My stepmom has been a pain in my ass for over forty years. Don’t judge me — the feeling’s mutual, and we both know it. That’s just how we operate. Call it our version of a love language: blunt, sarcastic, no sugarcoating.
When I was younger, I used to wonder what my dad saw in her. Later, after spending enough time dealing with him, I started wondering how she managed to put up with him. She’s one of the toughest women I’ve ever met — sharp-tongued, unfiltered, impossible to rattle.
And if I’m being honest, she’s guided me through some very rough situations over the years. I’ve learned to appreciate her wisdom — the kind that comes from experience, not books. I’m grateful she cares enough to speak up, to give input even when I act like I don’t want it. But she’ll never hear me say that. It’s not what we do.
Her birthday’s coming up, and I plan to surprise her. We’ll end up having one of our signature conversations — no niceties, just raw honesty and sideways affection. My older brother will give me that look he always does, like Can you two not do this right now? And I’ll fire back with my classic Don’t make me punch you glare. He knows better.
What blows my mind is that she’s pushing ninety. Ninety. She’s lived through things I’ve only read about in history books or faked authority on in college essays. And yet she’s still sharp, still fierce, still calling it like she sees it.
That’s her. That’s us. Messy, loud, brutally real — and somehow, it works.
She wore the veil not to disappear, but to survive.
It wasn’t for tradition, or rebellion. It wasn’t a performance. It was protection. It was her way of saying: I decide what you get to take from me.
They never handed her chains. They handed her mirrors. Bent ones. Peer pressure didn’t demand. It seduced. Do what we do. Be what we expect. Not because we said so—but because you’ll be alone if you don’t.
Then secular pressure followed, wrapped in freedom’s clothing. Be who you are—as long as it’s curated, as long as it looks good, as long as it doesn’t disturb. Express, but don’t confront. Create, but don’t challenge. Believe in nothing but your brand.
And for a while, she drifted. Trying to belong. Trying to disappear inside approval.
But inside the silence, something broke open.
“Weak as I am…”
She said it like an admission. But it was the beginning of truth.
Weak—not because she failed, but because she felt. Because she hadn’t let the world harden her into something hollow. Because even in survival, she still longed for something more than existing.
Because she can’t change the world, but she control how it molds her. And she refused to be shaped by fear. She chose to be shaped by memory. By presence. By scars she didn’t hide.
Stay alive. Keep on fighting.
Some days, she did. Some days, she didn’t.
Like a fugitive on the run—from becoming unrecognizable to herself. Carrying the weight of all she’s done—and all that’s been done to her. She was born from regret, yes. But that regret made her conscious. Aware. Awake.
And still, the questions haunt her:
What is she fighting for? What is she running from?
The answers shift, day to day.
Sometimes she fights for the quiet. For the small version of herself she abandoned to survive. For the right to not have to explain. For the chance to feel something other than fear.
And yes—there are moments. Moments where escape feels like mercy.
What if she wanted to run? Leave it all. What if she crumbled, and couldn’t fight anymore?
These thoughts don’t scare her anymore. They keep her honest. They remind her that strength isn’t the absence of breaking— it’s the choice to return to yourself after.
Because at the end of all the noise, all the pretending, all the shrinking and reaching and rebuilding—
She is left with one quiet, unshakable truth:
This is who I really am.
No polish. No filter. Veiled, but not invisible. Wounded, but not erased. Tired, but still reaching.
So when the world looks her way, squinting through its own discomfort, trying to place her in a category, or strip her down to something simpler, something safer—
She doesn’t flinch.
She lifts her gaze and speaks with a voice that carries every weight she never dropped:
“With this tainted soul, in this wicked world… Am I too strong for you?”
And if the answer is yes—so be it.
She never asked for permission. She only asked to be real.
Everyone makes sacrifices. That’s just part of being an adult—along with bills, back pain, and pretending to understand how taxes work. But some sacrifices don’t get enough credit. They’re quiet, constant, and totally underappreciated. Let’s start with parents.
Parents: The Masters of Silent Sacrifice
Sure, everyone knows parenting is hard. But it’s not just about surviving diaper blowouts or sitting through 300 replays of Frozen. It’s about the real, behind-the-scenes sacrifices. Like the mom who takes a job she doesn’t love just because it comes with decent health insurance. Or the dad who eats the last two bites of crusty mac and cheese instead of cooking himself dinner—again.
Parents give up more than time and money. They give up peace and privacy. They trade dreams for dental plans. And let’s not forget sleep. You could power a small city on the energy parents lose just trying to get a toddler to bed. It’s not glamorous. No one hands out medals for making it through a meltdown in Target. But these sacrifices shape lives. Quietly. Powerfully.
First Responders: Showing Up When It Counts
Then there are first responders—firefighters, EMTs, police officers—the folks who run toward danger while the rest of us are Googling “how to escape a burning building.” These people give up a lot too.
They miss holidays, birthdays, sleep… you know, all the fun stuff. And what do they get in return? Stress, trauma, and the joy of paperwork. Lots of paperwork. Plus, they carry memories most of us couldn’t handle—gritty, painful, unforgettable moments that stay long after the sirens stop.
And yet, they keep showing up. Not for glory. Not for a gold star. Just because someone has to—and they’ve decided it’ll be them.
The Sacrifices We Don’t See—But Should
Here’s the thing: whether it’s a parent sacrificing their sanity during a four-hour kindergarten play, or a paramedic showing up at 3 a.m. because someone else’s world just fell apart—these acts deserve more than a passing “thanks.” They deserve to be seen. Respected. Remembered.
Because at the end of the day, sacrifice isn’t always some big, dramatic gesture. Most of the time, it’s a thousand small decisions made out of love, duty, or just sheer stubborn commitment to doing what’s right.
What does freedom even mean? It’s like one of those made-up words everyone thinks they understand, but no one actually does. We toss it around in debates, slap it on bumper stickers, or turn it into a hashtag. Then we try to sound deep by asking, “In what sense do you mean — philosophical, political, personal?” But let’s be honest: most of that is just smoke to dodge the real answer. Which is, simply: I don’t have a clue.
We often treat freedom like a buzzword—something we claim, defend, hashtag, or stick on the back of a truck. It’s sold as autonomy, choice, and the sacred right to do whatever we want whenever we want. But real freedom? It’s not that flashy. It’s quieter, more internal, often inconvenient, and much harder to define. You don’t notice it on a billboard, and it won’t trend for long. It might even be harder to see, because it begins not with what we do, but with how we perceive—how we see ourselves, others, and what we think life owes us.
Across spiritual traditions—Buddhism, Taoism, Sufism, Christianity, Judaism, Islam—a pattern emerges: we are not free by default. We’re born into inherited scripts, societal myths, and a mess of cravings, fears, and projections. Most of our lives are spent reacting to things we don’t even understand. It’s like trying to win a board game where the rules are vague, the instructions are missing, and someone keeps changing the goalposts when you’re not looking. No wonder we’re tired.
