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aurastorm
2 21,488 M Aiming High
PathStep 25 Compassion hearts3,919 Forum posts152 Forum upvotes461 Current upvotes461 Age GroupAdult Last activeAugust, 2026 Member sinceAugust 3, 2024
Bio

1025 Days.

"Fortunate are those who lived their youth before the war, And fortunate are those yet to be born after it... As for us, may fate forgive its timing.

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Two halves
General Support / by aurastorm
Last post
 May 6th
...See more Everyone asks me: what’s wrong? As if the answer lives close to the surface, as if it can be pulled out in a sentence, placed between words, and handed over neatly. But what’s inside me doesn’t come in sentences… it comes in fragments. I don’t remember when it started .. only that somewhere along the way, I split. There is a version of me that moves through the day, smiling at the right moments, responding, existing, passing through people like nothing is broken. And then there is the other one, the one that stays behind, sitting in the quiet aftermath of everything, collecting what I couldn’t say, carrying what I couldn’t show. What’s wrong with me is not one thing. It’s layers. Days that pressed too hard. Days when life wasn't fit to be called a life. Days when everything was taken. Words that never found a place to land. Feelings that learned to fold themselves small just to fit inside a world that kept moving. It’s the habit of saying “I’m fine” until the word itself lost meaning. It’s being here...fully here. and still feeling like no one can see how much I’m holding together at once. So I go quiet. Not healed. Not okay. Just… quieter. At night, when everything softens, I try to understand myself, but even then, the thoughts don’t line up. They scatter, like pieces of something that was never allowed to stay whole. The worst part isn’t the sadness, or the clawing grief. It’s the way it settled in, made itself familiar, until it became part of how I speak, how I see, how I almost feel happiness.. but never all the way. They ask me: what’s wrong? And I hesitate… Because I don’t know which version of me they’re asking about... the one that stands, steady, unshaken on the outside, or the one inside, that feels like a place constantly rebuilding itself after something unspoken, again and again, without ever being asked what it lost. . . Aura 11:45 pm, May 6th 2026
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The lock
General Support / by aurastorm
Last post
 April 4th
...See more There, in that deep point within my chest, something is lodged, a weight that refuses to move, refuses to name itself, refuses to let me breathe, without reminding me it’s there. It doesn’t leave, so I don’t get the mercy of rest. It doesn’t speak, so no one hears the breaking. I walk around with it, like a secret stitched into my ribs, tight, aching, pulling with every breath I try to take too deeply. People talk. The world moves. Voices pass through me like wind through broken walls, and I nod, I answer, I exist... but something inside me is still stuck in that one unmoving moment. There, where the silence is heavier than noise, where words dissolve before they reach my mouth, where I am screaming but only I can hear it. I try to swallow it down, this unnamed thing, this grief, this weight, this… something. but it rises again, pressing against my throat like it wants to become a voice and doesn’t know how. So it stays. And I stay with it. Half-here, half-buried, breathing around a pain that neither leaves nor speaks nor lets me be. . . Aura Fri, 7:30 pm
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I miss my name.
General Support / by aurastorm
Last post
 January 11th
...See more I miss my name. Not just the word, but the weight it carried within, the way it meant I belonged somewhere, that someone called me into being. How sad it is, to forget what that feels like to wait in silence for a voice that used to be my anchor,now lost somewhere in the distance. I miss hearing my name. And i miss home. I miss mum. I miss dad. I miss my siblings. My bed. My room. My wallpaper. My clothes. My shoes. My coats. My journals. My ukulele. My guitar. My music stuff. My slippers. My washi tapes. My stickers. I miss my bathroom. My mirror. My vanity. My wardrobe. My hair bands. I miss my stuff. My collections. My albums. I miss my cups and mugs. My pillow. My sweater. My socks. My blanket. My rug. My spot in the couch. My laptop. My games. My bags. My shoes. My coffee maker. I miss the smell of home. The winter. The summer. The sun inside home. The figs and olives. The cats and birds. I miss the noises of people. The tv the movies. The bread. The tea. The homemade cooked meals. The warmth. The voices. I miss stupid posters on my room wall. I miss the walls of home. The floors. The wallpaper. The dining table. The rug we draw on. The paint. My books. My rock collection of memories. My memory box. My funny letters. My school books. My sketches. My whole damn life. My life. Its not fair Not fair at all. Not fair I miss my name I want to hear my name irl How small but hard of a wish that is.
