NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI + THE UNIVERSE
Captured in the heart of the fashion district by Mitchell Royel, where the volume is turned up to "SOS" by Alyssa. Burn it to the ground, rebuild with purpose, and rise anew.
So here's the thing nobody tells you about being that girl — the one everyone thinks has it figured out. The one whose feed looks perfect, whose parties get talked about for weeks, whose name floats around hallways like she invented cool. Everybody assumed I'd cruise straight into some prestigious school, keep the crown, keep the aesthetic. And honestly? For a while, I let them think it. Because that's what you do when the whole town's watching. You perform.
The last day of high school felt like the finale of a show I was tired of starring in. Everyone was crying, hugging, signing yearbooks like their whole identity depended on it. Meanwhile I stood there in my little main-character moment feeling absolutely nothing. No fireworks. No relief. Just this low hum in my chest, like a phone buzzing in another room. Everyone kept saying, "This is the best chapter of your life!" and I kept thinking, is it though? Because it feels like I'm reading someone else's script.
College was supposed to be the plot twist that fixed everything. Spoiler: it didn't. I lasted a year. One long, beige, soul-sucking year of pretending to care about lecture halls and networking events and people who peaked at pre-orientation. I felt caged. Boxed in by expectations that were never even mine to begin with. I'd sit in these giant rooms full of ambitious strangers and feel more alone than I'd ever felt in my life. So I did the thing you're not supposed to do. The thing that makes moms clutch their chests and aunts start whispering.
I dropped out.
Explaining that to my family was its own genre of chaos. The disappointed stares. The "we just don't understand" speeches. The way my dad wouldn't look at me for like a week. But real talk? It was the first decision I ever made that was actually mine. Not for the aesthetic. Not for the crowd. For me. And that felt dangerous in the best way — like finally deleting an app that was ruining your mental health.
I needed somewhere to put all that restless energy, so I found a hot yoga studio a few blocks from home and basically moved in. Three sessions a day. Yeah, you read that right — three. I was sweating out an entire era of my life on a rubber mat while some instructor whispered about breath and intention. People thought I was being extra. Maybe I was. But there's something about being folded in half in a 105-degree room, dripping and shaking, that strips away all the fake. No filter survives that heat. For the first time, I could actually hear myself think. It was less "wellness girlie" and more "quiet breakdown with better lighting," and honestly, I needed it.
Then the universe did its little thing.
A friend — the kind who's always chasing the next weird experience — casually dropped, "You have to come to this new age event with me." My first instinct was hard no. But something about that low hum in my chest said go. So I went. Reluctantly. Eye-roll fully loaded.
The place was in DTLA, tucked between crumbling buildings and parking lots that gave very "you might get your car stolen." Sketchy from the outside. But then I walked in and — okay, wow. It was like stepping through a portal. Vintage rugs layered over each other, lighting so low and warm it made everyone look like a Renaissance painting, and this thick, buzzing air of people who were all searching for something. Crystals everywhere. Fairy lights strung across the walls. A rainbow LED strip glowing along the ceiling like the room itself was breathing color. It smelled like sage and possibility.
And then there was him. The leader.
Tall. Black. Long dreads. This calm that filled the entire room before he even opened his mouth. He wore this tan tee that said "I AM / WE ARE" and somehow it didn't feel corny — it felt like a dare. When he spoke about energy, alignment, radical honesty, the whole room leaned in like plants tilting toward the sun. I've been around charisma my whole life. I am charisma, let's be honest. But this was different. This was hypnotic. He didn't perform for the room the way I always did. The room performed for him.
And me being me — because I physically cannot sit still in a moment — I heard myself blurt out, "Hey, if you need help with your social media, I know a thing or two." Bold? Absolutely. On-brand? Extremely. Half the room turned. I didn't even flinch.