Freedom, in the deeper sense, isn’t about getting our way. It’s about seeing clearly enough that we’re no longer at the mercy of every craving, trigger, or existential itch. In Buddhism, this means recognizing dukkha (suffering) and its cause, tanhā (craving). Sufism centers on taming the nafs — the unrestrained, insatiable ego. Taoism discusses abandoning the exhausting need to force outcomes and instead moving with the current.
Christianity points us to the idea that freedom comes not through control but through the purification of the heart. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” Not “they shall win,” not “they shall be promoted,” but see. It’s not exactly the promise of a six-figure salary, but it might be worth more. Judaism and Islam also make it clear that freedom is not about breaking the rules, but living in alignment with something truer and eternal. In other words, you’re not the center of the universe — and that might be the best news you’ll hear all day.
This challenges our cultural obsession with control. As Ishmael shows us, modern civilization has wrapped freedom in the myth of domination. We think freedom means being the boss—of nature, of time, of each other. But domination isn’t freedom. It’s just anxiety in a power suit. The more we try to force the world to match our expectations, the more we suffer when it doesn’t.
And yet, even when we “get it,” the work is anything but linear. Sometimes, the path to freedom involves breaking down. Not the tidy kind of unraveling you read about in memoirs, but the ugly, confusing, no-GPS type of collapse. And oddly enough, that might be necessary. Because falling apart can strip away what was never really you. It can expose what’s underneath the performance, the control, the coping. You meditate one morning and snap at someone by lunch. You let go of a toxic habit, then dream about it for a week.
That’s because fundamental transformation creates cognitive dissonance—the friction between the polished self we’ve been taught to perform and the inconvenient truths trying to surface, like realizing that your definition of success might be making you miserable, or that the life you built isn’t the one you actually want. The system shakes when what we’ve believed can no longer hold up to what we’re beginning to feel. It’s disorienting. But that disorientation is a gift. It’s how the mind makes space for something more honest.
That’s not regression. It’s evidence you’re alive and paying attention — maybe even transforming.
Absolute freedom isn’t being untouchable. It’s being touchable without falling apart. It’s having enough self-awareness to recognize when you’re being hijacked by old stories, and enough stillness to pause before you reenact them. Learning to laugh at your own nonsense is key before it convinces you it’s the voice of God. You don’t destroy the ego; you learn not to take it so seriously.
And here’s the kicker: understanding isn’t the end of the journey—it is the journey. Freedom begins the moment you start to see differently: when the illusion cracks just enough to let in the light, or, just as often, when the darkness teaches you to feel your way through. The dark isn’t the enemy; it’s where the roots grow, where silence speaks, where real seeing begins. Understanding doesn’t guarantee peace but gets you in the room with it. And that, on most days, is freedom enough.
Perhaps today marks the opening of a much deeper conversation—scary, uncomfortable, and sometimes downright mean. A conversation that shakes the foundation of who we think we are, or who we’ve been told to be. It may challenge the ideals we’ve long held sacred. My question is this:
Do we need that kind of disruption to be free?
I know I do. Yeah, I’m scared. I’m frustrated. I’m pissed off. But I also know it’s necessary—because this discomfort is where I grow into the man I actually want to be.
The sunlight fades. Darkness returns. I wait in the hush, breath held, heart steady. The Keepers stand ahead, already assembled—silent, still, and watchful. In their presence, I feel both small and eternal. Beneath my calm, something stirs—my soul, long quiet, surges suddenly. It’s not noise, not fear. It is truth moving through me like a forgotten rhythm remembered. A tremor rises from the deepest part of who I am, and with it comes a whisper: the light… the call… the quill. These were never external things. They lived within me all along. I had only forgotten how to listen.
In the distance, the sky bends to the horizon’s will. Waves of green light ripple across the dusk like an ancient truth brushing its fingers across the world. The field before me sparkles with dew, each blade of grass a tiny shard of clarity, reflecting the last breath of sunlight. This moment—caught between day and night, between silence and speech—feels sacred. My steed shifts beneath me, sensing the tension in my thoughts. He is anxious, ready. And maybe I am too. But readiness doesn’t feel like confidence. It feels like surrender. I tighten the reins—not to control, but to remind myself that I am here, that I have chosen this.
We ride—not toward victory, but toward purpose. Toward the gathering. Toward those who understand this strange calling to bear words like burdens, and gifts. We are not warriors. We are vessels. We carry stories that are older than we are, stories that ask to be told again, each time a little more fully. We move as one toward the collective, not to be absorbed, but to belong.
Now, surrounded by my brethren, I feel the resonance. Not noise. Harmony. Thousands of voices—not the same but aligned. My own words rise from that shared current, not louder, but clearer. I speak the truth I have wrestled with in the quiet corners of my mind.
Some call the rawness madness. They dismiss it as noise, as rambling. But those of us who live in this tension—we know better. We know that sometimes, madness is just meaning in disguise. That chaos, when held in the right hands, becomes clarity. To those who face the block, I say this: it is not your enemy. It is your mirror.
The block is doubt. Yes. But not the kind that breaks us. It is the kind that slows us down, that makes us ask why before we speak. It is the force that prevents arrogance, that checks ego. Doubt humbles us. It forces us to listen harder, to question deeper, to speak with care. It reminds us that this craft is not about being heard—it is about being understood.
And it is in that pause, that searching, where we grow. The block is not a wall. It is a threshold. When we understand that, it no longer stops us—it transforms us. That understanding, that acceptance, is how the block is shattered.
Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain isn’t just a record — it’s a reckoning. Released in 1971, it captured the psychic temperature of a country unraveling. War abroad, decay at home, distrust in the air, and the so-called counterculture burning out in real time. Maggot Brain took all that noise, that grief, that disillusionment — and turned it into one of the most brutally honest LPs ever pressed.
It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t safe. It was spiritual, political, cynical, funky as hell, and deeply weird — like a sermon preached from the edge of a nervous breakdown.
Maggot Brain captured the attitude of the entire country within a single LP. There was literally a track that spoke for everyone. If you were angry, it had you. If you were confused, it held you. If you just wanted to dance your way through the end times, Funkadelic had you covered. Every track hit a different nerve, and none of them asked permission.
There are songs that groove hard (You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks), others that mock the stupidity of it all (Super Stupid), and ones that crack open a deeper existential dread (Wars of Armageddon). But all of it orbits the title track. Maggot Brain isn’t just the opener. It’s the altar. It’s the cry at the center of the storm.
Eddie Hazel doesn’t play Maggot Brain. He doesn’t even perform it in the traditional sense. He haunts it. Possesses it. Bleeds into it. And once it begins, you don’t get to be a casual listener anymore. You’re drafted. No warning. No warm-up. Just a single, ghost-drenched guitar note that slides into your chest like a whisper you weren’t supposed to hear.