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Aftermath
General Support / by aurastorm
Last post
 November 17th, 2025
...See more It’s like there’s a hole in my chest that no one warned me about, and every day it widens just a little more. Some days I pretend I don’t notice it, pretend I’m stronger than this weight that never leaves me. But then something small ..a memory, a smell, a thought hits me out of nowhere, and suddenly I’m back in that moment again, the moment everything was taken. Not lost. Taken. Ripped. Cut out. Stolen. That damn strike didn’t just hit a place, it hit my life. It hit my future. It hit everything I was supposed to still have. And the world keeps going like nothing happened, like I didn’t watch my entire sense of “home” collapse into smoke and silence. People talk, laugh, breathe, live ... and I’m standing there with this invisible wound no one else can see. I miss my family so much my bones hurt. Not metaphorically ..no ..it’s like the ache settled into my skeleton and decided to stay. My siblings’ voices echo inside me like ghosts. I can hear them sometimes, the way they laughed, the way they complained, the way they made the house feel alive. That noise was life. And now the silence is so loud it rings in my ears. I miss my mother’s warmth, her presence, the way she could look at me once and somehow know everything I was afraid to say. I miss my father’s steady calm, the kind that made the world feel less hostile. And now I feel like a tree pulled out of the ground violently, roots dangling, dirt falling off, nothing to hold onto. Just floating. Drifting. Pretending I’m fine while something inside me is screaming. And the anger… the anger is its own creature. Dark. Heavy. Bitter. It sits behind my ribs and claws its way upward, burning, tightening, pressing. Angry at the strike. Angry at fate. Angry at the world. Angry that I can’t go back in time and hold on to them harder. Angry that I wasn’t given a choice. Angry that everything can vanish in a heartbeat and there’s nothing you can do but watch your life collapse like a fragile building. I hate how missing them feels like swallowing glass. I hate how some nights I lie awake and my mind replays memories that feel both precious and poisonous. I hate how no matter how far I run, the pain runs faster. I hate how the homesickness is not for a place but for people, for voices, for warmth, for a life I can’t get back. I hate how grief becomes something you carry in your mouth, in your lungs, in your heartbeat. Something that never leaves, just changes shape. Sometimes it feels like I’m living in the aftermath of a storm that never ends. The sky above me is always that strange color, not night, not day, just the shade of things that can’t be undone. And I’m tired. Tired in that deep, bone-level way that sleep doesn’t fix. Tired of pretending I’m okay. Tired of holding all this grief alone. Tired of feeling like the child version of me is still somewhere inside, crying for a home that doesn’t exist anymore. You wake up some mornings and you don’t even know how you managed to open your eyes. You sit there thinking, How am I still here? How am I still moving? How did I survive when everything else didn’t? And the guilt hits you like a wave that pulls you under, fills your lungs with that thick, choking question: Why me? Why am I the one left? Surviving alone isn’t strength. And people say, “You’re strong,” like it’s a compliment, but they don’t understand what that kind of strength costs. They don’t understand how surviving alone means learning to stitch wounds with shaking hands, wiping your own tears, holding yourself upright when the world feels like it’s collapsing again and again. They don’t understand how lonely it is to have no witness to your pain. How lonely it is to cry into a room that doesn’t answer back. Some days I swear the grief sits so heavy in my chest I can’t tell where my heart ends and the pain begins. It feels fused together, welded by the heat of that airstrike that changed everything in a single impossible second. I replay it even when I don’t want to, even when I’m begging my mind for silence. The blast, the shock, the tearing away, it’s like the universe reached into my life with both hands and pulled out everything that mattered. And it replays, It replays, Over & Over & Over & Over.. .. .
