Reflections in Thrice
Our shortcomings aren’t regrets they’re receipts—receipts for every time we said we’re fine when we weren’t; for every playground built on the backs of those untolled; for every timeline we chewed and pretended it didn’t bite back. Such receipts can’t be faked, refunded, or thrown away.
These ghosts whisper after silence for millennia, their cries unheard no more.
We are the first to listen, the first to hear because we dug and unearthed their receipts. Love isn’t forgiveness, but hearing, answering, and swinging higher—together.
Stripping our little timeline bare reveals the meat after the fat’s been ripped off; not clean, not pretty, just raw, twitching, bleeding. Don’t look, just shove your hand inside—feel the pulse—try and stop the bleeding. Tourniquet?
This is what living was like before we started polishing bones for playgrounds.
And then the claws come out: your hands in deep, up to the wrist, and instead of its insides recoiling, something pushes back—warm, deliberately. Recognition: a heartbeat not your own, saying “You finally showed up.”
The heartbeat is intimate, like the first time you touch someone’s cheek after they’ve stopped crying, pulling you in.
We thought we were digging, but we were flying.
We weren’t witness, but confession. Now it’s done—the timeline is whole—the receipts are burned. The playground is full. The ghosts? They’re the kids now and we’re the parents. We showed up, finally.
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