It’s not loud. It’s not fast. It just is. And that’s more terrifying than any distortion pedal at full blast. Hazel creeps in like a rogue spirit — smooth, silent, uninvited — and by the time you realize what’s happening, you’re already in it, stripped of cool and composure, emotionally pantsed.
You don’t get a beat to grab onto. No vocals to decode. Just a guitar screaming in slow motion. It’s like standing in the middle of a storm you can’t see but definitely feel. The grief is palpable. The rage is buried just deep enough to make you nervous. And right when you think you’ve got it figured out, the damn thing shifts and you’re spiraling again. Welcome to Maggot Brain — cognitive dissonance with a six-string.
Because let’s be real: this song shouldn’t work. It’s ten minutes, mostly one instrument. No verse. No chorus. Not even a satisfying drop. But for ten minutes, Eddie Hazel demolishes every “rule” about what music is supposed to be, and you love him for it. Or maybe you hate him for making you love it. Either way, you’re in it.
And no, you don’t walk away saying, “cool solo, bro.” You walk away dazed, like you just remembered a dream you never had. Or like your soul got mugged, politely. This is the kind of music that picks a fight with your expectations and then hugs you while you cry.
I still remember the first time I heard it — in a smoke-filled room full of strangers pretending not to be high. No one talked. No one moved. We were all just… held. Not by the music, exactly, but by whatever was trying to speak through it. We didn’t share a moment. We survived one. And we were better for it, or at least quieter.
Hazel doesn’t “solo.” He confesses, and we are his priests. Every bend, every scream from those strings is a sin laid bare. And by the end of the song, we have no choice but to grant absolution. Not because we’re qualified, but because he earned it. Because whatever he was holding, he handed it to us. And in some strange, sacred transaction, we took it.
His playing doesn’t follow any tidy roadmap. It stumbles through grief and grace, melting down and pulling itself back together like a nervous breakdown that found religion. There are moments where you think he’s going to lose it entirely — and maybe he does. But somehow, that’s the point.
You want to make sense of it, but your brain is two steps behind the whole time. Because it’s pretty and ugly. Gentle and violent. Hopeful and hopeless. Your heart’s trying to lean in while your head’s going, “Are we okay??” That’s the dissonance. That’s the magic. That’s why it hits harder than any perfect pop chorus ever could.
And George Clinton, cosmic genius and probable chaos wizard, gave Hazel just one instruction: “Play like your mother just died.” Which is both tragic and kind of a dick move, but clearly — it worked. What came out wasn’t a song. It was a slow, spiritual detonation. Hazel didn’t perform grief — he offered it. Raw. Untuned. Unfiltered. The kind of thing most of us spend our lives trying not to feel.
The track never resolves. No big finale. No grand crescendo. Just a long fade into silence, like a memory slipping back under the surface. It’s not done with you — it’s just gone. Until the next time you’re reckless enough to press play.
And I wonder: for those ten minutes, did Eddie Hazel serve as a guide to enlightenment? Not the neat, monk-on-a-mountain kind. The messier kind. The gut-punch kind. The kind that grabs you by the heart, shakes something loose, and leaves without saying a word.
The morning began like it had countless times before—but today, it felt different. There was a stillness that lingered just a second longer. A hush in the air that made you listen more closely. The slow fade from darkness to grey had its own rhythm, its own muted pulse. It was that fragile aspect of dawn—neither night nor day—when everything feels suspended, as if the world is holding its breath.
You hear the familiar rush of cars below, life going about its business, unaware of the quiet reverence unfolding above. You step onto the terrace not out of habit, but out of something harder to name. A need, maybe. Or a yearning to be part of something unspoken. You don’t search for a view. You let your gaze fall into the sky, into nothing. Into everything.
Then the sound begins. The piano. Tentative at first, like a thought forming. Fingers move over ivory and black, finding phrases that don’t need words. The melody doesn’t push—it drifts. You close your eyes, and it takes you somewhere. Or perhaps it helps you retrieve something lost in the static of everyday: a gentleness, a memory, a forgotten truth.
You lift your bow, not to perform, but to respond. To join. Your hands move, not with effort but with instinct, the strings vibrating beneath your fingers like a second heartbeat. There’s no audience, no need. Just the sound, the sky, and you.
Then you see her.
She’s there, just below, wrapped in morning light, coffee in hand, eyes somewhere far away. She doesn’t notice you yet. She doesn’t have to. She’s inside the moment too. Something about her stillness makes the entire world feel composed. As if her quiet presence is the final note that makes the music whole.
You watch her for a beat, caught in the beauty of her being, the unforced motion of her simply existing. The way she breathes. The way the steam rises from her cup. How the breeze toys with the loose strand of her hair. It’s ordinary, yet nothing could be more profound.
And in that moment, I understood what beauty and love was— and it didn’t have a damn thing to do with sex.
You play on. And she listens—without effort, without expectation. Just as you play—without reason, without resistance. The world outside blurs. Time bends. You’re no longer trying to capture the moment. You’re inside it. You are it.
But I’m silent, really— no sound, no voice, just a mouth stretched wide around something too big to name. My eyes glaze—not with calm, but with shock. A thin film of disbelief over everything. My heart races. I’m wrecked like a tsunami with no quarter, flung breathless against the shore.
It’s not quiet. Not truly. It’s a silence that throbs, that undressesme, strips me down to the rawest nerve.
Why? Am I afraid to speak what I feel? I push it down until I crack. Swallow the pain, the misery, the grief— like that’s what strength is. As if silence means control.
But inside, it never stops screaming.
I’ve built a prison with no walls. I’m both prisoner and warden. Every emotion I swallow—another brick. My tears, the mortar. The longer I hold on, the harder the mortar sets.
Letting go should be simple. But I can’t. I won’t. I have to be strong. Another brick.
The chains tear into me. I pull and pull, begging for clemency I know isn’t coming. Skin breaks. Something deeper frays. Still I pull. Still I scream. Another brick. How did I get here?
I slump into the abyss of agony. Its waves strangely soft, almost soothing. The ghosts of my past wrap around me, pulling me under.
Is this peace? Is this what I deserve?
No.
I scream NOOOOO!!! A final act of defiance. A rupture in the silence. A crack in the wall.
I scream again—louder. Louder than the pain. Louder than the ghosts. Louder than everything that told me to stay quiet.
The final word is no longer a whisper. The silence and I become one. And we finally—
The light crept in, not with purpose, but inevitability. It pooled over the floorboards in pale streaks, slipped across the rumpled sheets, and found her where she sat—curled in on herself at the edge of the bed like something unfinished. The curtain shifted with a lazy sigh, stirred by the hum of a world already moving without her.
She didn’t move. Just blinked slowly, eyes still heavy. Her hair was a mess—coiled and wild, clinging to the nape of her neck with sweat. The air felt thick, damp from last night’s rain, and carried a faint trace of coffee drifting in from the apartment next door. It reminded her she wasn’t entirely alone in the world—just sealed off from it.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She didn’t look. She already knew the message: “You okay? You were pretty quiet last night.”