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Hello, Humankind
General Support / by aurastorm
Last post
 August 20th, 2025
...See more I dig with bare hands, nails broken, skin torn, stone after stone after stone. The dust fills my lungs but I breathe it in anyway, because maybe, just maybe, a voice will answer back. I whisper their names into the rubble, each syllable a prayer, a plea, a knife. I press my ear to the ground, hoping to hear a cough, a cry, anything that means life still lingers beneath this graveyard of walls. But silence answers me. Silence and the echo of what once was, a mother’s call from the kitchen, the rustle of her dress as she moved, the warmth of her hand guiding mine. yet I call out, a name, a cry, a memory, hoping the rubble will answer back. But the only reply is the echo of my own voice, bouncing off broken walls, mocking me with the silence. I claw deeper, my fingers bleeding, my soul unraveling. I imagine I hear it, a cough, a whisper, a child’s laugh, but it is only the ghosts of what used to be. I find a hand at last. Her hand. My mum’s hand. I hold it as if holding could bring her back. Ash clings to her skin, her fingers stiff, fragile, a color no hand should ever be. I press it to my face, beg it to move, to close around mine just once more. But it is stone now, and the warmth that once wrapped my world is gone. Around me the ruins mock what used to be home. The table where we laughed, splintered wood. The door where she once stood waiting for me, ripped from its hinges. The bed where she tucked me in, buried in dust. Memories are shadows here, and I, their unwilling witness. Is this all we are worth? Is this what it means to be human now? to watch your family turned to rubble, to hold your mother’s hand and feel it crumble in your own, while leaders play monsters and the world plays blind? This is not life. This is not fair. We are humans too. Or did you forget? Did you trade our lives for your comfort, our screams for your silence, our mothers for your monsters? Are we so cheap, humankind? Are we less than your comfort, your silence, your headlines? Are monsters all you see now, while children slip through your fingers like dust? We are humans too. Do you remember that? Or have you traded compassion for politics, hearts for stone? Are we so worthless that our screams vanish into silence? Are the monsters in power all that matters now? We are humans too. We loved, we laughed, we dreamed, just like you. And now I stand with my mother’s hand in mine, her and my entire family's silence echoing louder than any bomb, and I ask you, "world" : When did you forget what it means to be human? When did you forget that it could be you, digging through rubble, praying for a voice, and finding only ash? Wake up. Hear us. See us. We are not numbers. We are families, we are children with dreams, mothers with tenderness, fathers with hope. Wake up. Remember us. Before the last memory of love is buried with the rubble. Wake up. Before all that makes us human is lost. . . Aura 🍉 683 days.
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Did you know, Void?
General Support / by aurastorm
Last post
 August 3rd, 2025
...See more Hi Void, Did you know that I used to collect dreams the way some people collect souvenirs? Each one, a little treasure I held close. I had a list. Messy, chaotic, full of hope,of everything I wanted to do. I wanted to learn to cook, properly cook, the way my mum did. She made food taste like home. I wanted to bake bread that filled the house with warmth. To try, fail, laugh, and try again. I wanted to play an instrument, maybe the oud or piano or the cello, just to feel the sound under my fingers. I wanted to paint, not for anyone else, just for me, skies, oceans, cityscapes, all the places I wanted to go. I wanted to sing out loud without fear, even if I wasn’t good. I wanted to build something of my own, a business, a life, a future. Continue my career i worked so hard on to graduate with honors. I dreamed of freelancing as an architect, to design places where people lived not just existed. To compete in international challenges, and architecture competitions, to stand with my team again, to win together, to feel that fire. I wanted to travel, not to escape, but to explore, to see the beauty of a world I admired from afar. To feel small in the middle of mountains, to breathe in air that wasn’t choked with smoke, drones, fire or fear. I wanted people to know me. Not for tragedy, but for the things I built. I wanted to leave a mark, a story worth telling. You know? Now I am a shadow of that girl. I walk through ruins and rubble not just of buildings, but of everything I loved. The world I adored, the world I believed in, turned cold. It watched us starve. It watched us fall. It watched as famine and seige took us one by one. They wear their neat suits, speak of peace and humanity, and then send missiles that rip through families like mine. We line up for aid, and it feels like stepping into a trap. No safety, no dignity, just the hunger games played in real life. They drop flour, we run. If we’re lucky, we get to live another day. If not, we get a bullet instead. That’s the price. That’s the "humanitarian aid" they send. I had dreams, Void. Now all I have is me. And even that feels like a curse. Because I am the last. The only one left with my family’s name. No more dad’s voice, no mum’s hands, no laughter from Sam or teasing from Loay. No adorable tight hugs from my niece. Or silly moments with my sisters. No home to return to, no one to call me in for dinner. I see videos, happy families, gatherings, full tables, full hearts. And I just want one meal. One single meal where we are together. To hear their voices again, to feel their presence, just once. Is that too much to ask? Is that so hard? to want a table, a meal, a moment of peace? What am I now, Void? Not who I was. That's for sure. Not who I was meant to be. I am what remains. I am memory and grief wrapped in skin. I am the echo of all they were. I am alone… and still here. But for how long, Void? How long before I, too, vanish like the rest? How long before there is no one left to remember our names? Maybe the world won’t notice when I’m gone. Maybe it already doesn’t. Maybe I was never meant to survive them. Maybe this...this silence, is all that’s left for us. Just promise me one thing, Void... Remember us. We were never statistics in a book. We were people. We had names, voices, goals, dreams. We lived. We loved. We laughed. We existed just like the rest. And we deserved More. So much more. . . Aura 🍉 2:58 AM Fri, 1st Aug
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Hi, Mum.