But the person who actually clocked it wasn't the leader. It was the guy running marketing. Quiet the whole night. Barely said a word. The kind of still that makes you nervous because you know he's absorbing everything. During the break, he walked up to me — reserved, unbothered, this intentional look in his eyes like he'd already decided something about me. We swapped numbers. No flirting. No games. Just... intent. I remember thinking, okay, this one's not like the others.
Two weeks later, coffee.
I walked in expecting the usual spiel — chakras, manifesting, "the universe has a plan for you," blah blah crystal girlie starter pack. Instead, before I even sat down properly, he goes:
"What are your thoughts on Machiavellianism?"
Excuse me? I nearly choked on my oat milk. But I'm not one to fold, so I told him the truth — that I'd actually been reading about it, and that as a Christian, parts of it made my skin crawl. He just nodded, slow, like he already knew. Then he hit me with, "Do you know who wrote the Bible?"
And that was the beginning of the most unhinged, brilliant conversation I'd had in years. We bounced between theology and philosophy and this brutal breakdown of how fake everyone online really is. He started calling out the new age influencers — the exact ones I'd seen my friends worship. "You're not actually buying it, are you? That one's on coke. The sex guru? Same." Zero hesitation. No PR-safe softening. Just raw, surgical honesty. It should've been jarring. Instead it was the most refreshing thing I'd heard in forever — like someone finally opened a window in a room I didn't realize was suffocating me.
I walked out of that coffee shop changed. Buzzing. My head spinning in the best, most dangerous way. Something in me had cracked open, and I couldn't un-crack it. His whole unapologetic thing — the way he refused to pretend, refused to perform — it held up a mirror to the girl I'd been playing my entire life. The popular one. The perfect one. The performance.
That coffee marked the start of my three-year break from the church.
Three years of questioning everything I'd been handed. Three years of getting messy, getting honest, getting lost on purpose just to see what I'd find. It wasn't clean. It wasn't cute. It didn't fit in a caption. But it was mine — every raw, complicated, flame-lit second of it. And somewhere in all that burning, the girl everyone thought they knew finally started becoming someone I actually recognized.
Turns out rebirth doesn't come with good lighting. It comes with fire.
Epilogue: And here's the thing about the fire—it doesn't ask for permission. It doesn't wait until you're ready. It simply finds you, consumes you, strips you down until all that's left is what was real all along. And while the heat makes you want to run, to douse the flames, to beg for the comfort of what you used to know—you realize, eventually, that the burning isn't punishment. It's preparation.
We grow in the wild spaces, the unruly moments when nothing feels certain, and yet everything becomes clear. Growth isn’t about knowing the answers—it’s about letting yourself step into the questions without shame. It’s about realizing that the messy work of unbecoming gives shape to who you were made to be. Leaning into it doesn’t mean you’ve lost; it means you’re willing to find what truly matters.
When the edges of time press close and the noise of the world recedes, there’s a pull—gentle but unrelenting—back to the source. Back to the love that waited for you, patient and unwavering, through every stumble and spark. And in that return, you don’t bring a perfect version of yourself. You bring the fire-forged, truth-grasping you that was hidden beneath layers of doubt and expectation.
Christ sees the ashes, not as failure, but as proof. Proof of your willingness to grow, to trust the heat of transformation without making yourself wrong for needing it.
And when you finally find your way home, it’s not to be the same. It’s to be new.
Always new.
-Mitch, Ryder, GG Collective
BETWEEN TREADMILLS AND TYLER PERRY
There I was, mid-sprint on the treadmill at Equinox, catching the perfect rhythm with my playlist blasting. I'd been working out there for a while—consistent, focused, and ready to switch into monthly payments after my three-month extension from attending that charity gala. But today? Today was different. My phone buzzed, interrupting the flow. I glanced at the screen and saw her name. You know the one—our girl, the one we were all rooting for. She’d just booked a recurring role on this insanely popular teen drama, the kind of thing that makes you stop and think, "Finally. This is it. She's about to take it all the way."