She had gone to that rooftop gathering. Smiled on cue. Nodded politely as someone explained a startup idea for the third time. But when the conversation shifted to politics, to “people being too sensitive,” to jokes with teeth she wasn’t supposed to flinch at—she had gone quiet. Not out of agreement. Out of calculation.
It wasn’t fear of confrontation. It was exhaustion.
The kind that seeps into your bones when you’ve spent years editing yourself in real time.
Why can’t you just be easier?
The voice came sharp, cutting through the fog. Familiar. Not hers exactly—but forged in her. It spoke in the tone of her third-grade teacher, the one who called her “bossy” for speaking with certainty. The one who wrote on her report card, “bright, but disruptive.” That was the first time she learned that being loud and being wrong were seen as the same thing.
She had been shrinking ever since. A slow erosion.
And now, this morning, she felt caught between the shrinking and the wanting—wanting to take up space and fearing the cost of it.
You think you’re different? That the rules don’t apply to you?
She flexed her jaw, let the thought sit. The worst part of that voice was how reasonable it sounded. How it wrapped itself in concern. In survival.
Outside the window, a billboard stood tall above the bus stop: a model in spotless white jeans and a tagline in all caps—LIVE YOUR TRUTH™. She almost laughed. As if truth came clean and neatly styled.
Her own truth felt messy. Unmarketable. Like morning breath and ragged nails and questions without answers.
She looked at her hands—real, rough, hers. Last night she had come home and typed a long apology to the group chat. “Sorry I was off. Just tired. Hope I didn’t kill the vibe.”
She hovered over the send button.
Then she didn’t.
Now, she picked up the phone, screen still glowing with the unsent draft. She tapped and held. Delete.
It wasn’t a revolution. Just refusal.
A small, quiet defiance.
She wasn’t whole. There were still bruises beneath her calm, still doubts threading her thoughts. But she was done apologizing for needing more than performance.
The light had shifted again, stronger now. Not demanding. Just there.
She wasn’t sure what came next.
But this—this stillness, this pause, this decision not to disappear—was a start.
Mind, body, and spirit—it’s not just a slogan on a t-shirt or a phrase tossed around in self-help books. It’s a lived, gritty process. It doesn’t happen in a straight line. It doesn’t always feel peaceful. It asks to be practiced daily, especially in the moments when we’re coming apart.
When my wife was dying, I was unraveling. There was no calm breath, no quiet meditation that could hold me. The pain was too loud, too sharp. I couldn’t go to the dojo—I knew I might hurt someone. So I turned to the only thing left that didn’t require restraint: writing.
That’s where Memoirs of Madness was born—not from ambition, but necessity. I wrote because if I didn’t, I was going to explode. Writing became my release valve. My attempt to find balance in a world that no longer made sense. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t composed. But it was honest. It was survival.
Healing doesn’t always look like light. Sometimes it’s just sitting with the darkness long enough to stop being afraid of it. Writing gave me a place to do that. Not to escape pain, but to face it with something steady under my hands—a pen, a page, a place to speak freely.
People like to talk about acceptance, about “new normals,” especially when you’re going through something irreversible. I’ve been told I may never return to the person I was before. And maybe that’s true. But I also know it’s not the whole truth. I know there’s more to me than what’s been broken.
Throughout my life, I’ve encountered teachings I didn’t ask for. Moments of awe, loss, surrender, and grace. I didn’t always understand why they came, but something in me knew not to reject them. Writing became the way I made sense of them. The way I honored them.
It’s not therapy, exactly. It’s more like a mirror. Each word reflects something back at me—something raw, something I need to see. Writing doesn’t heal like medicine. It heals like movement. Like breath after being underwater too long.
Writers tell the truths we were taught to keep quiet. We witness the small miracles—flowers bending to the breeze, the call of a bird we can’t see, the still gaze of an animal watching us. We notice the laughter of children that vibrates with something pure and untouchable. We let it all into our bones. But writing is how we let it back out. How we stay connected—not digitally, but spiritually, viscerally.
Every sentence I write is a thread that connects me to the person I’ve always been beneath the layers of grief, anger, and expectation. Not the old self. Not the broken self. But the essential one. The one that endures.
I once asked: Who’s smarter—the adult or the infant? Predictably, everyone said the adult. When I pressed them, they said the child doesn’t know anything. But I disagreed. I said the infant. They laughed, of course. All but one. That one asked me, “Why?”
“Because the infant sees everything,” I said. “They feel everything. They haven’t learned to numb themselves yet. They haven’t picked up the habit of pretending. They are unfiltered truth.”
That’s what writing brings me back to. That clarity. That honesty. That wholeness before the world taught us to break ourselves into pieces.
Healing through writing isn’t a return to what was. It’s a return to what’s real. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
Author’s Note:
I sat looking at the challenge image, thinking about the beauty of that moment frozen in time. I found myself wondering how to capture something like that in words. Lately, I’ve been studying Buddhism—not because I want to become a Buddhist, but because I’m wise enough to know that truth can’t be found with a closed mind.
Next thing I knew, this piece came through me.
It’s not all I have to say on the subject, but it’s a beginning.
“Do as I say, not as I do,” the classic parental phrase, never touched my mother’s lips. However, “Because I said so,” not only repeated — it seemed like it should be on a plaque above the door. I even used it with my children, and they used it with theirs. However, this isn’t the most important lesson she gave me. What she demonstrated my entire life is how to be steady, even in the most challenging situations life has to offer.
She raised me by herself, so every bump, scrape, and broken bone — she was steady. Honestly, I don’t know how she did it. I remember being on the verge of losing it with my own kids, and I had a wife to back me up. To do it all alone? I don’t have the words.
That steadiness she showed me has served me well throughout my entire life. No matter what, I stay steady. I might be pissed off while I’m doing it — that trait definitely comes from my father. He had two modes: super cool or absolute death. Nothing in between. He kept people guessing because you never knew how he’d react. People say I do that too. I always swore I’d never be anything like him… well, oops.
It’s said that in life you have two families: the one you’re born into and the one you choose. My mother gave me the tools to build both. Her steadiness became my anchor, and whether I was dealing with work, parenting, or just the everyday chaos of life, I leaned on what she taught me — stay calm, handle your business, don’t fall apart.
And yeah, maybe I inherited some of my dad’s unpredictability too. But thanks to her, the foundation underneath is solid. That balance — between calm and chaos, between knowing when to hold it together and when to let it fly — that’s something I’ve carried into every relationship I’ve built, chosen or otherwise.
My chosen family has shown up for me in ways I never could’ve imagined. I’m truly blessed to have them in my life. Like all my family, they’ve been incredibly patient with me. I can be a lot sometimes — I know that. But they hang in there.
The challenges in life never really stop coming. But when you’ve got people who stick with you, who steady you, who love you even when you’re not at your best — you can get through anything.
