Author’s Note
This is a quiet invocation of connection and hope—a brief, intimate reflection on the beauty of shared moments, even in their smallest form. Sometimes the smallest words carry the deepest meaning.
The Smallest Prayer
Poetry by Rowan Evans
Thoughts.
Dreams.
You and I—
Us.
Together.
Reaching.
Seeing.
To read more of my work, find it here: [The Library of Ashes]
Author’s Note
This piece reflects on the quiet strength it takes to remain soft in a world that often tries to harden you. It’s a personal reflection on resilience, empathy, and the enduring capacity to love, even in the face of doubt and adversity.
This post marks my 83rd consecutive day of sharing on the blog, I have not missed a day since August 8th… During this time, I have tried to push myself to be a little more open. A little more honest. Even when it’s hard, even when I just want to be closed off from the world…
Exhibit of Survival
Poetry by Rowan Evans
Pins.
They hold me in place.
As the glass
lowers over my face.
Framed.
In a frame. On display.
Like a dead butterfly.
I have had people in my life who pretended to be on my side—who pretended to care—when really, they just wanted front-row seats to my struggles. They wanted to watch as I unraveled, whispering doubts to freeze me in place, to preserve the ache. To keep me from moving forward. And yet, I still pushed. I still tried.
Threads.
Tied to limbs.
Marionette.
Puppet on strings.
They’ve got control of me.
Free? Not really.
Those same people tried to talk me out of anything I wanted to do—anything that could bring me closer to the life I wanted. “Why do you want to leave America?” they’d ask. But it’s not my home; it’s just the place I was born. The place I was raised. I’ve never felt like I belong here. Not once.
Everything holds me back—my brain looping their doubts, my own depression and anxiety echoing them back to me. It’s a war on all fronts. And still, I stand.
My thoughts.
They flutter and fade
in this liminal space.
It’s pain—
just to be alive.
It’s a wonder.
A miracle.
How have I survived?
Resilience. And reminders from the few who truly see me, who truly believe in me. Without them, I might have given up long ago. But because of them, I’ve kept my empathy alive. I’ve refused apathy. I’ve stayed soft. I’ve kept my heart open and given love freely.
How?
How have I
made it to thirty-five?
Every day I wake up.
Surprised.
That surprise isn’t mine anymore. It’s the echo of others’ doubts—ones I no longer answer.
Author’s Note
This reflection came to me as a kind of whisper — the voice of every anxious soul who has spent years mistaking chaos for connection. The Fear of No Fear at All is not about panic, but about peace — and how frightening peace can be when you’ve learned to survive on the edge of heartbreak.
It’s about the moment you realize that being seen, truly seen, doesn’t have to hurt.
The Fear of No Fear at All
Reflection by Rowan Evans
There’s a kind of fear only the anxious understand—
not the kind that makes your pulse race,
but the kind that falls silent when something finally feels right.
When you’ve spent years waiting for the floor to collapse,
for love to turn sharp, for tenderness to vanish like smoke,
peace feels dangerous. Safety feels foreign.
Your body doesn’t trust the quiet;
it waits for the crash that never comes.
And then one day, someone walks in—
and there is no crash.
No second-guessing, no masks to hold.
You find yourself unguarded, unarmed,
and the absence of panic is the most terrifying thing of all.
Because what do you do
when love doesn’t demand that you bleed for it?
When it asks only for your truth,
your laughter, your unhidden self?
That is the fear of no fear at all—
the trembling realization that maybe,
after all this time,
you are finally safe here.
🕛 Coming at 12:05 am (UTC +8)
A companion piece — the moment that inspired this realization.
✨ The Moment I Realized (Under Manila’s Setting Sun) — a vignette of confession, connection, and the beautiful terror of truth.
Double-Feature Intro
Sometimes the world feels too heavy to bear, and the soul begins to dream of places it has never touched. Two paths emerge—one of quiet surrender, the other of yearning flight. These pieces explore that journey: the weight of what we leave behind, and the promise of somewhere beyond the horizon.
Escape Route
Poetry by Rowan Evans
I want to step off this soil,
feel its weight fade from my bones,
like a chain I never asked for,
a history I never owned.
I long for skies not heavy with judgment,
for oceans that don’t pull me under,
to breathe air not tainted with promises
that leave the soul shattered,
like glass beneath tired feet.
I would trade the land of endless noise,
the echoes of hollow dreams,
for silence—
for the quiet of somewhere far,
where the world doesn’t scream
but whispers,
and I can finally exhale.
Somewhere else,
where home isn’t built on brokenness,
where freedom isn’t borrowed
but earned.
Tropical Longing
Poetry by Rowan Evans
I wake up each day,
mind focused on the journey ahead—
I’m putting plans in motion,
to cross oceans,
to leave behind this land of plenty,
where many have none.
I long for the land
of white sand beaches and palm trees,
I long for a tropical sun.
Life upon a different shore,
it’s calling me.
And I think about it longingly.
Get me out of here,
get me to where my heart feels at peace.
Instead of here,
where I feel like I’m pulling myself in two,
stretched thin between what is and what could be—
like waves crashing against jagged rocks,
each one breaking off a piece of me.
The Philippines—
a dream painted in shades of emerald and gold,
the promise of solace in the whisper of the sea.
But here, the air is heavy,
clouds hang low with burdens of the past,
while I yearn for a sky unshackled,
where the horizon stretches far beyond
the limits of what I know.
Palm trees sway like dancers,
and the sun burns bright,
calling me to walk barefoot,
where my soul can feel the sand,
and my heart can finally breathe.
But for now,
I’m tethered to this place,
this world where the weight is felt
with every step I take.
Still, I hold onto the dream,
the image of an island beyond the mist—
where peace resides,
and I can shed the pull of this dual life,
and rest beneath the warmth of the tropical sky.
Double-Feature Outro
And so we leave, if only in words—for a moment, we escape the weight of the world. We walk toward distant shores, toward air untainted and skies unbound, carrying pieces of ourselves we thought were lost. Between the tethered and the free, we find the space to breathe, to dream, to simply be.
Looking for more of my poetry? The Library of Ashes
Poetry by Rowan Evans 