About the Author
Justinian Erdmier
A writer moving between poetry, fiction, and essays, tracing the subtle emotional currents that define what it means to be human.
I write from the quiet spaces most people rush past. By training, I am a software engineer — someone who thinks in systems, patterns, and clean lines — but my writing lives in a different register. Poetry and prose give me room to explore the parts of myself that do not fit neatly into architecture diagrams: longing, restraint, memory, and the slow, deliberate work of understanding what I feel.
Being autistic shapes the way I move through the world and, inevitably, the way I write. I experience emotion intensely but often at a delay, as if the feeling arrives first and the meaning follows later. Writing is where those two finally meet. It lets me examine the subtle shifts, the almost-moments, the quiet ache of things half-said or never said at all.
I approach each piece with intention. I am not interested in rushing towards conclusions or forcing clarity where none exists. Instead, I try to create space for readers to slow down, breathe, and sit with the softer, more complicated parts of themselves. If my writing resonates, it is usually because someone recognises a feeling they have carried but never named.
This site is a home for that kind of work: measured, introspective, emotionally precise. Whether you are here for the poetry, the essays, or the quiet companionship of shared interiority, I am glad you found your way in.
On the Work
"I write to find out what I think. The page is where I slow down enough to notice what is actually there."
Everything here began as an act of attention — a feeling that would not settle, a sentence that kept returning, a moment that asked to be held a little longer. The form shifts because the material tells me how it needs to be carried. Some things arrive as poems because only a poem can hold them; others insist on prose because the weight demands a wider frame.
I keep this archive not as a monument but as a record. A trace of what was noticed, what pressed against the edges of my awareness, what asked to be understood. These pieces remain because the noticing mattered, and because the act of keeping them is part of the work itself.