"Some thoughts bloom. Others bite. But all of them grow somewhere."
Dear Diary,
This morning, I woke up with a storm in my chest.
No reason.
No warning.
Just that heavy feeling… like a hundred things were wrong, even though everything looked normal.
I brushed my teeth, packed my bag, tied my shoelace twice just to delay time—but the weight didn't leave. It clung to me like fog. At school, every sound felt louder. Every laugh that didn't include me echoed like a reminder.
I barely made it through the day.
So when I got home, I climbed into bed, closed my eyes, and drifted into the place I go when the world is too loud.
The garden.
Not a real one.
My garden of thoughts.
It stretches as far as the eye can see—endless rows of plants and flowers, each one glowing softly. Every color represents a kind of thought I've had.
I walked past the yellow blossoms of silly jokes and old memories that still make me laugh.
Then the bluebells, shaped like tears — delicate, but strong. They hold every moment I've cried but still survived.
Further down, I found the black thorns.
They coil tightly around themselves — sharp, heavy, bitter. These are the thoughts I don't like to admit I have.
"I'm not good enough."
"I talk too much."
"What if no one really likes me?"
They hissed when I got close.
I almost turned away.
But then I remembered something Queen Oche once said in class:
"Every reaction can be balanced—if you know what's in it."
So I knelt down, and slowly, I started pruning. I whispered kind things as I worked.
"You were brave today."
"You're growing, even when you're quiet."
"You matter. You do."
One by one, the thorns began to soften.
Then I found something I'd never seen before — a small seed glowing gold, buried in the center. I picked it up, held it close.
It pulsed with a single word:
Hope.
I walked to a quiet spot and planted it right in the middle of the garden.
I don't know what it will grow into, but I'll keep coming back. I'll water it with rest. I'll feed it with truth. I'll guard it with boundaries.
Some people journal. Some scream.
But me?
I plant thoughts, and I heal through petals and soil.
When I opened my eyes, the storm in my chest was still there—
but softer.
And for the first time today, I smiled.
Because even when my thoughts feel wild, I know where to go.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor 🌼🪴