If My City Had a Personality If my city had a personality, she would wear midnight black, royal purple, ocean-blue confidence, and burgundy dreams stitched into her smile. She would walk with blonde fire tipped in orange, like a Caribbean sunset refusing to surrender, her hips keeping time with Kompa rhythms, her spirit humming old African songs that crossed oceans and survived generations. She would speak affirmations at every corner: “You survived.” “You matter.” “You are worthy.” “You are becoming.” “Your light is not too much.” The air would smell like garlic butter seafood, fried fish by the shore, griot and pikliz, diri kole ak pwa, and soul food simmering from a grandmother’s kitchen, seasoned with memory, love, and laughter. She would move like a Pisces tide, soft one moment, mysterious the next, holding secrets in her depths like pearls, teaching people how to trust intuition the way sailors trust the sea. Her roots would stretch across Africa, deep as ancient baobabs, while her soul swims beside dolphins, sea turtles, whales, and coral kingdoms, guarded by the wisdom of the ocean floor. The whales would sing ancestral hymns. The dolphins would guide dreamers home. The sea turtles would carry stories older than maps. And every wave would whisper: “Keep going.” Crystals would line her streets, amethyst for peace, lapis lazuli for truth, obsidian for protection, each stone sparkling like prayers turned solid. She would speak Creole to the moon, pray gratitude at sunrise, write poetry on napkins, journal dreams before breakfast, and leave affirmations where others leave footprints. Her music would never sleep. Drums from Africa would shake her foundation. Kompa would dance through her veins.Gospel would lift her spirit. Poetry would echo from her windows. She would be creative without apology, compassionate without weakness, strong without hardness, and spiritual without fear. By day she would shine like tropical waters. By night she would glow like stars reflected on the sea, wrapped in shades of blue, purple, black, and burgundy.

Men just majestic, mostly.. My punctuation misplaced itself admiring their might; meanwhile, my verbs kept mumbling“more mercy… more joy…”and the sentence, jealous, melted. Mended men make miracles, I mean, my grammar just tripped over its respect. Justice jogged past; my commas joined the march, and my period refused to leave. Many men carry mountains; my sentence meant to say “strength,” but it kept mentioning mercy. June jumped the rails, and every mark, comma, and margin made room for their journey.

Beneath the Current I dive beneath the surface of myself, where coral cathedrals guard my Coherentia. The ocean asks no questions of my scars, it simply teaches me to swim with Courage. Among the currents, I stop chasing approval, and follow the rhythm of my own Compass. The whales sing ancient hymns through blue silence, guiding my spirit toward deeper Clarity. Sea turtles move without hurry or confusion, their steady path reminding me of Consistency. I once drifted between what I believed and what I practiced, lost in Contradiction. But beneath these waters, my soul learned that truth grows strongest through Commitment. Now my prayers and footsteps travel together, joined by a sacred Connection. My voice no longer borrows another’s tide, it rises from lived Conviction. The sea grass bends without breaking, a lesson written in quiet Composure. Each choice I make flows from the same center, creating a life shaped by Congruence. And when I surface beneath heaven’s light, my heart, my faith, and my actions share one Course. For I am no longer divided by competing currents;I move from alignment, and alignment becomes my life, Coherentia.

@Angella Kim-Mack definitely 💯 exactly what I do.

@Michelle Cox

What Invention Do You Wish Existed? I wish there were an invention called The Heart Translator A small device worn close to the chest, where misunderstandings go to die and honesty finds its voice. No more guessing what someone means, no more “I’m fine” hiding a storm, no more love lost between what was felt and what was said. It would translate grief into language, turn silence into truth, and reveal the words too afraid to leave our lips. A father could say,“I’m proud of you.” A mother could say,“I tried my best.” A friend could say,“I needed help.” A lover could say,“I was scared to lose you.” Maybe the world would be softer then, less lonely, more understood. So if I could invent anything, it wouldn’t be a flying car or a machine to travel through time. It would be something simpler: a way for hearts to speak fluently before it becomes too late.

@Michelle Cox