General Support / by aurastorm
Last post
 July 27th, 2025
...See more Hi Mum. "Hi, Aura." I missed you today. I miss you every day, but today it hit different. "What happened, my love?" I saw your old scarf, the one with the faded blue flowers. It still smells like you. I buried my face in it. For a moment, I was back in the kitchen, still standing walls, still beautiful, you humming, the kettle hissing, your hands busy with spices, your eyes soft when they met mine. "I remember that scarf. You used to tug on it when you wanted me to listen closer." Heh, I did that a lot, didn’t I? I always wanted more of you. More stories, more hugs, more of your laughter in the room. "You never asked for too much, Aura. You just knew how precious love was." I miss the way you held my hand without a word when I was overwhelmed. I miss your voice when you called us for dinner. I even miss your scoldings, gentle, but sharp enough to keep us grounded. "You were always my sensitive one. You noticed everything, felt everything so deeply." I still do. That’s the hardest part. The world goes on, but mine pauses at the thought of you all. Every joyful moment feels like it’s missing 6 chairs at the table. "we're still there, my darling. Just quieter now. I’m in the food you cook, in your laugh, in the way you care for others." Sometimes I think I hear your voice, just faintly. Especially when I’m about to give up. It’s like you whisper, ‘One more step, Aura. You’ve got this.’ "Because you do have this. Even when you feel like you don’t. You carry my love with you, it didn’t end. It just changed form." I want to believe that. "Then believe it. Close your eyes now. I’m right here. And I’ll stay… as long as your heart remembers how I loved you." It remembers, Mum. Every bit. And I love you more than words know how to say. "I love you too, my precious. Always. And always again." They took you from me, Mum. Too soon. Too suddenly. In a cruel, cruel way, Mum. One moment you were light in the room, and then… just silence. Unfair, cruel, cold silence. "I know, my sweet girl. I didn’t want to go. I held on for as long as I could. But some goodbyes come like storms, we don’t get to stop them." I wasn’t ready. I’m still not. No one asked me if I could bear this kind of missing. I didn’t get to say goodbye. Not the way I needed to. Not with enough words. Not with enough hugs. "Then say it now. Say everything. I’m here." Goodbye, Mum. Thank you for every soft touch, every warm meal, every quiet sacrifice I only now understand. I love you endlessly. "I was taken from you, yes, but my love… my love was never taken. It’s yours, forever." Aura 🍉 Fri, 18 Jul 2:15 AM
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Hi, Aura
Poetry / by aurastorm
Last post
 June 8th, 2025
...See more "Hi, Aura." Hi, Void. They say I’m lucky. Lucky. You hear that, Void? Lucky. Lucky to live. They say I’m “the lucky survivor.” But that’s not a name, that’s a punishment. That’s what they call the one who wasn’t lucky enough to die with the rest. "Do they know what luck looks like with blood under its fingernails?" They don’t. They sit in their conferences, adjusting ties, discussing ‘proportionate response.’ But they didn’t see me pull my sister’s body from the remains of our kitchen, her hands still clutching the baby’s leg. She tried to shield her. Do you hear me? She used her body to protect a child. And the missile didn’t care. she was 12. "They call it war." Then war is cowardice. It’s slaughter. It’s a polished massacre. It’s pushing buttons from miles away. It’s watching the news in a clean suit while I kneel over the ashes of my sister and whisper her name into rubble. Do you know what it's like to scream and nothing changes? To tear your throat open and still the sky doesn’t close? Still the silence stays? I need to say this before it rots inside me. Not because it’s art. Not because it’s profound. But because there’s no room left in my chest. Do you know what it feels like to remember the weight of your mother’s hand and then see it sticking out from beneath concrete? "…Aura." Don’t. Don’t say sorry. Don’t say anything soft. There is no softness here. Only ash and teeth and the sounds I still hear when I close my eyes. I walk through silence now. But not the peaceful kind. The kind that howls. The kind that stares. The kind that remembers exactly where every body fell. "Do you sleep?" I try. But my dreams are butcher shops. And I’m always arriving too late. Always holding bread that no one will eat. Always hearing my name called from under the rubble. And I dig. And dig. And dig. Until my hands bleed and still ... I never reach them. "You shouldn’t have to." But I do. Because they gave me life as a punishment. Survival as a sentence. I walk in a world where the sun dares to rise over a massacre and no one flinches. I don’t want peace. Peace is a lie they sell after the bones are cleared. I want fury carved into monuments. I want guilt that sticks. I want them to wake sweating, with my sister’s name on their tongue. "They won’t." I know. Cowards sleep well. Murderers get medals. Survivors get silence. But I will scream until my throat splits. Until my sorrow poisons their comfort. Let them choke on it. Let the ones who build bombs feel the weight of a five-year-old’s eyes staring up at them from the dirt. Let them hear my mother’s voice in every crack of thunder. You asked if I sleep. No. I remember. I burn. I breathe in names and exhale fire. Aura 🍉 Wed, 4 Jun 9:00 PM
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