misaoseta

never tell the story, live it.

Deviant for 19 years•100 Watchers•89 Watching•686 Deviations

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beacon. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

beacon.

I spent years becoming a lighthouse: all control, all vigilance, holding my storms inward so no one would drown in them. People called me strong because they only saw the beam, never the shipwreck of tenderness beneath it. And when exhaustion finally made my voice sharp, they mistook the flare for fire. But love, I’ve learned, is not being admired for how well you survive. It is someone sitting beside your restless sea without asking you to calm it before you are worthy of being known.

anvil. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

anvil.

I have shed the brittle armor of my previous life. It sits behind me, a discarded shell in the grit. I do not offer the soft hand of absolution; To absolve is to dull the blade that carved the spirit. I keep the notches in my bone; They are the blueprints of my rising. My former self was a dissonance in the great chord, A rusted gear grinding against the ascent. I view those failures now, not with a priest’s pity, But with the cold precision of the stonemason. I do not mask the fracture; I weld it into a weapon. The one who blames is a ghost haunting his own ruins, A man who builds a temple out of his old wounds. But I have strangled the "No" to find the "Yes". Will is the only lightning that can split the silent stone. It is a more vital, more sovereign power than remorse. I am not mended; I am forged. I have gathered my shards and tempered them in the furnace. I am the anvil that broke the hammer of my own regret. I stand incompletely complete, a master, a star claiming

of clay and stone. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

of clay and stone.

I accused the world too easily As if pain alone made me innocent. But bitterness is a clever sculptor; It can carve virtue from vanity, And call the wound a crown. I have failed people. Not always loudly. Sometimes through silence, Through retreat, Through demanding understanding While offering little of my own. There were moments I loved like a hostage negotiator, Measuring tone, distance, appetite Trying to survive affection Instead of entering it honestly. And still, I refuse the old punishment: To become fixed. A flaw is not a sentence. The oak leans for decades Toward better light. I do not need someone To worship my brokenness Or excuse every sharp edge As the artifact of suffering. That is another kind of cage: To be preserved exactly as I am By those too afraid To watch me transform. No. Love worthy of respect Looks directly at the chaos in another And says: Become more. I will not chain you To the person pain created. So I stand here unfinished, Not ashamed. Not

noh or no. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

noh or no.

Masks breed in crowded temples of approval. Every smile, a contract. Every gesture, rehearsed beneath the iron chandelier of expectation. They ask a woman, “Who are you?” but mean: “What version of yourself keeps us comfortable?” So she learns the performance. Softer here. Smaller there. Lovely in acceptable ways. She laughs where she is wounded. Apologizes for her intensity. Cuts herself into manageable pieces and calls it kindness. But the soul grows tired of rehearsing its own existence. Then come the rare people before whom the spine unclenches. No script in their hands. No demand in their eyes. No quiet hunger to make her less. With them, silence is not tension. Laughter arrives unedited. Thoughts bloom without apology. And freedom becomes terrifyingly simple: to exist without translation. To stop performing. To stop shrinking. To discover that beneath the masks was never weakness but a wilderness: moonlit, untamed, and vast enough to finally breathe in.

adjustment. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

adjustment.

being alone called strange as if absence must mean danger a room deciding too quickly what a person is bad person for silence that must mean something that doesn’t perform correctly so the body learns its split response among family: too much loud, sharp, refusing to vanish not confidence, but refusal to be made small outside: too polished smile first, certainty first a practiced ease that arrives before judgment can each side training the other what is too much becomes what must be controlled what is too controlled becomes what must be louder a loop tightening, mistaken as identity only adjustment rehearsed until it looks like personality and underneath the simple fear of being misunderstood into something that gets left behind.

unfashionably alone. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

unfashionably alone.

At lunch I sat alone with a book like a wound pretending to be a girl. Happy, mostly. Afraid of what it would mean to look happy alone. So: wit as survival, laughter before silence, eye contact rehearsed like prayer. A personality stitched from camouflage. Katherine in The Taming of the Shrew not wild, but unallowed. A woman made into problem until obedience looked like clarity. And every small rejection: prophecy. A delayed text, a shifted tone, the whole sky tilting sideways. Skinless. So: more charming, more effortless, less visibly strange. Until even my solitude required a costume as though a girl alone with a book could only ever mean unwanted.

jade. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

jade.

I did not find love as flame or as the soft myth given to the young. I found it as jade is found not offered, but broken from river-bone by hands that learn patience through injury. It does not announce itself. It yields only to pressure and time. I once thought love would arrive as clarity a door opening, a name that fits, peace laid over chaos like conclusion. A childish metaphysics. What arrives is revision. The slow correction of what I mistook for fate. I mistook pursuit for truth, as though wanting were proof of worth. But desire is not wisdom; it is will without form. Jade is not given to the first gaze. It is struck, turned, tested: made to reveal what survives contact with reality. So too with love. Not possession. Not rescue. But the strange discipline of holding without owning as though presence itself were the only form of fidelity.

weight of silver. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

weight of silver.