Captured by Mitchell Royel amid the gritty allure of the Fashion District, where industrial edges meet unapologetic style, I found myself immersed in a world that thrives on raw creativity and bold contrasts. The air buzzed with the hum of ambition, a perfect backdrop to the sultry, pulsating rhythm of "MELT" by Miss Madeline—this track doesn't just play, it electrifies. Draped in statement pieces that whispered defiance and oozed confidence, I could feel the fusion of art and attitude resonate like never before. It's more than just a moment; it's a vibe, it's an energy, it's a revolution stitched into fabric and echoed through slick beats.
When I answered, she didn't even give me time to say "hello." Panic hit me straight through the speaker. Something had happened—on set, no less. To this day, I still don’t fully know the details surrounding the altercation, or situation, or whatever we’re calling it now, but her voice was trembling, and the unease was palpable. Apparently, her mom was there too, which added to the tension. She’d made it crystal clear that she was not vibing with the star of the show. I mean, love her to death, but she had this fire about her that couldn’t be tamed. Instead of letting it break her, she spent filming breaks holed up in her trailer watching interviews—Oprah, Tyler Perry, Eartha Kitt—taking in all that iconic Black brilliance.
There I was, mid-sprint on the treadmill at Equinox, catching the perfect rhythm with my playlist blasting. I'd been working out there for a while—consistent, focused, and ready to switch into monthly payments after my three-month extension from attending that charity gala. But today? Today was different. My phone buzzed, interrupting the flow. I glanced at the screen and saw her name. You know the one—our girl, the one we were all rooting for. She’d just booked a recurring role on this insanely popular teen drama, the kind of thing that makes you stop and think, "Finally. This is it. She's about to take it all the way."
When I answered, she didn't even give me time to say "hello." Panic hit me straight through the speaker. Something had happened—on set, no less. To this day, I still don’t fully know the details surrounding the altercation, or situation, or whatever we’re calling it now, but her voice was trembling, and the unease was palpable. Apparently, her mom was there too, which added to the tension. She’d made it crystal clear that she was not vibing with the star of the show. I mean, love her to death, but she had this fire about her that couldn’t be tamed. Instead of letting it break her, she spent filming breaks holed up in her trailer watching interviews—Oprah, Tyler Perry, Eartha Kitt—taking in all that iconic Black brilliance.
Months later, out of nowhere, we got another call from her—this time, a different tone. She was shooting an indie film. The plot? Fuzzy. She didn’t bother clarifying too much. What she did make clear was this one thing—this film was her statement, her clapback at the network for the way they treated her. Oh, and it had a pretty intense love scene, something that felt wildly out of character but also fiercely intentional. Retaliation through ownership of her narrative, maybe? We weren’t sure how to feel, but she asked us to come to the premiere. Reluctantly, we did, eager to support but unsure what we’d walk into.
The event itself? Surreal. We met one of the exec producers—a nice guy, seemed genuine enough. Still, we couldn’t help but contrast her behavior to the whole vibe of the stars on that teen drama set. Honestly, we may never fully wrap our heads around what went down, but we had fun that night—awkward or not—and we're still rooting for her. Always.
Cultural disconnect?
Personality thing?
I don’t know.
We’re white, she’s Black.
Maybe that’s part of it.
Maybe not.
But man, what a ride.
-Mitch, Ryder, GG Collective
Epilogue: We are here to support each other, even when the paths we walk diverge in belief or behavior. It’s not about changing them or needing them to see the world the way we do—it’s about loving them through the ebb and flow of their humanness, as we honor our own. When we disagree, we still hold space with reverence. It’s the quiet act of listening without agenda, of anchoring ourselves in compassion when differences arise.
We sustain our holiness by staying rooted in love, by remembering that our spirits are interconnected beyond these temporary viewpoints. No one needs to be wrong for us to stay in alignment with our truth. We can offer grace, temper judgment with curiosity, and bring warmth into every interaction. This is how we carry forward peace. Together. Always together.
