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This poem is the distillation of that experience—a map of the interior wilderness I traversed to find a new voice and a steady peace. Writing it was an act of reclamation, a way to shape pain into something beautiful and true.
Sharing these words is the very reason I began this blog: to offer a testament that from the ashes of a cremated past, an uncharted heart can begin to beat.
The Past, the Present, the Uncharted Heart (3 parts)
—by Sunny Wang, Jan 2026
I.
Three years and four months.
I was a fugitive from a soul-murdering home—my marriage.
The road after was no road—
a shuffle between borrowed couches,
occasional house-minding, caring for beloved furry friends.
My belongings in one square meter of storage, and in my car.
Finally, a tiny harbor: a rental near the Atlantic coast.
Exhausted and stifled, thoughts stalled and mind stale…
a long journey to rebuild my mental state,
to restore neurological coherence.
I chose shadow work over victimhood,
mined every ore of my agony,
sifted the ash of my cremated soul.
I learned to say NO—a solid, unbreakable boulder.
to sever ties with clean, sharp lines,
to claim my ground,
to define the shape of an honest welcome.
Quiet rooms, river view, fortress of solitude...
this is the new architecture of my being.
And the divorce paper—a bureaucratic tombstone—
marked the end of dark ages,
a new incarnation, an uncharted heart.
Three years and four months.
That is how long it took to get this mind back.
II.
I woke up happy this morning,
stayed horizontal for hours,
dreaming of a non-speaking butler,
bringing me breakfast in bed,
sparkling water with a spritz of purple juice,
drawing a warm bath—
a quiet permission from the universe
to rest, to rejuvenate,
to enjoy the present moment.
The comforter is warm,
the bed is cozy,
the sky outside the window
is a happy enough color.
I shall savor this moment.
III.
I am a truth-teller now.
the unflinching line, the analytical dialogue,
the poem that holds up a spotlight, a mirror, not a veil.
My craft is a lens buffed clear by survival.
Six decades of observation,
patterns repeated, experience lived.
My truth-telling is a quiet fire.
It burns against the chill of social malice—
the large, power-wielded cruelties,
and the small, sharp slights alike.
I name the subtle encroachment,
the sculptors’ hands that carve, chip, and shape you,
the pressure to be small, to be silent, to be compliant.
From the citadel of my peace, I speak.
From this horizontal happiness, I find a vertical truth,
sheer absolute, that anyone can see.
It is the "no" that built my new voice,
a voice that will set many free—
breaking the dawn for a brighter, braver day.
I shall savor this, too.
This purpose, forged in the old fire,
cooled in the quiet of my own company,
now handed back to the world—
a word, a line, a truth at a time.
The Past, the Present, the Uncharted Heart (3 parts)
—by Sunny Wang, Jan 2026
I.
Three years and four months.
I was a fugitive from a soul-murdering home—my marriage.
The road after was no road—
a shuffle between borrowed couches,
occasional house-minding, caring for beloved furry friends.
My belongings in one square meter of storage, and in my car.
Finally, a tiny harbor: a rental near the Atlantic coast.
Exhausted and stifled, thoughts stalled and mind stale…
a long journey to rebuild my mental state,
to restore neurological coherence.
I chose shadow work over victimhood,
mined every ore of my agony,
sifted the ash of my cremated soul.
I learned to say NO—a solid, unbreakable boulder.
to sever ties with clean, sharp lines,
to claim my ground,
to define the shape of an honest welcome.
Quiet rooms, river view, fortress of solitude...
this is the new architecture of my being.
And the divorce paper—a bureaucratic tombstone—
marked the end of dark ages,
a new incarnation, an uncharted heart.
Three years and four months.
That is how long it took to get this mind back.
II.
I woke up happy this morning,
stayed horizontal for hours,
dreaming of a non-speaking butler,
bringing me breakfast in bed,
sparkling water with a spritz of purple juice,
drawing a warm bath—
a quiet permission from the universe
to rest, to rejuvenate,
to enjoy the present moment.
The comforter is warm,
the bed is cozy,
the sky outside the window
is a happy enough color.
I shall savor this moment.
III.
I am a truth-teller now.
the unflinching line, the analytical dialogue,
the poem that holds up a spotlight, a mirror, not a veil.
My craft is a lens buffed clear by survival.
Six decades of observation,
patterns repeated, experience lived.
My truth-telling is a quiet fire.
It burns against the chill of social malice—
the large, power-wielded cruelties,
and the small, sharp slights alike.
I name the subtle encroachment,
the sculptors’ hands that carve, chip, and shape you,
the pressure to be small, to be silent, to be compliant.
From the citadel of my peace, I speak.
From this horizontal happiness, I find a vertical truth,
sheer absolute, that anyone can see.
It is the "no" that built my new voice,
a voice that will set many free—
breaking the dawn for a brighter, braver day.
I shall savor this, too.
This purpose, forged in the old fire,
cooled in the quiet of my own company,
now handed back to the world—
a word, a line, a truth at a time.
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