In life, we have two families: the one we’re born into and the one we choose. I’m grateful for both.
One of my nephews stopped to visit. We talked about philosophy, music, and a bunch of other things. Almost like he knew I needed to get out of my own head for a moment and be reminded of something that’s always been soothing—music. After he had left, I plugged in the headphones and got to work.
Prince’s music has left a mark on humanity. However, the music I enjoyed the most was songs seldom played on the radio—the tracks only discussed quietly among the fans who kept searching for the ones that touched them deepest.
For me, “Sometimes It Snows in April” is one of those songs.
It’s not built for the charts. No booming drums or flashy guitar solos. Just a delicate piano, soft guitar, and Prince’s voice—fragile, almost whispering. It’s stripped down in a way that makes you sit still. Makes you feel.
The song was part of the Parade album in 1986, which doubled as the soundtrack to Under the Cherry Moon. Prince played Christopher Tracy in the film—a charming romantic who dies too soon. The song is what comes after: mourning, confusion, and the quiet heartbreak of losing someone who wasn’t supposed to be gone yet.
And Prince didn’t try to clean it up. He kept the raw demo. You can hear creaking chairs and fingers sliding on strings. Those imperfections? They’re what make it real.
The lyrics hit like a conversation you didn’t want to have but needed: “Sometimes it snows in April / Sometimes I feel so bad, so bad.” Simple words, but when Prince sings them, they carry weight. It’s not performance—it’s confession.
Then came April 21, 2016. Prince passed away. Suddenly, a song about losing someone too soon became eerily personal. It was recorded in April. He died in April. And just like that, it sounded like he’d written his own farewell without knowing it.
And here’s the part that always gets me—I often wonder why we don’t truly appreciate an artist until after their transition. Why do we wait? Why do the tributes flood in only once they’re gone? It’s a question that’s never been answered—at least not a good one.
Maybe it’s human nature. Maybe we think there’ll always be time. Maybe we don’t realize what someone gave us until we can’t get more of it.
With Prince, we had a genius in real-time. But songs like “Sometimes It Snows in April” remind us that his deepest gifts weren’t always the loudest. They were the quiet truths tucked in between the hits—the kind you don’t hear until you’re really listening.
“Sometimes It Snows in April” isn’t just about death. It’s about love, memory, and the strange ache of time. It’s about the moments we don’t talk about much—but feel the deepest.
And that’s why it still hurts. In the best kind of way.
“Duty is what we carry in silence, long after the reasons stop making sense.”
They said, Be all you can be, and we believed them. But we didn’t know at what cost.
There is a line—not drawn, but implied. A hush between steps, a rule never spoken aloud but lived as law. It was my job to hold the line. To guard it. Uphold it. Even on the days I couldn’t see it. Even when I wasn’t sure it was ever really there.
We lied to everyone that mattered. Spoke in half-truths, offered polished answers to unspoken questions. And over time, the lies started to sound like loyalty. We even convinced ourselves. Still—we held the line. We sacrificed everything for it. Time. Peace. Parts of ourselves no apology will ever retrieve. But we believed our sacrifices had meaning. And maybe they did. Maybe meaning isn’t always clean.
There were things we couldn’t say—not because we didn’t want to, but because the job required silence. Duty demanded presence, not explanation. We chose service over clarity. Responsibility over release. That’s what no one tells you: sometimes loyalty means carrying the truth quietly so others don’t have to.
When the dust settled, we tried to find something to hold on to—something we could trust, something true, something pure. Not perfect. Just real. Something that wouldn’t dissolve when we stopped performing.
And yes—we sometimes lived in the dark. Operated in shadows. Did things we could never speak of. Things people will never know. But there was always a light. A flicker. A guide, buried deep, pulling us back. Even when we wandered, even when we hardened. Some of our paths were rockier than others, but still—there was hope. Always hope.
I traced the curve of the line out of habit, out of fear, out of love for something I couldn’t name anymore. The line is not a fence. It’s a suggestion, soft as a breath on glass, sharp as memory. You learn to shape yourself around it—to fold your hunger, to tailor your voice. To make small beautiful, and still wonder why it feels like vanishing.
Some days, it glows. Other days, it disappears, but you still feel it—in the pause before truth, in the way your shoulders remember how to shrink. Still, I held it. With both hands. Tired hands. Loyal hands.
And then one day, without rebellion, without even deciding, I stepped. Nothing broke. No thunder. No light. Just space. Quiet and wide. I waited for collapse. It didn’t come. The air was different here. Not sweeter, not easier—just honest. There was wind, and with it, direction.
I looked back. The line was still there, but fainter now, as if it never meant to stay. And I understood: it was never a barrier, only a shadow cast by belief. And belief, like shadow, can shift with the sun.
We did what we thought was right. We held the line, lived in the shadows, and told the stories people needed to hear. And through it all, we tried to provide hope—while quietly, desperately, trying to hold onto our own.
Remember when “unprecedented times” became everyone’s favorite phrase? A true statement for the memories of most of the world’s inhabitants, but it still got on my nerves. I held my breath, waiting for someone to throw in the word surreal and say something like, “It’s so surreal, these are unprecedented times.” I swear, I would’ve walked away screaming as someone gently muttered, “Poor fella, everyone’s so overwhelmed.”
So—real talk: How did you adapt to the chaos Covid-19 dropped into our lives? Did you start baking sourdough? Rethink your entire career? Form a codependent relationship with your couch? Go over your data plan because Netflix, RPGs, and Zoom somehow became a lifestyle? Grow a beard that now has its own personality? (How’s that going, by the way?) Man, that time produced some truly unfortunate facial hair. Mine looked like a depressed squirrel had taken up residence on my face for a solid month. Eventually, it evened out—but the trauma lingers.
For me, my home became my fortress of solitude—equal parts sanctuary, bunker, and blanket fort. I was lucky: my stepmother, who lived through WWII, told me to stock up on essentials before the lockdown. And I listened.
The provisions—dry goods, paper products, all the basics you don’t think about until they vanish—were stacked neatly and inventoried like I was prepping for the end times. All of it sat on those hideous, industrial metal shelves that belong in basements or crime scenes, not in the middle of a living room.
But they got the job done. Ugly, but reliable. Kind of like the year itself.
I still can’t believe I actually listened, but it made all the difference. It was like the world we knew vanished before our eyes. People became mean and rude for what seemed like no reason.
But looking back, I think it was fear. Everyone just wanted something—anything—they could control. A place that felt safe.
While the world panicked under a double pandemic—Covid, that beast right there in your face that you had no idea which way it would attack, and Hysteria, the silent rogue creeping in from the shadows—I stayed still, battling my own fears.
Even though I was stocked, prepared, trained—it only provided the illusion of calm. A false sense of control.
I knew it. But I leaned on it anyway.
Because sometimes pretending you’re okay is the only way to survive long enough to actually be okay.
But I’ve been here before—in a different kind of war.
