From the Pages of Fragments

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Find Someone Who Makes You Feel Whole

Celestial moss is the kind of green that makes you pause. It doesn’t beg for attention, it earns it. It’s rooted and alive, grounded without being heavy. Like the underside of leaves after it rains. Like something ancient that’s never stopped growing. You could paint an office that color and get more done without even trying. Not because it pushes you, but because it doesn’t. It holds. It softens. It lets you stay. It’s the kind of green that steadies you. The kind that stays. 

Midnight alloy is a navy so rich it’s nearly impolite. It doesn’t try to win you over. It stands there, confident in its depth. Composed. Exact. Like ink in a fountain pen. Like dusk in late autumn. Like a classic piece of furniture – timeless, refined, and rooted in a kind of elegance that never goes out of style. You’d put it in a kitchen if you wanted to feel like you knew exactly what you were doing, even if you didn’t. It sharpens edges. Holds its shape. It’s loud, not showy. Has presence without posturing. There’s nothing halfway about it.

The myth of “you complete me” has always felt off. Like someone handed you a puzzle with one piece missing and called it romance. It implies lack. That you’re unfinished. That love is a gap-filler. But that’s not it. That’s not partnership. That’s codependency dressed up as connection. You should be your own damn picture. Complete. Whole. Framed even, if you want.

Deepwater glow is what happens when celestial moss and midnight alloy meet and neither one disappears. It’s not a compromise. It’s an emergence. It doesn’t replace green. Doesn’t dilute navy. It pulls from both and makes something else entirely. Not better. Just right for this room.

A family room could be painted in celestial moss – lush and grounded, a space that feels like exhaling. It would be warm but steady, alive without being loud. Or midnight alloy – deep and striking, elegant in a way that invites conversation without needing to lead it.

Both would be beautiful. Both would hold their own. But the walls here are deepwater glow. Not because celestial moss fell short, or midnight alloy couldn’t stand on its own. Because this is what they became, together.

Love is All You Need

They say love is all you need. But I’ve seen what happens when people skip the grammar.

Punctuation matters. Structure matters.

I will die on the Oxford comma hill.

I’d like to thank my editors, Barack Obama and my therapist.

Without the Oxford comma, it’s a little unclear who’s editing and who’s unpacking my childhood. The comma is the only difference. The pause that makes the meaning clear. Tone lives in the silence between words.

You need subject-verb agreement, because if one of you changes tense mid-sentence, the whole thing stops making sense. It’s not about grammar; it’s about staying in sync.

You need conjunctions, because “and” means we’re in this together. “But” erases what came before. “Or” splits the path. Tiny words, huge consequences.

You need parentheses, room for the contradictions, the clarifications (the parts of yourself that don’t fit neatly in the sentence but still belong). Love needs space for subtext. 

You need periods. The end of a thought so the next one can begin. Full stops. Boundaries. The kind that say: we end this here, so something else can begin.

It’s not about staying. It’s not about completing each other or finishing each other’s sentences or blending into some perfect shade.

It’s about choosing—on purpose, as your whole self—to love another whole person. To make room for their quirks, their rhythms, the way they shut down mid-argument, or write their vows two weeks too early.

It’s about knowing who you are, and letting someone else know you, too. Not because you need them. But because you want to be known, and you want to know them back.

That’s the kind of love that fills a room.

That steadies. That stays.

Love isn’t all you need.

But it’s what makes the rest worth figuring out.