I learned early that a room bends toward a woman who understands the cost of being seen. Not beauty alone. beauty has always been common as fruit: but restraint, the delayed smile, the glance withdrawn a moment too soon, the hand resting lightly against the stem of a glass as though it carried a private omen. Cities are full of people like this. Luminous for an hour, untouchable by morning. I moved among mirrored elevators, winter rooftops, restaurants dim with amber and perfume, and watched desire assemble itself with almost religious precision. How quickly people create power in a woman only to resent her for possessing it. They offer attention, fascination, reverence; then recoil the moment she learns how to survive inside their gaze. There were those who mistook attention for intimacy. Those who spoke softly only after midnight. Those who loved confession so long as it cost them nothing. I listened. That was always the beginning. Once, in a room high above the city, someone

malleable. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

malleable.

You learned, slowly, that a life can be held too tightly and still be called love. That devotion, left unexamined, can quietly turn into disappearance. And yet nothing in you was wasted. Not the exhaustion. Not the grief folded into small, efficient intervals. Not the years spent mistaking endurance for meaning. All of it became part of you without defining you. And somewhere inside that long accumulation, without ceremony, you changed. Not into someone else but into someone less willing to be reduced. Now there is more room in you. Not emptiness space that breathes. Space for mornings that belong to you. For work that does not ask for self-erasure. For joy that does not need permission. Even the body, once a record of strain, has begun to speak differently not in punishment or reward, but in steadiness. And what remains of the past no longer holds you forward. It falls behind without needing to be fought. Not erased. Just no longer shaping you.

charcoal. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

charcoal.

A season fed on you and you called it virtue, polishing chains into vows. Flesh knew better. It thickened with truths you would not carry in words. Then: rupture. No grace. Only will turning its teeth inward. Again. Again. Again. You burned the soft gods obedience, endurance, being needed; left their ash on your tongue. Now bare ground. cold air. no witnesses. Only this: a harder shape, cut from refusal, moving forward like fire that keeps burning long after the tourists have gone.

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beacon. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

beacon.

anvil. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

anvil.

of clay and stone. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

of clay and stone.

noh or no. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

noh or no.

adjustment. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

adjustment.

unfashionably alone. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

unfashionably alone.

jade. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

jade.

weight of silver. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

weight of silver.

malleable. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

malleable.

charcoal. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

charcoal.

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Deviation Spotlight

taxicabs for ghosts. by misaoseta, literature

Literature

taxicabs for ghosts.

gypsy cabs pass through the clumsy and gritty los angeles streetscoldest shoulders, and guns for mouths but there's stars under this thick muggy pollution the angry factories pump hot air and disillusioned hope we'd all climb out, if we could only find a ropehere I am, trembling through the backalleys with a somber face while they're asleep marching through the streets, apathy inside the morning coffeeintersections and streetlights could never really make the people meet cigarettes and my guts firmly clenched in my teethand here it is, the ebb and flow the traffic packed, the freeways look like clogged veins where the fog resembles the con...

taxicabs for ghosts.

misaoseta

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About misaoseta

United States
Deviant for 19 years
She / Her

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My Bio

I love writing as a form of my own language of expression. That's all, though. I'm afraid I never spent much time trying to define or refine my style or anything like that. If you resonate, that's a really awesome way we connect as human beings in my opinion.

Favourite Visual Artist

Don Hertzfeldt

Favourite Movies

From Up on Poppy Hill

Favourite TV Shows

Shogun, Invincible

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Tatsuya Kitani, Kimbra

Favourite Books

Ubik & Crucial Conversations

Favourite Writers

Asimov & Ai Yazawa

Favourite Games

A Short Hike, Dragon Quest 11

Other Interests

Currently into hiking, leaning towards backpacking stuff. Travel, tons of travel.

Posts

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misaoseta

Apr 22, 2026

of small deaths and revivals.

0 min read

There was a time I was held together by being needed. Not gently. Not like something cradled. More like a structure mistaken for a person. I was the center of gravity in rooms that assumed I would always hold. The one who already knew where everything should go: jokes, plans, damage control, the apology before the rupture even formed. I learned early that loyalty could function like architecture. If I stayed precise enough, useful enough, sharp enough in the right places, nothing would collapse in a way that could be traced back to me. In my family I was the constant one. The brave one. The smart one. A role that stopped being spoken out loud because it never needed to be. And then permanence stopped cooperating. My father died, and something in me stopped believing in stability as a contract. I didn’t break in any dramatic, legible way. I unraveled slowly, in private increments. Like thread being pulled from a seam until the shape still looks intact, but no longer holds anything

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misaoseta

Aug 17, 2016

missing you, not me

0 min read

The grief, the satisfying sadness I felt- sitting in a bar alone at 2am. A lot changed for me this year, and a lot of tangible things have not.That night, it was a live burial. I had been working 60+ hour weeks and forcing myself to go out and socialize for the first time in years. I met so many people, I loved and became loved by so many people. It seemed like a balm to me, someone who has truly lost a lot of good friends in such a short amount of time.That girl I thought I was- rash, unstintingly loyal to a fault, and harsh without consequence- she was gone. Underneath the smudged makeup of my nineteen year old's face, underneath the poe...

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misaoseta

Feb 17, 2015

soujourn

0 min read

I stand here at a precipice of self-discovery and self-loathing. I churn the waters of time, slow-moving but at last, sure. Mother-naked and frightened, I start to see my patterns becoming a droning shell of what I tried so hard to build. People in my life see a strength in me and I've come only to see my weaknesses.This week, I pushed back the veil that's been obscuring my perspective, my goals and the mirror I transfixed in between. I am not brilliant or strong, and I just a woman trying to make sense of things. I am not the center of the group nor leader, or the best friend you've had. I have not been a friend or lover these years, I ha...