing pieces remember you.
Your future self is braver than you know.
He’s standing right behind you while you read this.
She’s whispering in your ear when you think you can’t stand the pain.
They’re waiting to mentor you back to yourself.
You’re not your shame.
You’re not your trauma.
You’re not your emptiness.
You are the cathedral that houses every note your voice will ever sing.
Next time you pick up a ball, do it for that kid who thought he wasn’t enough.
Next time you hit the punching bag, do it for the boy who wanted to fight back but didn’t dare.
Next time you see a bat under a streetlight, remember: you are hungry enough to break instinct too.
Next time a cruel word tries to pierce your chest, stand taller. Let your sun burn it to ash.
I’m building this space — EnochMediaSpace — as a shrine for all our lost pieces.
A place where we can drag our shadows into the light and crown them.
A place where broken is holy, where scars are signatures, where your voice is an anthem for every fragment that ever dared to come home.
I don’t want your perfection.
I want your ruin and your rebuild.
I want the version of you who still thinks about quitting but doesn’t.
I want the kid, the teen, the grown soul.
Bring them here.
Let’s build a cathedral together.
A place where no piece is ever truly lost.
A place where your voice is enough.
This is more than music.
More than poetry.
This is reclamation.
This is resurrection.
This is the sound of you finding yourself, again and again, until the last breath sings you home.
#StayHaunted
#StayHoly
#StayHere
— ● ☾ ENOCH
📌
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