We listen to understand, not to respond.
We choose love over control.
We seek understanding, even when it feels uncomfortable.
We soften our gaze when judgment tries to harden it.
We breathe deeply before we speak. Words matter.
We hold the space for others to grow, even as we are growing.
We accept imperfection as part of our wholeness.
We leave space for silence—it can be the loudest form of wisdom.
We discern with kindness, not criticism.
We allow relationships to evolve without forcing an outcome.
We meet anger with calm and curiosity.
We see the divine in everyone, even when it feels challenging.
We practice gratitude to anchor ourselves in abundance.
We create space for sacred pauses in conversation and connection.
We surrender the need to be right and open to being real.
We honor others’ perspectives as a testament to their experiences.
We release the expectation for someone to think or feel as we do.
We extend grace when differences arise.
We assume the best in others, trusting in their humanity.
We lead with compassion, not defensiveness.
We carry hope forward, even in moments of division.
We reflect before we react.
We love without condition, even when there is dissonance.
We reframe disagreements as opportunities to deepen connection.
We nurture our hearts with self-care, so we can give love abundantly.
We allow our truth to flow without imposing it on others.
We hold boundaries with kindness, never with fear.
We open our hands and hearts to possibilities during conflict.
We find small moments to celebrate shared humanity.
We strive to be mirrors of peace, reflecting divine love back to one another.
"Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins." – 1 Peter 4:8
HUMMING THE HYMN OF HOPE, WHAT BLACK CHURCH WORSHIP TAUGHT US ABOUT UNITY
Captured so vividly by the visionary Mitchell Royel in the beating heart of the Fashion District, this was one of those rare, electric moments where creativity and raw energy intertwined flawlessly, creating magic in real time. At this very moment, I’m riding a wave of inspiration, immersed in the pulsing rhythm of "Don’t Lie" by The Chainsmokers & Kim Petras—a track so intoxicating, it feels as though the beat itself is sketching the next masterpiece. And as the soulful echoes of the Black church remind us so powerfully, “Won’t He do it!”
ART OF PRAISE & BELONGING: SITTING AMONG FAITHFUL SOULS IN A BLACK CHURCH.
Growing up out in the suburbs, with our cookie-cutter houses, wide streets, and smiling faces that didn’t really look like ours, we never thought much about it. It was just life—the block parties, potlucks, endless small talk, and weekend plans that revolved around stuff like school sports and trips to the mall. It was safe, sure, but it also felt like we were co-starring in someone else’s story. None of us really talked about it, about how we adjusted ourselves to “blend in,” like shadows on pristine white walls. We weren’t miserable, but it wasn’t exactly us either. Then senior year flipped everything. That’s when I met him—a Black guy whose entire aura felt like a lane I didn’t even know existed but instantly wanted to be in. He was so comfortable in his skin, like he didn’t need to explain or adjust anything for anybody. It wasn’t just that he was cool; he was free. And for the first time, we got glimpses of something outside the bubble we thought was all there was.
We ended up getting close, and he started pulling me into his world piece by piece. There was so much vibrancy, so much life in the spaces he moved through, the spaces he welcomed me into. Then came today—different, because he wasn’t there. My regular crew and I decided to hit up his church for the first time. It was a Black church, and walking through those doors felt like stepping into an entirely different universe. The energy was electric, like the room itself had a heartbeat, and everybody was just moving in sync with it. My friends, they were taking it all in from the edges, pointing out the unfiltered joy, the boldness of it all, like tourists in a new city. But for me, it hit more personal. I felt a tug, like walking in here without him by my side made me some kind of outsider, like I had no right to claim even a tiny corner of what felt so real. And yet, when the choir started, man, it was like the air itself became holy. I could feel it seep into me, crack open the quiet, hidden spaces I didn’t even know I’d walled up.
