Some work doesn’t end because it’s finished, but because it’s ready.

An essay on creative labor, legitimacy, and the work that becomes real only through time.

Who stops asking why until they’re forced to try. Who twists the truth of a passionate cry. Who makes the rules that disguise need as necessity. Who deflates ideals in the name of ease. Who questions chaos with arrogant brevity. When the sweep of life passes by, who pays attention to what they see? Who hears the cry of a silenced mother. Who stands with the persecuted daughter. Who answers the man when need breaks through pride. Who allows the child to keep dreaming. When the

Sitting in an unlikely place— voices rising, hands trading, argument layered over routine. A motorbike passes, dust lifting, then settling. An old man steps close. A smile. A pause. Soak up the sun while we have it, before the cold sets in. Thirteen words. A gesture. Enough to shift the day. I know he has known cold— ground moving beneath his feet, winds that do not ask permission, things lost and not recovered. Still, he offers nothing heavy. Only warmth, shared while it las

Serengeti King<, poem by Jessey Jansen