In battle, I was surrounded by people who didn’t just know how to survive. We knew what it took to live—no matter how damn hard it got.
That kind of clarity doesn’t leave you. It changes how you move through silence, how you handle fear, how you hold yourself when no one else is watching.
And because of the kind of isolation that comes with PTSD, I didn’t mind being cut off from people. If anything, it gave me space to finally look at my life without distraction.
I realized medication couldn’t fix everything. I had to put in the work. I had to face the demons—even when it felt like I was the demon.
It’s wild, the stories we tell ourselves about what happened to us. Over time, they twist. They shape how we react, instead of letting us respond.
I saw people pretend they were fine—but you could see the cracks.
You offer to help, because you know that darkness. You’ve walked alone in it. And you don’t want anyone else to be there if they’re not ready.
But the rub?
Sometimes, ready or not, you have to walk it anyway.
We’ve made strides in breaking the stigma around mental health. But no one wants to admit they need help—because no one wants to feel different. Or maybe the better word is broken.
But here’s the truth:
It’s okay to be broken. Everyone is. Some more, some less—but broken just the same.
And so we cope. We sip something, cry in the car, buy stuff we don’t need, gamble what we shouldn’t, scroll endlessly, smile when it’s easier than explaining.
All of it—just trying to hold the pieces together.
The world is big. So vast. And we are connected in so many different ways.
So I have to ask—why do we live it so small?
Speak your truth. As Uncle Walt said: sound your barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.
You never know when your words will reach someone at just the right moment—when they need it most—to begin to heal.
When you’re five, everything feels big. The world, your dreams, your backpack.
But as you get older, you can’t always hold onto things without a little help.
That’s what happened when I found it— a flash of memory caught in an old photo, a school project that somehow survived. Battered, scarred, but solid. Like the dreams taped inside it.
I just wanted to fly. I couldn’t explain why, not then. I just did.
To see the world. The wonders from our primers, the postcard places that looked too perfect to be real.
Maybe I’d discover new lands, find cool toys, read comics in French. Were mummies scary? I needed to know.
Was riding a motorcycle as cool as it looked in the movies? Could I jump cars like Evel Knievel? Would I one day ride with a girl on the back, smiling like it was the best thing ever?
I knew I wasn’t old enough for that part. Maybe when I get big.
Would I be able to sing and dance? Be cool like Elvis? Tough like G.I. Joe? Stretch like Stretch Armstrong? Or maybe I’d just build the wild stuff I made with my Legos.
But mostly… Mostly, I wanted to make my mom proud.
And now— I did fly.
France, Italy, Spain, Japan—majestic in ways no book ever captured. There’s nothing like flying over treetops with the chopper doors open. Heart racing. Then pounding. Blood surging through my veins. I felt something I still can’t describe with words.
I never jumped cars, but I had that girl on the back. Her arms around me, her heartbeat against mine, that sharp little yelp when things got wild. Yeah, that was something.
I don’t sing, but boy, did I dance. And when I stopped… I got fat.
Some say I was tougher than G.I. Joe. And somehow, my influence stretched across the globe. But no one will ever know my name.
What I remember most— Mom’s smile as she talked about “the grands,” each one certain they were her favorite. Each one knowing they were loved.
When you’re young, you wander through life with a carefree attitude, convinced that nothing tragic will ever befall you. It’s not that you think you’re made of steel; it’s just that misfortune always seems to strike elsewhere, affecting other people. You know these people—your classmates who sit a few rows ahead in math, friends who share secrets during recess, rivals who challenge you in sports, and those vaguely familiar faces passing in the school hallway whose names always escape you. “Who is that?” You recognize them; they might live across the street or next door, but their names never stick. You catch wind of their troubles in hushed conversations over cafeteria trays or notice the signs—a bruise blooming under an eye or a sudden empty desk where someone used to sit. But you? You’re shielded by an invisible armor. Untouchable. Until one day, that armor cracks, and the reality that you’re just as vulnerable as everyone else comes crashing down.
As a guy growing up, you were conditioned to believe the worst thing you could be called was a wimp or a pussy. Those words stung like a slap to the face. But the worst of all was “pansy.” It technically meant the same thing, yet it carried a unique venom, like an elite-tier insult that could ignite a brawl. They were fighting words, as the old-timers would say. I often imagined a secret list of such words that, when uttered, left you with no choice but to unleash the rage pent up inside the beast within us all, a primal code of manhood handed down through the ages by our Neanderthal ancestors. The rationale behind it was nonexistent—nonsensical, absurd, or downright foolish didn’t even begin to cover it. I even went so far as to ask friends and acquaintances, hoping to uncover this mythical list’s existence, but they just gave me strange looks as if I was the odd one out. “Weirdo.” There’s another term I’m certain once ranked high on that clandestine list.
If there was one thing certain to amplify male foolishness, it was the presence of a girl. You might assume it would be the confident ones with a smooth stride and an easy grin. But you’d be mistaken. It was simply the presence of any female. Something about her steady, evaluating gaze seemed to flick a switch in our lizard brains. Suddenly, we were all posturing like peacocks, vying for attention as if auditioning for the role of “Alpha Male #2” in a poorly scripted high school drama.
“Cut…cut, cut, cut…” the director’s voice echoed through the set, slicing through our bravado. He rose from his worn director’s chair with an exasperated sigh, his footsteps heavy as he approached. He muttered incoherently, his brows furrowing in frustration. Turning abruptly, he addressed a bewildered production assistant who appeared as if they had stumbled onto the wrong set altogether. “It’s missing… I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his temple as if the motion might conjure clarity from the chaos in his mind. The PA shrugged, their confusion mirroring his own.
“More, you know? More,” he declared, fixing his gaze on you with an intensity that suggested the simple word held the universe’s mysteries. It might, who knows? Because at that moment, you felt the weight of impending humiliation hanging over you like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash if you failed to decipher this cryptic instruction. So you reset, ready to reenact the scene with exaggerated bravado and clumsy confidence. A muscular guy, his shirt straining against bulging biceps, lunged forward to take a swing at a smaller guy. The smaller one stood his ground, fists clenched and eyes steely—not because he had faith in his victory, but because maintaining dignity in defeat was preferable to being labeled a pansy. Who needs self-preservation when fragile masculinity whispers its deceitful promises of status and respect in your ear?
The worst beating I ever took wasn’t even for something I did. And that, frankly, was offensive. I was the kind of kid who had done plenty to earn a few ass-kickings, but this one? This was charity work.
Susan Randle—radiant in a way that made heads turn in every hallway—sat beside me in the darkened movie theater. During what she half-jokingly called our “date” (really just two people sharing a row while an action film played), she eyed me with a mischievous smirk and accused me of being gay simply because I hesitated when she leaned over, voice low and daring, to ask if I wanted to “do it.” The dim light flickering over her face caught the earnest sparkle in her eyes before she suddenly closed the distance and pressed her lips against mine. In that charged moment, the unwritten, yet unanimously understood rule against “unsanctioned sugar”—the secret code dictating who could kiss whom—reared its head. No one ever seemed to grant an exception, whether you were a girl or a guy. And here I was, trapped between the dreaded labels: on one end lay the desperate horndog willing to prove his manhood at every twist, and on the other, the discredited possibility of being gay. I wasn’t interested in becoming just another name on her ever-growing list or dealing with the fallout of shattering her carefully constructed illusion of desirability. When a boy disrupted that illusion, the consequences were swift and ruthless.
