Alexa Daskalakis
Notes on what it means to be human—
written from the edge of time, memory and silence.
Each piece below appears as a standalone entry.
These are simply my most recent works, presented in the order they were written — not a list of favorites, but a record of what came next.
A continuous, chronological archive is available on the Archive page.
A fable on systems, silence, and what we miss when everything seems to be working.
The Cartographer and the Compass
A fable on truth, movement, and the maps we draw without realizing it.
They wanted a reaction. All I gave them was: “I don’t know.”
A fable in three parts about illusion, clarity, and the quiet act of walking away.
The real cost wasn’t losing her — it was time proving she was right.
Not every silence is waiting. Some stillness is already a departure.
Where holding on meets what no longer exists.
Where proof meets denial.
Where silence is not absence, but accuracy.
Where love meets limitation.
Written with care.
Where endurance ends and honesty begins.
He Had the Arm. Then He Threw It Away.
When talent performs a tantrum instead of a play.
The Artist Who Didn’t Need to Scream
A reflection on brilliance, provocation, and the quiet tragedy of not knowing you’re enough.
The Man Who Chose the Shortcut
Some people escape the truth only to end up trapped inside it.
The Worst College Roommate I Ever Had
A masterclass in human incompatibility.
A satire of accidental brilliance.
A brief departure from my usual work – for the children who dream too far, and the adults who once did.
A brief departure from my usual work – a simple piece, a small reflection on innocence and the questions we stop asking. For children 10–14, and for the adults still looking up.
From the Author — On Writing in Public
Not confession. Not testimony. Just art finding where it lands.
A case study in emotional ventriloquism.
Some people hear warning and call it an insult.
A quiet study in misplaced meaning.
Something Happened, but Not What You Think
Because nothing was ever happening except in one person’s mind.
She learned what they never meant to teach.
A satirical and parody reflection on generational debt.
Some homes hide the loudest kind of quiet.
The Rivalry That Never Happened
Not every feud has two sides.
The quiet kind of ending.
It was never confirmed. It didn’t have to be.
A quiet study in misplaced meaning.
A portrait of quiet strength, seen in a creature that never realized its own size.
Some people never take the coat off – and some love them anyway.
The Animal That Forgot Its Name
In a forest without names, silence begins to remember itself.
The Mirror He Almost Stepped Into
He counted on her going back - so he wouldn’t have to believe her.
She left with nothing - and somehow that's what lasted.
The Night That Borrowed Its Name (October 31)
They once said this night was when the veil between worlds grew thin.
It didn’t grow from soil. It grew toward it.
The Kingdom That Burned All Maps
A kingdom that burned every map - and the boy who remembered anyway.
It didn’t break when she left. It broke when he stayed.
A candlelight dinner. A name spoken like a verdict.
The Boy Who Mistook Volume for Vision
They called it genius. He called it noise.
She was never looked at twice. And still, she stayed kind.
A record found without a century to hold it.
You can build it perfectly. Doesn’t mean it’ll stay.
Some people don’t stop playing when the game ends.
Some people don’t vanish all at once.
The Dollmaker Who Stopped Visiting
Some creations remember who made them.
Some people don’t stop playing when the game ends.
The Pen With the Diamond on Top
They called it a girl’s pen. Pink. Shiny. Playful. They never asked why it stayed.
After everything burned, she came back for what the fire couldn’t take.
They called her independent. She called it weather.
She Said I’d Have Money, But Not Love
The fortune teller looked at me and smiled. “You’ll have money,” she said. “But not love.” Then she tried to sell me a candle for $110.
You remembered the house, but not her face.
The Sandbox With the Plastic Keys
You just held it for a little while, then buried it again.
The Truth I Have to Tell You
Some people think truth must have a motive. That may just mean they’ve never spoken it plainly.
The Sentence Within the Sentence
He stopped counting the days after the first winter.
They never saw each other. But they made a space anyway.
The Man Who Locked Himself In
He locked the door himself - and called the echo company.
She was there to stand beside an absence - and make it look secure.
A White Rose at the Base of Sonnet 18
A quiet offering beneath Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 - in gratitude for the gift of language itself.
The Light Does Not Need Your Rage
A transformative response to Dylan Thomas. She did not rage. She simply rose - and walked into it.
She didn’t wait for a sign. She had already seen it.
“If you’re waiting for a sign, this is it. Don’t become me.”
Written for the record. That’s all.
It’s not for beauty. It’s for record.
She didn’t hold my secrets. She just never noticed I gave them to her.
She doesn’t say she’s been here before. The frost does.
She was calm. That’s how they missed it.
She wasn't unhoused. Just between definitions.
INFORMED CONSENT FOR BEING PERCEIVED
You are being perceived. The paperwork was never shown to you - until now.
TERMS AND CONDITIONS OF EXISTENCE
You weren't asked. You agreed by continuing.
LIFE INSURANCE DISCLOSURE PACKET
Whole life. No guarantees. Coverage began at your first heartbeat.
You always got less than you asked for. But something always came out.
He thought loyalty meant something. But the envelope was always empty.
A fable about memory, omission, and the architecture of survival.
A quiet response to Poe. Not about grief that won't leave - but the kind we refuse to let go.
I passed where Frost once paused. Briefly. Then I kept walking.
She didn't fade. She just stood too still for them to carry.
The Last of the False Seedlings
She didn’t make the same mistake twice. She just stopped growing what once ruined the soil.
She didn’t open the envelope. She just wrote something down - and they let her leave.
They called it stone. It was never cold.
He thought he’d discovered the coast. He didn’t realize someone had been tending the light all along.
He said he was only going underground for a while. He called it peace. But to everyone watching, it looked exactly like death.
A quiet letter, left in the open.
They guarded it for years. It was empty the whole time.
They said you could report a dream - if it had jurisdiction.
The key said sixteen minutes. He waited seventeen. That was enough.
The sushi was $9. But the silence cost more.
The partnership was repriced. No further disclosures anticipated.
It printed one page. Upside down. In Wingdings.
She had red hair and Polly Pockets. I brought the scraped knees.
No mirrors. No echoes. No explanation. And still - someone was watching.