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The worlds weight rests on my fingertips as I caress the shiny black keys, their smooth surface cool beneath my touch, each one waiting to bring forth the rhythm of unspoken thoughts. With a bit of courage, the blank screen will soon fill with shades of images in words. Am I prepared to unwrap the visions that swarm so freely inside my brain Do I have the strength and wherewithal to finish what has yet to start There is such comfort in excuses. Sometimes, excuses are the perfect shields, hiding all my fears. An inner circle of voices is playing tug of war inside my brain, showing clips of the past while nudging me toward the future. Safely positioned behind my shield, I answer, Not now This is not the right time, speaking with the illusion of confidence. I am trying hard to resist urges to question whether I possess what it takes to be a virtuoso at crafting memories of silhouettes into living portraits. On the other side of fear stands either a Champion or a Coward. A Champion rises, forged by the fires of struggle, embracing the unknown with unwavering resolve. A Coward recoils, shackled by doubt, allowing fear to dictate the limits of their existence. The question is not merely who I am, but who I am willing to become. Which of these personifies will best define me A coward is a person who lacks the courage to face danger, difficulty, opposition, pain, etc. Sitting in a dark corner, contemplating my next move, I hear drum beats. The sound of each moment embodies a profound historical significance. In a flash, it comes to me. Who else could tell the metaphoric rise of Black women Who else could resurrect the breath of life that is ours I am many women, all woven in one. I have always wondered where they end and I begin. Impressions are such indelible events. Printed illustrations my grandmothers life flow freely throughout what I have become. She is a profound part of my pedigree that I hold so dear. There are shoulders beneath our feet—broad, unyielding, and weathered by time. They belong to those who bore the weight of injustice, who marched with weary feet but unshaken spirits, who spoke truth even when their voices trembled. They are the foundation upon which we stand, lifting us higher, urging us forward. Without them, there would be no path—only darkness. The shoulders move to a familiar beat, cradling, pulling, and propelling us simultaneously. It is a fragile experience to bring to life the shoulders from whence we came. These computer keys are like cords on a piano they are my counsel and will guide me. The shoulders that lift me are intense, brilliant, and flawed, but that is okay. I once knew a woman, and she was magical. In her lifetime, she proved to be both protagonist and antagonist. She was something else, a woman to be recognized. As a child, I heard the melancholy sound of saxophones, their notes bending and swaying like whispers of a history that refused to be forgotten. The voices spoke volumes, carrying the weight of struggle and triumph—God bless the child thats got his own. The drums beat a familiar cadence, steady and unbroken, echoing the resilience of generations. I feel the sound dancing inside me, stirring something ancient, something unshaken. The poetic melody speaks, In This Life, We Hold Our Heads High, and the horns cry out, raw and relentless, asking, Why In my soul, the harmony of past and present replies, Because we are strong made with backbone. These words are my sword and dagger, which I have drawn many times. Despair and grief are no match. Disillusion and disappointment are no match. Defenselessness and hopelessness are no match. At each turn, I have drawn my sword, In This Life, and the dagger, We Hold Our Heads High. This recurring cadence constantly permeated throughout my life. The nonapologetic stance of holding my head has served me well.