For a second, it felt overwhelming—as if I was too much and not enough all at once. Like I didn’t deserve to be here, soaking in all this grace. But as the music swirled around us, something shifted. I realized this wasn’t about earning it, and it wasn’t about fitting in. The Spirit that filled that church wasn’t asking for my backstory or credentials. It just moved through me like it knew me exactly as I was. Sitting there, surrounded by this rhythm, this love, I could feel those old, suburban walls we’d built to survive start crumbling. It wasn’t imposter syndrome anymore—it was gratitude. Gratitude for being in the room, for feeling God’s love in a way that didn’t demand explanations or perfection, just openness. And for maybe the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to explain myself or pretend to fit. I just felt seen. Turns out, faith doesn’t ask for much; it just calls out the version of you that was always waiting to surface, to be free.
-Mitchell, Ryder, GG Collective
Epilogue: That’s the thing about spaces that feel unfamiliar—they stretch us, crack us open, and in the breaking, they uncover what’s been buried, what’s been waiting to rise all along. Whether it’s the thunderous joy of a Black church, the stillness of a sacred circle that feels foreign to us, or the honest, messy beauty of standing on holy ground where no reflection of yourself stares back, the truth that echoes is this: We belong. Not because we blend in, not in spite of our differences, but because showing up—just as we are—is enough. The Spirit doesn’t ask for conformity; it doesn’t require us to fit into molds. It asks for surrender. It whispers for us to bring everything—the fractured hope, the half-spoken prayers, the raw, trembling faith—and simply be. What makes the room come alive isn’t our striving for perfection; it’s presence. That’s where holiness resides.
And when we step into those spaces, they don’t demand us to shrink, to smooth out our edges or pack away our doubts. Instead, they ask us to expand, to open wider, to unfurl the pieces of us that we’ve hidden for far too long. Grace doesn’t find us in the shadows—it meets us in the revealing. The Spirit moves like a wild, untamed wind, tugging at the corners of our comfort zones, drawing us into places we didn’t think included us—and there, in that uneasy, miraculous space, we discover it’s exactly where we were meant to be.
And even as we falter, as we step forward uncertainly, each movement closer becomes part of a larger rhythm, a far deeper song. It’s a rhythm that gathers our differences and fits them together into a vibrant, sacred mosaic. This isn’t about blending until we disappear; it’s about rising to see the divine in the contrasts, in the conversations, in the moments that take our breath away. Holiness isn’t tied to a singular form, to a singular way—it’s the promise that we are already enough. It’s the divine declaration that we are seen, that we are held, and that we are, exactly as we are, so infinitely loved.
Be brave enough to step into spaces that stretch us—they’re the fire that forges our heart.
"Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds." – James 1:2
Holiness doesn’t require our perfection, only our presence. Show up, scars and all.
"The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit." – Psalm 34:18
The Spirit doesn’t demand conformity; it invites us to uncover our authentic self.
"Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind." – Romans 12:2
Surrender isn’t weakness; it’s the gateway to discovering where grace resides.
"But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’" – 2 Corinthians 12:9
Let's bring our fractured hope and half-spoken prayers—they’re enough to start.
"The Lord hears his people when they call to him for help. He rescues them from all their troubles." – Psalm 34:17
Stop shrinking to fit spaces—the divine asks us to expand unapologetically.
"Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back." – Isaiah 54:2
Our doubts and our edges hold beauty—allow them to shine.
"But now, O Lord, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand." – Isaiah 64:8
Let's not smooth out our story; the raw, unpolished truth is where freedom lives.
"Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free." – John 8:32
Trust the Spirit to move us—like untamed wind, it knows where we're meant to be. There’s no mold to fit, only a rhythm to join. Let's dance in our own divine way.
"The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going." – John 3:8
The moments that feel unfamiliar are invitations to rise into deeper truths. Grace doesn’t wait for you to be perfect—it meets us exactly where we are.
"‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’" – 2 Corinthians 12:9
Stop hiding the pieces of ourselves that ache for expression. Unfurl them.
"You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you." – Song of Solomon 4:7
The Spirit sees us, holds us, loves us as we are—remember that fiercely. What makes the room holy is not the decorum, but the rawness of our spirit.
"The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children." – Romans 8:16
Our contrasts, our contradictions—they’re sacred threads in the divine tapestry. Becoming isn’t about blending in; it’s about seeing the divine in your differences.
"For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works." – Ephesians 2:10
The unease of new spaces can be the birthplace of miracles. Lean in.
"I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland." – Isaiah 43:19
Don’t fight to belong—let's understand know that we already do. That’s the power in showing up. Let's love ourself wildly, endlessly, boldly—it’s holiness in its purest form.
"We love because he first loved us." – 1 John 4:19
AMETHYST VEILS AND HAZY SKIES
Captured by Mitchell Royel in Moorpark, California, this moment resonates with an authenticity that words alone can't fully express. The raw emotion of the scene is complemented by the hauntingly beautiful track "HYPOCRITE" by Annika Rose, playing softly in the background, its lyrics weaving seamlessly into the atmosphere and amplifying the depth of reflection.
CRYSTAL HEARTS IN A TWILIGHT HAZE
LOST IN THE LILAC GLOW
Let me tell you about a stone.
Purple. Cool in my palm. Heavy in a way that has nothing to do with weight.
The amethyst.
I keep it on the table now, right there in the open, where everybody can see. Because there was a season I couldn't look at it. A season I set it face-down like a photo of somebody I used to be.
See, I hadn't been booking. Not a commercial, not a callback, not a whisper from the universe saying keep going. Weeks turned into months. And the silence? The silence got loud.
So I called them over. My people. My tribe.
We'd been faithful, you understand. Church on Sundays. Hands lifted. Praise in our mouths. But I sat them down in my living room — candles low, incense curling up toward the ceiling like it was trying to reach something — and I told them the truth.
"Something's wrong," I said. "And I know what it is."
I hadn't been meditating.
Now — that's a hard thing to say out loud. Because these conversations? They don't land for everybody. You can't explain the quiet to somebody who's never sat inside of it. You can't describe how the stillness holds you, how it reaches into the parts of you that prayer and praise and Sunday best don't always touch. Only the spiritual ones nod. Only they lean in.
And mine leaned in.
So I made a vow. Right there. Fierce. Not soft, not "I'll try." I said, I am going back in. I picked that amethyst up off the table, closed my eyes, and I went home to myself.
Every morning. Every night. Breath by breath. I stopped chasing and I started listening.
Four months.
Four months later — a national commercial. My face. My name. My yes.
And when that first check cleared, I didn't do anything loud. I bought a Corolla. Ten years old, give or take. Somebody else's story before it was mine — but low miles, clean, honest. Paid for it in cash. Walked out with the keys and no weight on my back.
Then I called everybody over one more time.
I pulled up out front and I watched their faces. And they cheered. Screaming, jumping, holding me. Not because it was flashy — it wasn't. But because they knew. They were in the living room when I said something's wrong. They witnessed the low place. So they got to witness the rising too.
And I stood there, keys in one hand, amethyst in the other.
Purple. Cool. Heavy.
Reminding me — the stillness was never empty.
It was full the whole time.
-Mitch, Ryder, GG Collective
Epilogue: We deeply understand the weight of the daily grind, the quiet persistence of doubt, and those heavy moments when inspiration feels hopelessly out of reach, lost in the noise of the struggle. But here is the grounding truth we must hold close to our hearts, repeating it like a gentle mantra whispered through the chaos: the path does not reveal itself while we stand waiting; it opens up step by step, as we actively walk it. It doesn't demand that we wait until we feel entirely ready, nor does it require us to have every single detail mapped out before we take that first step.