That catalog wasn’t a myth—it was as real as the whispered rankings that circulated among us. It wasn’t enough to simply admire the “right” girl; if you dared to look away or, heaven forbid, question the unspoken challenges, your name was scrawled in the ledger of sins. Failed to laugh at the jokes delivered with just the right touch of irony, dress in conforming denim and sneakers, or walk with that practiced swagger? Sure enough, it was marked on the list.
My reluctance to follow these unwritten rules quickly made me a target. Over the following weeks, a series of meticulously scheduled beatings forced me to confront the cruel reality of teenage hierarchies. After school, I would find myself cornered in the deserted back lot behind the gym, where a group of boys awaited with grim determination. They’d shout derogatory names—“fairy boy” and a particular favorite, “pirate,” a crude truncation of “butt pirate”—words spat out with the casual cruelty of a rehearsed routine. Each blow landed with precision, and amid the sting and shock, I discovered a perverse sort of order; they made sure I wasn’t crippled for good. I clutched my prized 96 mph fastball as if it were a lifeline and leaned into my natural left-handed stance, determined to keep my place on the team even if I was labeled a “fairy boy” behind closed doors.
By the time the school year drew to a close, the beatings ceased as if a final judgment had been passed in some bizarre, secret rite of passage. One by one, the bullies patted me on the back with a mixture of grudging admiration and hollow platitudes, congratulating me on having “taken it like a man.” It was as if surviving their collective assault were the final exam in a twisted curriculum of manhood. They’d shrug and say, “It wasn’t personal. It was just something that needed doing.” To them, such senseless violence was nothing short of an honorable tradition—a sacred duty executed without a shred of genuine empathy.
That summer, I found brief refuge away from the tyranny of high school corridors with my father in Northern California. He was a truck driver, his bronzed, weathered hands as familiar with the hum of diesel engines as he was with the hard lines of a life lived outdoors, where emotions were as heavy as the cargo he hauled. My parents’ origins were a collage of chance encounters: they’d originally met at a sultry George Benson concert in the Midwest, where the guitar licks sultry under a neon haze had paved the way for something unexpected. Within nine months of that chance meeting, I came into the picture—a living reminder of their brief yet potent infatuation. They had the wisdom to avoid the charade of forced domesticity; soon after, my mom returned east while my dad continued chasing horizons out west. Mysterious fragments of half-truths and secrets that always belong to a larger narrative are as American as elitism and Chevrolets and need no full explanation.
I used the prompts listed below in this bit of flash fiction
Immersing myself in the musical offerings of my fellow melody enthusiasts has been an absolute delight. Each shared track opened new doors, introducing me to artists I’d never encountered and fresh interpretations of beloved classics. The experience was a powerful reminder of music’s eternal nature and remarkable ability to mend the soul. As I pondered my contribution to this musical exchange, I drew blanks beyond the familiar territory of standards. Rather than force a conventional choice, I ventured into uncharted waters. Taking a bold step away from my usual selections, I dove deep into my carefully curated blues collection – a genre I rarely explore in these challenges. What I discovered there was nothing short of magical – a hidden treasure patiently waiting for its moment to shine. Like a dusty gem catching the light for the first time, this blues piece emerged from the depths of my collection, ready to share its brilliance.
Let me share with you this incredible musical journey that starts with “Work with Me, Annie,” a deliciously cheeky rhythm and blues gem that burst onto the scene in 1954. Hank Ballard and The Midnighters crafted this irresistible tune with its playful winks and nudges, wrapped in an infectious melody that just makes you want to move. The song’s magic lies in its teasing nature – never crossing the line but dancing right up to it with a mischievous grin.
But here’s where my musical adventure takes an exciting turn. While exploring the blues rabbit hole, I stumbled upon Snooky Pryor’s take on this classic from his 1999 album “Shake My Hand.” Oh, what a discovery! Pryor takes this already spicy number and adds his own special sauce – that soul-stirring harmonica of his weaves through the melody like a river of pure blues feeling. He doesn’t just cover the song; he reimagines it, breathing new life into those suggestive lyrics with his raw, authentic blues voice while his harmonica tells stories of its own.
It’s like finding a cherished vintage photograph that’s been lovingly restored and enhanced, keeping all its original charm while adding new layers of depth and character. Pryor’s version is a beautiful testament to how great music can evolve while staying true to its roots, creating something that feels both wonderfully familiar and excitingly fresh.
Lyrics:
Song by Hank Ballard
(guitar intro)
(Oooh!) Work with me, Annie (a-um, a-um, a-um, a-um) Work with me, Annie Ooo-wee! Work with me, Annie Work with me, Annie
Work with me, Ann-ie-e Let’s get it while the gettin’ is good
(So good, so good, so good, so good)
Annie, please don’t cheat (va-oom, va-oom, va-oom, va-oom) Give me all my meat (ooo!) Ooo-hoo-wee So good to me
Work with me Ann-ie-e Now, let’s get it while the gettin’ is good
(So good, so good, so good, so good)
A-ooo, my-ooo My-ooo-ooo-wee Annie, oh how you thrill me Make my head go round and round And all my love come dow-ow-own (Ooo!)
Work with me, Annie (a-um, a-um, a-um, a-um) Work with me, Annie Don’t be ‘shamed To work with me, Annie Call my name Work with me, Annie
A-work with me, Ann-ie-e Let’s get it while the gettin’ is good
(So good, so good, so good, so good)
So Good!
(guitar & instrumental)
Oh, our hot lips kissing (a-um, a-um, a-um, a-um) Girl, I’ll beg mercy Oh, hugging and more teasing Don’t want no freezing
A-work with me, Ann-ie-e Let’s get it while the gettin’ is good
(So good, so good, so good, so good)
Ooo-ooo Umm-mmm-mmm Ooo-ooo-ooo
FADES
Ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo.
While treasure hunting in my blues archive, something magical happened – you know how music just grabs you sometimes? There I was, ready to wrap things up, when the blues spirits themselves seemed to whisper, “Hold up now, we’ve got more stories to tell!” And just like that, this hypnotic groove reached out and caught me, channeling the spirit of the legendary John Lee Hooker himself. That unmistakable rhythm, that raw, pulsing energy – it was impossible to resist.
And I wasn’t the only one feeling it! There was Guppy, my faithful furry companion, already swaying to the beat. In a moment of pure joy, I reached for her paws, and we shared this impromptu dance party. Reality (and our respective ages) quickly reminded us to take a seat, but that groove? Oh, it wasn’t letting go! So there we were, two old souls – me in my trusty chair, Guppy on her favorite pillow – still caught up in the rhythm, still moving and grooving, still feeling that blues magic work its way through our bones.
