It is such that no one knows, all the ticking of seconds, hours passing as if the were three at a time; nine hours, twelve, the daughters if dawn and the orbed deities who exist beyond the veil of time and the cloak of destiny. I, a soul, like any other, has seen the rejuvenation blackened lungs, and I’ve seen pears and pomegranates, oatmeal and avocado, sage and lemongrass bless the heart. The first of February; in Latin, februa (rius), arose 23 minutes after the second hour. I could express that this morning, the first of many tomorrow’s, was unique, piqued with instances that were quite different than the days before; but there is the simple fact that I have been Braving the Days for a long time. Many moons with the concrete foundations of skyscrapers and urban dwellings, I’ve seen New York City’s Chelsea before the wealthy resided, downtown Los Angeles when you did not go out after sundown, only to see a 2nd street or tiny haunts on Broadway.

And another morning, my home; my native grounds always beautiful and complicated. I wonder, though, if this morning, love has been abound in a new form and to know that I’ve lived and what better reason? A silence speaks, and many times, a writer has little to say when left to the meandering of the rarity of paperbacks and newspaper articles, essays written about essays and archives of the past’s goings-on. If I could live in the shelves of the libraries amongst volumes and lose myself in the world of literature I would….

And if Shakespeare could say anything, they may write something similar, but less vague as to the dealings of the heart, Sonnet 12:

When I Do Count The Clock That Tells Time
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silvered o’er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing ‘gainst Time’s scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

And now, I will face the morning, and my words with my fingers and thoughts. Live as a day is to be lived, with regard only to what God ordains. It is of no consequence when one lives like Water. When one heals from a sound bath and holds love in behind my ribs: what else is there, but time.

Jordannah Elizabeth is an award-winning author, lecturer, journalist, essayist and music critic. She began as a columnist at TERSE. in 2016 and served as editor in chief from 2019 – 2021. Her arts & culture journalism has been published in Village Voice, DownBeat, LA Weekly, Chicago Reader, NPR Music and more. She’s been an arts and entertainment reporter for the historical Black newspaper, New York Amsterdam News since 2013. She currently teaches music business at New School in New York City.