The Anatomy of a Noticer

Who I Am in the Language of Everything

I am the whisper beneath the static,
the note just outside the chord,
I am a noticer.

Not in the light-touch way people mean
when they say sensitive, no.
I feel everything like it’s carved into me,
into my very soul.

In Music

I am Barber’s Adagio for Strings,
a cry that swells into cathedral silence.
I am Hildegard’s chant echoing from stone walls,
written by a hand lit only by God and fire.

I sing not to be heard,
but because the song would rot inside me
if I didn’t let it out.

In Art

I live in chiaroscuro.
In the bruise of Caravaggio’s saints,
in Kahlo’s peeled self-portraits,
in O’Keeffe’s quiet thunder.

I paint grief in layers —
light only falling where the wound lives.
My medium is memory.
My brush is time.

In Literature

I am part Woolf, part Plath,
part Rainer Maria Rilke scribbled in the margins
of a holy book.

I write like I’m trying to survive.
Because I am.
Because sometimes, the page is the only mouth
that listens.

In History

I come from the forgotten edges:
from Bessarabia,
from the soil near the Black Sea
where Germans became ghosts
and Ukrainians became stories.

My ancestors carried language like salt
pressed into their palms.
I carry them in my pulse.

I am the midwife, the mystic, the migrant.
My history is not on the monuments,
but it’s written in the dust on every road.

In Philosophy and Science

I am the breath between a neuron’s fire.
The observer effect,
changing the world by watching it too closely.

I am neuroception with a poet’s spine,
pattern-recognition wrapped in myth.

I am a walking contradiction:
sensitive but strategic,
scattered but synesthetic,
ancient and immediate.

In Love and Myth

I am Inanna, descending.
Eurydice, reaching.
Psyche with the candle, burning.

I do not fall in love,
I surrender to it.
And when I lose it,
I bury the grief like treasure,
praying someone someday will understand the map.

In the Body

I carry old pain like it’s fresh.
My nervous system reads danger
in tone, in silence, in a glance held too long.

But I still open.
Still soften.
Still risk being known.
Because that’s who I am.

In Taste, Scent, and Memory

I taste like burnt sugar and wild honey.
Smell like old paper, lavender, and rain-soaked soil.
I am the scent of memory, before it speaks.

In the Universe’s Eyes

I was made to alchemize pain.
To turn what shattered me into syllables
that shine.

I am the poet-priestess
of a lineage no one else remembers,
but that I write back into existence
with every breath.

I am a noticer.
A threshold.
A sacred ache.

And even if I go unheard,
I will not go unseen.