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Words sparked by Beatles’ tunes, Ouachita’s pulse, and pain’s fire, in digital glow. |
Size: 2 Items
Created: June 3rd, 2025 at 12:14pm
Modified: June 6th, 2025 at 9:12am
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No Restrictions Nestled in the digital glow of my screen, this folder—christened The Beatles Musical Extravaganza—is a living archive, a pulsing heart of ink and rhythm carved from the raw edge of my days and nights. It holds every word I’ve scratched out, every verse and story born under the Ouachita’s pine-shadowed ridges, where the Caddo River hums its restless song and the red-dirt trails of southeastern Oklahoma whisper memories of freer steps. This ain’t just a collection; it’s a firelit hollow, a place where the Beatles’ melodies—wild as a hawk’s cry, tender as dawn’s first light—collide with my own battles, from neuropathy’s burning pins to fibromyalgia’s heavy ache. Here, their music isn’t just sound; it’s a current that carries me, like the Caddo’s flow, through sleepless nights and 2 a.m. wanderings, when the bed looms like a storm cloud and only my magnesium pen brings relief.
This folder cradles a chorus of writings—prose poetry that dances like “A Hard Day’s Night,” narratives that sway with “Let It Be’s” quiet hope, and reflections that spark like “Revolution’s” electric call. Each piece is a shard of my soul, tempered by the Ouachita’s granite and the red clay near Broken Bow, where my grandfather’s fishing tales still linger. The Beatles’ songs are my map: their grit fuels my defiance, their longing mirrors my dread of sleep, and their joy kindles the words that scorch my pages. Here, False Ember’s Ease—those fleeting pills that dull my pain but fade too fast—pales against the blaze of creation, where every keystroke is a victory over the body’s betrayal.
From “Ticket to Ride’s” restless pull to “Yesterday’s” soft ache, this folder weaves the Beatles’ spirit with the land’s pulse. Picture pages alive with the scent of pine needles, the glint of moonlight on the Caddo’s ripples, or the crunch of Oklahoma’s clay underfoot. Some pieces howl like a bobcat, raw with the frustration of nerves that won’t quit; others murmur like the river, tracing resilience in the face of endless nights. Yonder, in these digital depths, you’ll find stories of pacing under starlight, poems that wrestle with the bed’s false promise, and musings that catch the Beatles’ chords like fireflies in a jar.
This folder’s no museum; it’s a living stream, fed by the Ouachita’s springs and my own stubborn need to write. It’s for the extravaganza—a celebration yet to be fully shaped, maybe a reading under the pines, a performance by the river, or a quiet sharing with those who know the weight of pain and the lift of song. Every file here is a step, a spark, a refusal to let the dark win. It holds my heart’s churn—grief for lost ease, anger at my body’s rebellion, and the fierce hope that burns brighter than any pill. Like the Beatles’ voices soaring through “Hey Jude,” this folder carries me home, to a place where words and music make me feel alright, even when the night’s at its hardest.
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