There’s something so inherently tragic about surviving.
Dancing on the edge of a precipice, where our shadows paint a backdrop.
Time, a relentless sculptor, carves wrinkles upon our faces, while mothers, with tear-streaked cheeks, cast mournful gazes upon our doorstep.
We return to a wounded home, a fragile sanctuary haunted by the ghostly remnants of the enemy’s presence, their essence seeping through cracks like whispers of forgotten battles.
The world pulls us aside, whispers ethereal echoes: “God saved you for a reason,” a cryptic riddle that eludes intuition.
We stand as bewildered witnesses, caught in the cosmic web of fate’s caprice, wondering why we were chosen to bear this weighty mantle.
Our souls lust for elusive answers, like butterflies slipping through a forest of perplexity.
We carry the weight of departed souls upon our shoulders, their memories clinging to us like cobwebs, each strand a bittersweet reminder of lives intertwined.
Their laughter and cries echo in the wind, playing a melancholic symphony that reverberates through the corridors of our hearts.
The void they left behind, an abyss, stretches wide and deep, an emptiness that yearns to be filled by their presence once more.
Time, the merciless thief, withers the tapestry of existence.
We witness the harrowing spectacle of mothers, their lamentations a piercing lament, as they cradle folded flags and trace their fingertips along the names etched in cold stone.
Grief cascades our weary bones like a torrential downpour, soaking the earth with sorrow, as we stand in solemn devotion, our souls forever marked by tragedy.
Yet, the world’s fragile attempts at consolation provide little solace. “God saved you for a reason,” they proclaim, like fragile petals torn from wilted flowers.
We clutch at the threads of purpose, trying to decipher the enigmatic designs that fate has woven.
Guilt wraps around us like a suffocating shroud, as we question our worthiness, our minds echoing with a cacophony of “why me?” and “what for?”
Undeterred, we traverse the treacherous terrain of survival, our footsteps echoing with the resonance of resilience.
We rebuild, wielding our fractured lives like masterpieces under construction, piecing together remnants of shattered dreams and lost hopes.
Each crack in our existence, like fault lines on ancient maps, speaks of battles fought and souls redeemed.
In the complexities of our being, we yearn for meaning, like a thirst unquenched.
We’re martyrs of purpose, chasing phantom sunsets that paint the sky with hues of redemption.
We become tapestries of compassion, stitching together fragments of our own healing as we reach out to touch the wounded hearts of others. In the aftermath, we unearth the buried shards of our redemption, shaping purpose from the chaos and finding solace in the scars.
For in the tragic gathering of survival, where the dead become clusters of remembrance, we transform into instruments of promise.
We become sculptors of resilience, crafting monuments of compassion in a world often devoid of it.
And amidst the uncertainties and insoluble questions, we find virtue in the sorrow, forging a path of meaning in the untamed wilderness.
There’s something so inherently tragic about surviving,
where calamity and charm dance in an eternal waltz.
We’re both audience and performers, characters in a story that unfolds with each breath.
And in this grand tapestry of existence, we embrace the delicate interplay of light and darkness, forging our own narrative and finding purpose in the enigmatic pace of life’s symphony.
I completely agree with you! This degree has introduced me to a world of history and culture. Thank you for…
I hear your conundrum; I too suffer from a ‘title’ that doesn’t pay the mortgage…Beowulf, Dante’s Inferno, Canterbury Tales are…
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Good stuff.
- The Animal with My Face
- Alberta’s Book Ban: A Dystopian Reality
- Decoding “Sinners:” A Vampire Film with Cultural Depth
- John Hates Lemons
- Checkpoint Poetics: What a Soviet Poet Taught Me About Moral Resistance
The Animal with My Face
[A literary, modernist-inspired psychological gothic vignette with feminist and speculative undertones.] It began in silence. Not the sort that follows noise, but the kind that has always been there and waits to be noticed. The room held it carefully. Between the clock’s measured tick and the slight movement of the sheets, something remained untouched. It…
Alberta’s Book Ban: A Dystopian Reality
They say words have power; in Alberta this fall, they are also being held accountable. The weight of this power is evident as classics such as 1984, The Handmaid’s Tale, and Brave New World have been marched off the shelves—not with a bang, but with the muted bureaucracy of a book-ban policy that swept through…
Decoding “Sinners:” A Vampire Film with Cultural Depth
When Ryan Coogler’s Sinners hit theatres this spring, I expected style, atmosphere, and a dose of supernatural dread. What I didn’t expect was a politically charged, allegorical horror epic that tackles cultural appropriation, the cycles of colonization, and the politics of assimilation—all set to the raw pulse of 1930s juke joint blues. This film doesn’t…
Anxious Thoughts
Navigating life’s uncertainties, one word at a time
Anxious Thoughts 
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