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What if I say

my dream job is simple,

to belong to a community

where I can give tenfold

for every small thing

they offer me.

Smile.

Yes, I said it.

Love is the real work,

even when the heart

costs too much to repair.

Maybe we do not need repair at all.

Maybe we only need

a repairing job.

So what could it be?

Perhaps I could fix

the engine of my mind

and redesign the interior of my heart,

so my thoughts could race freely

at three hundred and thirty miles an hour.

A ride like that

might make me proud

or carry me

to the other side of myself.

What if my dream job

is simply to kill mosquitoes with rackets?

I could fight in the malaria campaign,

a small hero with a plastic bat.

Or guard the house

from arrogant flies.

Even small battles

can save big lives.

My dream job

should be a place

where kind and compassionate souls gather,

where people guide me

through their open windows of wisdom.

I would measure the height,

put on my jumpsuit,

and learn how to leap.

I dream of flying.

So why not a job

that lets me speak with birds,

circling the sky beside them,

trading secrets with the clouds?

What gentle wizardry must I learn

to transform myself

into hills and mountains,

rivers and trees?

I want to float

in a place

where the body becomes a hollow tube

and I exist only as thought

and memory.

I want a dream job

that keeps me fit,

healthy, and strong.

People say,

join a gym,

be a trainer.

Others say,

you need muscles for politics.

So I imagine

pasting muscles on my body

like stickers.

But fake muscles

and fake promises

never make a cake softer.

My dream job

is to be the cherry

on top of the cake,

catching every eye,

sweetening every tongue.

Or maybe

I can be the cake itself,

arriving in every home,

living inside celebrations,

inside laughter and tears,

inside memories that never fade.

Yes, celebrate this moment.

My wizard power returns.

I transform myself

into a cake.

Some feelings

do not need to be baked.

My emotions

are not fake.

Something taps on my mind.

It is six o’clock, my friend.

Time to wake.

good question

for me

replace what with you

remove the extra noise

and the answer stands up

a good leader speaks clear

no secret doors

no private subtitles

just honest daylight

good is only a word

waiting for the right shoulders

but these days

people wear it like a sticker

and quietly peel it off

when nobody is looking

you cannot build a leader

from spare parts and loud promises

no ego

only humility

patience

down to earth

a small flame of spirit

if I list every quality

I might sound like a machine

trying to learn how to breathe

but a leader is simple

someone you can trust with your vote

someone ready to sit on your boat

when the river grows teeth

someone brave enough

to drag the sewage of society to court

and not wash their hands afterward

some believe a leader must be cold

empty of emotion

all rules and iron shoes

others imagine a compassionate one

building skyscrapers of happiness

where people can see their future

through clean glass

education without chains

health without fear

helping people stand again

on their own two feet

a leader who makes you pause

before throwing rubbish on the street

as if the trash itself

could look back at you

and ask why

a leader shining like a quiet gem

stitched into the flag

stitched into the map

stitched into the daily bread of people

feet deep in the soil

head knocking on the stars

a good leader

is not a throne

not a loud microphone

not a heavy crown

just a human being

big enough to carry others

without trying to look tall

a good leader

could invite aliens for dinner

and somehow

everyone at the table

would feel at home

I’ve been removing clutter lately.

Little by little.

Clutter before sleep.

Checking feeds, filling the mind,

making it busy for no reason.

That is the biggest clutter.

Because it matters.

You cannot divide your mind

right before you close your eyes.

Your subconscious keeps eating

whatever you served it.

And next morning

you wake up in pieces.

I want to wake up as one.

That’s what I’m working on.

Feelings I don’t recognize

sitting in corners of my heart.

We tried to be friends.

The feelings refused.

They arrive nostalgic,

vividly sad,

exactly when I don’t need them.

Maybe sadness waits

for a small crack

just to escape.

Clutter, oh yes.

Even on my head.

Dandruff dreams and shampoo promises.

Thousands of ads,

none for my real hair.

Someone will come again,

smiling through a screen,

saying,

we made this just for you.

Test it.

Try it.

Next day, no hair.

So be it.

A cluttered mind

with a shiny head.

No body shaming.

You are good

the way you are.

More clutter.

Someone drops by,

says, hey, I need a favor.

My body wants the bed.

My hand wants to switch off the phone.

But the heart says,

help him.

Your time matters.

Your life matters.

But kindness keeps pulling my sleeve.

The clutter of not helping

feels heavier

than helping.

I cannot carry that.

So tell me,

where do I dump

all this clutter?

Is there a site for it?

A place with big silent bins

for half–used worries

and expired thoughts?

Which parts can be recycled?

Which ones refuse to die?

Maybe clutter is not trash.

Maybe it is just evidence

that I have lived.

I am still learning

what to hold

and what to release.