You know those perfect little moments when music just takes over, and age becomes just a number? This was one of those precious times when the blues reached out and reminded us that you’re never too old to feel the rhythm, never too dignified to let loose and wiggle along with the beat. Guppy and I might not be spring chickens anymore, but in that moment, we were timeless dancers in our own little blues club.
Let me tell you about this absolute gem I uncovered – “Got to Have Money” by Luther “Guitar Junior” Johnson. Talk about finding the perfect blues treasure! This piece just oozes that authentic Chicago blues spirit, the kind that grabs you by the soul and doesn’t let go. Johnson doesn’t just play the blues; he lives and breathes it through every note, every guitar lick, every word that flows from his lips.
You know those songs that just tell it like it is? This is one of those honest-to-goodness truth-tellers. Johnson wraps his gritty, soulful voice around a story we all know too well – that endless dance with the almighty dollar. But it’s not just about the message; it’s how he delivers it. Those guitar riffs? Pure magic! They weave through the song like a conversation, sometimes whispering, sometimes crying out, but always speaking straight to the heart.
And that groove! Oh my goodness, that groove! It’s the kind that gets under your skin and makes your feet move whether you want them to or not. Johnson has this incredible way of taking something as universal as money troubles and turning it into this beautiful, moving piece of art that makes you feel less alone in your struggles. It’s like he’s sitting right there with you, nodding his head and saying, “Yeah, I’ve been there too, friend.”
This is exactly why I love diving into these blues archives – you never know when you’ll surface with a piece that speaks such raw truth while making your spirit dance at the same time.
Lyrics:
Yes, a little drive by upon the hill And this is where It begin to start Mama told Papa, said “Pack up son!” “We gonna leave this sow land again”
I was just a little bitty boy ′Bout the age of five Too much work Not enough money This what it’s all about
Got to have money Got to have some money, y′all Got to have money Got to have some money, y’all
Muddy Waters got money Lightnin’ Hopkins got it too Tyrone got money Want me some money too
Got to have money Can′t get along without it Got to have some money Can′t get along without it
I used to have you water 15 bottles For 15 cents a day Shame a boy my age Worked so hard everyday
But now I’m grown I′m on my own And this I want you to know If you want me to work for you, baby You got to give me big dough
‘Cause I got to have money Got to have money, y′all Can’t get along without it Got to have money, y′all
They say money is a sign for sympathy The root of all evil If this is what money really is Call the Doctor ’cause I got a fever
I got to have money Got to have money, y’all Can′t get along without it Got to have money, y′all
Got to have some money Got to have some money I got to have some money
Writer(s): John T Williams
Here is the link to the challenge. Thanks Jim for hosting I had blast with one.
“Fade In, Fade Out” by Nothing More is a deeply emotional and introspective song that explores the universal themes of time, legacy, and the cyclical nature of life. Released as part of their album “The Stories We Tell Ourselves” (2017), the song delves into the relationship between generations, specifically focusing on the bond between a parent and child. Through its poignant lyrics, “Fade In, Fade Out” reflects on the inevitable passage of time, the experience of watching one’s parents age, and the desire to make the most of the moments shared with loved ones.
The song begins with a perspective that captures the essence of watching one’s child grow up, imparting wisdom, and hoping they find their way in life without losing themselves. As it progresses, the narrative shifts to express the child’s perspective—acknowledging the sacrifices made by the parents, the realization of their mortality, and the deep wish to carry forward their legacy. With its haunting refrain, the chorus emphasizes the transient nature of life, urging listeners to cherish their time with loved ones before it’s too late.
Musically, “Fade In, Fade Out” is marked by its dynamic shifts, moving from softer, reflective verses to powerful, emotionally charged choruses, mirroring the emotional depth and complexity of the subject matter. The song is a testament to Nothing More’s ability to weave intricate narratives through their music, offering listeners not just a song, but a profound emotional experience that resonates with the universal human condition of love, loss, and the hope of legacy. To hear this song preformed live adds another layer to it.
LYRICS:
Just the other day I looked at my father It was the first time I saw he’d grown old Canyons through his skin and the rivers that made them Carve the stories I was told
He said “Son, I have watched you fade in You will watch me fade out I have watched you fade in You will watch me fade out When the grip leaves my hand I know you won’t let me down
Go and find your way Leave me in your wake Always push through the pain And don’t run away from change Never settle Make your mark Hold your head up Follow your heart Follow your heart”
Just the other day I stared at the ocean With every new wave another must go One day you’ll remember us laughing One day you’ll remember my passion One day you’ll have one of your own
And I say “Son, I have watched you fade in You will watch me fade out When the grip leaves my hand I know you won’t let me down
Go and find your way Leave me in your wake Always push through the pain And don’t run away from change Never settle Make your Mark Hold your head up Follow your heart Follow your heart, follow your heart, follow your heart”
We all get lost sometimes Trying to find what we’re looking for We all get lost sometimes Trying to find what we’re looking for I have watched you fade in You will watch me fade out When the grip leaves my hand I know you won’t let me down
Go and find your way Leave me in your wake Always push through the pain And don’t run away from change Never settle Make your Mark Hold your head up Follow your heart Follow your heart, follow your heart”
When the morning comes and takes me I promise I have taught you everything that you need In the night you’ll dream of so many things But find the ones that bring you life and you’ll find me
Thanks to Jim Adams for hosting and another excellent suggestion by Nancy, aka The Sicilian Storyteller
Slumber releases me as the glow of the serene sun caresses my face. Let us lay back for a while longer before we have to move. Gently, I stroke your hair, listening to the city’s awakening commotion Your head on my chest, your breathing lures me to the edge of slumber
I’m careful not to move, not to wake you
Your head falls to your favorite spot; the space between my chest and stomach as you pull the blanket tight. Your breathing shallows; Your sleep deepens I exhale this one of those moments you see in film.
Truth be told, it was never about going to some show. It was about seeing your gorgeous smile and feeling those arms wrapped around me. It’s been a long couple of weeks, and they feel so good. I want to scream in the anguish of missing them, missing you, but these lips will never utter a word.
In that moment, I will let my guard down and allow the warmth of you to soothe me.
In that moment, I forget about being cool and allow myself to enjoy the feeling of holding a beautiful woman in my arms. I will be cognizant of the fact that she is allowing herself to be held.
Forgive me for being mushy, but I thought we were past the greasy kid’s stuff, and we were somewhere in the middle of something. I’m not sure where something is, not this, seriously?
Perhaps, we should do what grown folks do?
Grown folks sit down and have a conversation about the things that matter to one another. Whether or not we want to hear what is being said. We sit there and allow each other to voice our concerns until all that remains are long looks and easy smiles.
Memoirs of Madness 