I reached it, the deepest part of the trough, the lowest place where everything was bleak, miserable and hopeless. I had been climbing down for more time than I could comprehend, sometimes I would slip and fall, the wall of the rough, rock shaft moving past me in slow motion. It was dark but I could see. It was deep underground but I could breath. The creatures loomed close. I could feel them gathering. This is why I chose to be here, to meet them, negotiate, and perhaps begin to integrate. This is working with the Shadow, where the meaning resides.
Tasha’s voice weaves through the night air. Jazz, heartache, and history. From slave songs to symphonies, her ancestors’ chorus behind her. This stage, this song, a legacy in notes. Tonight, her voice carries centuries.
In a New York apartment, the clink of champagne glasses belies the relentless winter. Each accolade a balm for the stillness that lingers, that feeling that something’s perpetually left behind. She catalogues success, like words frozen in the frost.
He worked the land with his hands. The soil was tough, and so was he. Sun up to sundown. The corn grew tall. It wasn’t talk or praise that mattered. He looked at the fields. That was good.
A cacophony of clattering typewriters and inked quills in dim rooms, where wisps of thoughts thread through the air. Every scribble, every sentence, a journey through unchartered realms of the soul. The silent triumph of paper and pen, resounding through the cosmos.
we invent shiny medals and diplomas because we love patting ourselves on the back. Oh, the pomp! The stars don’t applaud. Still, we like our own applause. Bravo, Homo sapiens!
“This is one of my greatest achievements,” Mayor Agnew bellowed from the podium, an all too smug grin on his face that Taylor wanted nothing more than to wipe off with a slap. “And I thank you all for joining me in this endeavor. Together, we’ll build a better Washington!”
As raucous cheers erupted, Taylor weaved through a gaggle of spectators, intent on making it to the front so that she could blend in with the rest of the press and media members.
Achievement. Bereavement. Similar, they are, in ways you may not have considered. They each come with a reckoning. Things once and again no longer the same. Astounding how much, how little, has been changed.
achievement. bereavement. both involve a reckoning, of sorts. One with perceived success. The other with lack of successes, loss of successes. Incredible to think that they’re linked in ways one might not have ever imagined. incredible, each, in their own way.
I consistently downplay my achievements
there’s nothing that will be enough
nothing that will satisfy this eternal hungry
this thirst for being loved
even if only it was loving myself
I reached it, the deepest part of the trough, the lowest place where everything was bleak, miserable and hopeless. I had been climbing down for more time than I could comprehend, sometimes I would slip and fall, the wall of the rough, rock shaft moving past me in slow motion. It was dark but I could see. It was deep underground but I could breath. The creatures loomed close. I could feel them gathering. This is why I chose to be here, to meet them, negotiate, and perhaps begin to integrate. This is working with the Shadow, where the meaning resides.
Tasha’s voice weaves through the night air. Jazz, heartache, and history. From slave songs to symphonies, her ancestors’ chorus behind her. This stage, this song, a legacy in notes. Tonight, her voice carries centuries.
i took your
blows
each and
every
one
an unwanted
medal
silver, bronze
never gold
left clinging
to my
high horse
In a New York apartment, the clink of champagne glasses belies the relentless winter. Each accolade a balm for the stillness that lingers, that feeling that something’s perpetually left behind. She catalogues success, like words frozen in the frost.
He worked the land with his hands. The soil was tough, and so was he. Sun up to sundown. The corn grew tall. It wasn’t talk or praise that mattered. He looked at the fields. That was good.
A cacophony of clattering typewriters and inked quills in dim rooms, where wisps of thoughts thread through the air. Every scribble, every sentence, a journey through unchartered realms of the soul. The silent triumph of paper and pen, resounding through the cosmos.
we invent shiny medals and diplomas because we love patting ourselves on the back. Oh, the pomp! The stars don’t applaud. Still, we like our own applause. Bravo, Homo sapiens!
“This is one of my greatest achievements,” Mayor Agnew bellowed from the podium, an all too smug grin on his face that Taylor wanted nothing more than to wipe off with a slap. “And I thank you all for joining me in this endeavor. Together, we’ll build a better Washington!”
As raucous cheers erupted, Taylor weaved through a gaggle of spectators, intent on making it to the front so that she could blend in with the rest of the press and media members.
But that’s when the ground began to shake.
Achievement. Bereavement. Similar, they are, in ways you may not have considered. They each come with a reckoning. Things once and again no longer the same. Astounding how much, how little, has been changed.
achievement. bereavement. both involve a reckoning, of sorts. One with perceived success. The other with lack of successes, loss of successes. Incredible to think that they’re linked in ways one might not have ever imagined. incredible, each, in their own way.
I consistently downplay my achievements
there’s nothing that will be enough
nothing that will satisfy this eternal hungry
this thirst for being loved
even if only it was loving myself