Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Confessions.
Handprints in the Sand
There’s an old poem called “Footprints in the Sand.” It ends with the quiet but powerful words — “I carried you.” No one truly knows who wrote it. Some say it was an anonymous poet; others believe it came from someone who simply understood faith and pain too deeply to take credit.That poem always meant something to me. I used to read it on the days when life felt heavier than I could carry. But recently, I began to wonder — why footprints? If the heart of the poem is about being carried, shouldn’t it have been handprints in the sand? Maybe it was never just about walking, but about holding. Maybe both hands and feet played their part in the journey.I’ve always been fascinated by hands — their shapes, their lines, their quiet stories. Each one feels like a small universe, unique and unrepeatable. Whether you’re a mystic tracing fate in someone’s palm or a detective comparing fingerprints, you know that no two sets of hands are ever the same.I learned palm reading when I was young. My own hands became my road maps, guiding me through years of change and growth. Both of them carry two distinct markings — a small triangle and the letter M. Some say those marks are signs of strong intuition and purpose. Maybe they’re right. But what I’ve noticed most is how different my two palms are. My right hand feels grounded in this world — the map of my daily life. My left hand, though, holds something spiritual, something beyond the physical.I could talk about each marking and ridge, but instead, I’d rather talk about what they’ve taught me about myself. Over the years, I’ve realized that my personality — my choices, my reactions, my kindness, my stubbornness — has shaped my path far more than any “line of fate.”People sometimes ask me, “Do you believe in God?” or “Do you believe in destiny?” And honestly, I do — but not in a fixed map sort of way. Destiny feels alive to me. It bends, shifts, and redraws itself as we walk through it. My palms have changed over the last fifty years, so why wouldn’t my fate?Still, some parts of me never change. I have worker’s hands — square and strong, the kind that hold on tight when things get rough. My fingertips are soft and rounded — the kind that feel before they act. A palm reader might say that means I’m both practical and deeply emotional. Maybe that’s true.My life lines don’t match. The one on my right hand runs smooth; the one on my left twists and breaks, shaped by years of family struggles, therapy, and learning to rebuild myself. Was that my destiny? Maybe. But it’s not the end of the story — not yet.Who am I? Where did I come from? Where am I going? I’ve asked myself these same questions for decades. For the most part, the answers stayed the same — until the last few years. Somewhere along the way, my perspective shifted. I started to see that change doesn’t destroy destiny; it refines it.In the end, I think of my life as handprints in the sand. Did I carry you, or did you carry me? Maybe it doesn’t matter. The waves will come and wash them all away — both the handprints and the footprints — but for a moment, they were there. Proof that we walked, worked, loved, and lived.Some people say life fades away like the lyrics from a song — “In the end, it doesn’t even matter.” But I can’t believe that. My left hand says otherwise. It tells me there’s another world — a mirror world — where everything we do here shapes what we’ll become there.Maybe that’s why people press their hands together when they pray — two sides meeting in faith. I don’t always pray that way, but I understand the meaning. I prefer to let each hand do what it was meant to — the left to dream, the right to do.And yes, I typed this story with both.
By MUHAMMAD IMRAN3 months ago in Confessions
After The Last Embrace
🌙 Golden Closure — After the Last Embrace This blog was born from silence. Not the kind that soothes, but the kind that aches. The kind that fills rooms with invisible weight. The kind that settles in your chest when grief has no name, when sorrow is not allowed to speak, when pain is asked to stay quiet. It was born from emptiness — from the hollow echo of loss, from the quiet desperation of needing to say something when there were no words. It was born from the need to make space for what hurt, to honor what was gone, to give voice to what had been silenced.
By luz entre lagrimas3 months ago in Confessions
After The Last Embrace
This text requires all the respect, all the delicacy, all the truth. The death of a child is a wound that has no name. There isn’t a single word in any language that describes a mother who has lost her child — because it’s a loss that overflows the limits of language. It is the deepest, most unfair, most unnatural grief. And though I haven’t lived it, my decision to write about it is an act of love toward those who have — and who so often have done so in silence. Long. Raw. Human. May it embrace whoever needs it.
By luz entre lagrimas3 months ago in Confessions
After The Last Embrace
“When I Got Lost, No One Noticed” There was no accident. No visible trauma. No screaming. Just a slow fading. As if someone had been quietly erasing parts of me with an invisible eraser. And one day, I looked in the mirror — and didn’t know who I was.
By luz entre lagrimas3 months ago in Confessions
After The Last Embrace
“When an Argument Stole My Brother/Sister from Me” It wasn’t death. It wasn’t physical distance. It was an argument — one of many. But this time, something broke. Something we didn’t know how to fix. Something left without words, without apologies, without return.
By luz entre lagrimas3 months ago in Confessions
After The Last Embrace
Part I: “When My Grandmother Left, the Slow Fire Went Out” My grandmother wasn’t just an old woman. She was the warm center of everything. The smell of homemade food, the whisper of advice you didn’t ask for but needed, the gaze that read you without a single word.
By luz entre lagrimas3 months ago in Confessions
After The Last Embrace
“When a Mother Leaves, the World Breaks” They say no one is ever ready to lose their mother. And it’s true. Because you don’t just lose a person — you lose your origin, your refuge, the voice that called you my child even when you no longer knew who you were.
By luz entre lagrimas3 months ago in Confessions
A Fragment of My Truth
This is the sad and hard truth about growing up without your biological parents. I was sent to live as a foster kid at a very early age. You don’t really understand why—you’re just bouncing around, confused, longing for mom and dad. Eventually, my maternal mother took charge and brought me and my three sisters together. But soon after, we were separated again. I never felt much connection with my two older sisters, but my little sister and I had a bond. We protected each other—at school, at home, even when we didn’t behave the way our grandmother wanted.
By Teodoro De Jesus3 months ago in Confessions
After The Last Embrace
There is no date. No name. No grave. But there is absence. An absence that can’t be seen, but weighs heavy. That isn’t spoken, but lives in every corner. That isn’t cried out loud, but is carried deep within. Because not having become a mother by circumstance is not just a choice unmade — it’s a life unlived, a love unshared, a dream unfulfilled.
By luz entre lagrimas3 months ago in Confessions
After The Last Embrace
There is no grave. No photos. No name. But there is grief. There is pain. There is emptiness. People don’t understand. They tell you, “You’ll have another one,” “You’re still young,” “It’s better this way, if it wasn’t healthy.” But no one sees that you had already loved. That you had already imagined. That you had already felt.
By luz entre lagrimas3 months ago in Confessions