Divine timing is already quietly in motion, aligning things behind the scenes even when we cannot yet perceive the progress. Whether your place of dedication is the stage, the canvas, the quiet of a courtroom, the warmth of a kitchen, or any other space where you pour your energy—this is sacred, holy work. All of it.
If we can show up each day with pure intention, practicing a quiet devotion to our craft, we can learn to trust in the unseen hands that are constantly guiding us forward. Remember, we are never just creating a piece of art, a project, or a career; we are painstakingly crafting ourselves in the very process, slowly shaping who we were always meant to be. So, keep feeling your way through the thick fog of uncertainty. Keep making the conscious choice of love over fear, and faith over frustration, even when that familiar doubt tries to creep back in. The universe hears us. It always has, and it always will.
SMOKY QUARTZ — STONE OF GROUNDING
Smoky Quartz — The Stone of Grounding. Smoky quartz is a remarkable crystal known for its grounding properties. It is believed to help cleanse negative energies while promoting emotional balance and stability. Often associated with calmness and protection, smoky quartz is highly valued in spiritual practices and personal well-being.
Smoky quartz sits heavy in our palms,
pulling us back to earth when the noise gets loud.
It drinks the negativity, it clears the fog,
it opens the road we're meant to walk now.
This is the energy we carry into the season—
grounded, balanced, ready to become.
The Cycles Just… Cycle
Captured in the fashion district by Mitchell Royel, where silk whispers against concrete and reflections dance in storefront glass. Now, the echo of "Little Girl Gone" by CHINCHILLA threads through the alleys, weaving rebellion into the morning haze. It hums in the folds of garments, swaying boldly on mannequins—becoming protest, becoming fire, becoming a hymn for the unapologetic. The city watches, but the music doesn’t falter, holding the rhythm of defiance in its palms like a secret it never intends to keep.
There are stretches out here—
vast, endless stretches—
where it feels like it's just us,
holding the whole thing up alone.
We grind. We hustle.
We show up to auditions
with tired faces and hopeful eyes.
We write pages nobody may ever read,
craving connection,
but only the right kind of connection—
nothing rushed, nothing forced.
Our crew? They scattered.
Some to success.
Some to new lives.
Some just… gone.
We used to wonder if they'd drift back into orbit,
the way they always did
when life climbed upward,
when the dragon fell,
when the cloud finally lifted.
But this time—
this time it feels different.
The split wasn't loud.
No fireworks, no fight—
just whispers,
just timing,
just vibes that stopped lining up.
Some of it was out of our hands.
Some of it, we chose.
The weight had to lift.
We had to breathe.
So now it's smoky quartz in our pockets,
a playlist keeping our heads nodding
as we ride the A train to yoga.
It carries us through coffee shop sessions
where we sit solo—
not lonely, clear.
We prefer it that way now.
Strangers become friends when the timing's true.
Here's to meditating when the mind won't quiet.
Here's to sitting still
when the whole world screams run.
Here's to feeling the beat of our roots—
hip hop, indie rock,
whatever keeps the pulse moving.
Here's to pouring everything into the art,
listening for the unfamiliar echo,
and stepping into the newest versions of ourselves.
It just is what it is.
And hear this, plain and steady:
The ones who vanish through the hard part,
the ones who wait in the wings
until the dragon lies slain—
they come back looking for the after.
They come back for the calm they never bled for.
But the after belongs to us now.
This chapter was written in the dark,
in the grind, in the solo hours,
in the smoke and the stone and the breath.
So let this be the release,
gentle but unshaken:
those who return once the war is won
are not walking in with us.
Not this time.
We grounded ourselves.
We built this new room.
And we're keeping the door
for the ones who stayed—
and for the ones still to come.
Not for the ghosts
who only love the light
after we survived the night.
We move on.
We rise clear.
We go alone until the right ones arrive.
And it just is what it is.
Mitchell, Ryder, GG Collective