I Would Rather Touch One Soul Deeply Than Be Experienced Widely

Not For the Masses, Just For The Ones Who Stay

Sometimes I feel like a portal, like I exist as a gateway to carry people from who they are to who they’re meant to become. A step stool on their road to sit upon the throne to their personal elevation. I pour into them—support, care, pieces of myself I don’t always know how to get back—until they can finally stand on their own.

And then they leave.

Not always in a way that’s meant to hurt me, not always with intention, but they leave… and I’m still there, quiet and emptied, wondering if I was ever meant to be anything more than a moment in someone else’s becoming.

I feel like a revolving door, people passing through me, taking what they need and trusting that somehow I will find a way to replenish myself. As if that’s just what I do, and I mean I do...but I’m not a vessel meant to be emptied and forgotten. I want to be held too. I want to be considered in the same gentle, attentive ways I give to others. And when that doesn’t happen, it doesn’t break loudly—it’s softer than that. It’s a slow ache. An unconventional, unwarranted kind of grief.

There’s something deeply lonely about feeling unseen in a world that still expects something beautiful from you yet never wants to acknowledge you. As if you’re meant to keep giving, keep glowing, keep becoming, without ever being fully recognized as you already are, with the greatness you already possess.

Because I’m not something shallow. I’m not something meant to be skimmed or passed through.

I am immersive. I am deep. I want to surround you, to hold you in the soft weight of me, to pull you under in the best way. I want to fill your lungs with the waters of me until you can taste all of it—not just the easy parts, but the depth, the history, the intimate places I don’t show everyone. I want you to know me slowly. To stay long enough that I don’t feel like something temporary.

I want you to dive into my lore, to sit with the stories that made me, to trace the timelines of who I’ve been and who I’m still becoming.

Create cannons and split timelines.

I want you to see me for who I truly am—light in its purest form, soft but bright, the kind that almost hurts to look at but somehow you don’t turn away. The kind you stay with, even as it overwhelms you, even as it leaves its mark on you, like fingertips wrinkled from being in water too long.

I want to touch you like Adam reaching for God.

A Michelangelo love story—that fragile, almost connection, where everything is felt in the space between. I want to be seen as both the artist and the muse, the one who creates and the one who is worth being created for.

And maybe that’s why it hurts the way it does…I want my creations to matter. I want what I put into the world to mean something, to be felt, to linger. I crave visibility in a way I don’t always like to admit, because I know how easily that craving can turn into something else—something hollow. Wanting to be experienced by the masses means risking only knowing myself through what is digestible, what is trending, what people find easy to hold for a moment and then let go of. And if I don’t fit into that, if I don’t align with what’s easily understood or widely accepted, it can start to feel like I disappear.

But I don’t want to perform for attention. I don’t want to reshape myself just to be acknowledged. That has never been my nature. I am not here to beg to be seen, or to make myself smaller, softer, simpler just so I can be consumed more easily. There’s something in me that resists that, even when it would be easier to give in.

Because I don’t want to be experienced in fragments—pieces of me here, parts of me there—people deciding who I am based on glimpses that were never meant to hold the full weight of me. I don’t want to be something people pass through lightly, like a place built for temporary joy and easy exits. I am not shallow enough for that, and I don’t want to pretend to be.

And still, there’s this quiet pressure everywhere, this unspoken message that you are only as valuable as the attention you receive. That if enough people aren’t looking, then maybe you don’t matter in the way you thought you did. It’s hard not to feel that sometimes, even when you know better. Especially when you know better.

Because the truth is, attention like that rarely stays. It moves quickly, always reaching for the next thing, the next moment, the next person. And there’s something almost disorienting about trying to exist in a world that moves like that, where depth is often overlooked for what is immediate.

So I sit with that contradiction—wanting to be seen, but not like that. Wanting to matter, but not at the cost of losing myself just to be understood.

And I try to make peace with that.

I tell myself I don’t chase, I attract. I remind myself that if I can touch even just one person deeply—really touch them, in a way that lingers—then that should be enough.

But in the quiet moments, when everything settles…
I can admit that sometimes, it still doesn’t feel like enough.

Like I am not enough.