Everybody Measuring Something That Don’t Matter.

---

Everybody Measuring Something That Don’t Matter

How a Loud World Stay Counting the Wrong Things

By Kāteb Shunnar

Listen.

Not the polite, church‑fan kind of listen where folks nod but already halfway gone. I mean lean in. Elbows on knees. Like somebody about to tell you something you didn’t ask for but probably need. That kind of listen.

Because everywhere I look, somebody measuring something that don’t matter like it’s life or death. Folks counting likes like they calories. Counting money like it owe them loyalty. Counting wins that don’t come with peace and losses that secretly saved their life. Everybody got a ruler, but nobody asking who made it or what it was ever meant to measure in the first place.

And I know because I’ve done it too.

I’ve stood in rooms feeling behind while standing in my own blessing. I’ve watched people speed past me and thought, for a second, I missed my exit. Only to realize later they was just loud, not ahead. Noise will trick you like that.

Down here, New Orleans used to teach you something early: everything shiny ain’t valuable, and everything valuable don’t shine. We grew up knowing the prettiest house on the block might be the loneliest one. Knowing the quietest person at the table might be holding the deepest well. Knowing a second line ain’t about getting somewhere fast it’s about moving together, in time, in truth.

But now? Everybody in a hurry. Everybody late for something they can’t name. Everybody acting like rest is a sin and stillness is failure.

We measuring hustle like holiness.

I see folks wearing exhaustion like a badge. Talking about how busy they are, how booked, how overwhelmed. Like tired is the new successful. Meanwhile the soul sitting there parched, waving a white flag nobody want to see. If you ain’t burned out, people look at you sideways like you cheating the system.

Let me tell you something plain: a system that require you to disappear to prove your worth is broken. And it don’t love you back.

Some people measure love by how much pain they can endure. How long they can stay in rooms where they aren’t respected. They call it loyalty. Call it patience. Call it grace. But grace don’t ask you to bleed quietly so somebody else can stay comfortable. Even the river know when to change its course.

My grandmother rest her soul, no‑nonsense soul used to say, “Baby, if you always the one bending, eventually you gonna break.” She didn’t say it sweet either. She’d look right at you. Let it land. Then go back to stirring the pot like she ain’t just cracked your whole illusion.

She came from people who survived too much to romanticize suffering. They knew the difference between endurance and foolishness. Between compassion and self‑betrayal. They fed who was hungry, but they locked the door when night came.

Somewhere along the line, we lost that balance.

Now folks measuring themselves against strangers. Comparing private wounds to public performances. Watching highlight reels and wondering why their own life feel heavy. Comparison is a greedy spirit it never satisfied. You feed it once and it come back asking for more.

The old stories warned us about that. Elders used to talk about spirits the way other folks talk about weather. Calmly. Practically. Envy was a spirit. Greed too. Pride especially. They’d say, “That one’ll have you thinking you bigger than you are or smaller than you truly be.”

They believed the ancestors walked with us not haunting, not judging, just witnessing.

Watching how we handled what they prayed into existence. Watching whether we traded depth for display. Watching whether we remembered that survival was never supposed to be the final destination.

And they weren’t impressed by numbers.

They cared about alignment. About whether your walk matched your words. About whether you could sit alone without reaching for noise to save you from yourself.

Here’s the truth nobody like to say out loud: not everything measurable is meaningful, and not everything meaningful wants to be measured. You can’t quantify discernment. You can’t weigh wisdom. You can’t put peace on a chart and expect it to perform on demand.

Some of the most important shifts happen so quietly nobody clap for them. The day you stop explaining yourself. The moment you choose rest without apology. The first time you let somebody be disappointed without rushing to fix it.

Those moments don’t trend.

I’ve had seasons where I looked successful and felt hollow. Seasons where losing something felt like punishment until I realized it was protection. Funny how clarity shows up once ego leave the room.

We keep chasing metrics like they gods. Followers. Dollars. Titles. Applause. But the soul don’t eat that. The spirit don’t rest there. And eventually, something inside you starts asking questions your lifestyle can’t answer.

So maybe it’s time we put the tape measure down. Stop auditing other people’s lives. Stop shrinking ourselves to fit somebody else’s definition of progress. Stop confusing speed with direction.

Because everybody measuring something that don’t matter…

…and wondering why nothing ever feel like enough.

That ain’t coincidence.

That’s a message.

---

---

The Meaning of the Art in this reflection.

Alright. Let me tell you what you looking at, because this piece ain’t here to be polite.

First thing you notice is it glow. Not a Vegas-sign glow. A somebody done lit a candle and told the truth kind of glow. That big eye floating up top? That ain’t spooky for decoration. That’s awareness. That’s the moment you realize you been lying to yourself and the lie finally got tired of you. New Orleans folks know that look. That’s the “I see you, baby… and I see through you” stare.

Now look how the St. Louis Cathedral sitting back there like it been minding its business since 1700-something. It ain’t screaming for attention. It ain’t chasing relevance. It’s just there. Solid. Grounded. Same way real wisdom move. Quiet but unshakeable. Meanwhile the sky around it doing the absolute most, because truth always show up loud when you been ignoring it.

Those oak trees dripping with Spanish moss? That’s ancestors. Period. That moss is heavy with memory. With prayers said low. With warnings people laughed off and later wished they listened to. In New Orleans we don’t pretend the past is gone. It just changed clothes.

See that iron gate opening onto the water? That’s a choice. Not a trap. Not a miracle. A decision. You can walk through or keep standing there acting confused like the sign ain’t clear. And the water? That ain’t no calm swimming pool. That’s life. It move whether you ready or not.

Now pay attention to that glowing path winding through the scene. That’s clarity. Notice how it don’t run straight. That’s intentional. Anybody telling you the spiritual path is neat and direct is selling something. This one curves, doubles back, pauses, then keeps going. Just like healing. Just like growth. Just like New Orleans traffic.

The scales floating off to the side? That’s everybody measuring the wrong things. Money on one end. Time slipping off the other. Balance looking real suspicious. That’s the universe asking, “You sure this what you wanna keep counting?” No answer needed. The silence already said enough.

Those cards and books down front ain’t about fortune telling. They about telling on you. They represent lessons already learned, ignored, relearned, and highlighted twice. Knowledge ain’t the problem. Listening is.

The candles still burning? That’s hope refusing to mind its business. Even after disappointment. Even after exhaustion. Even after you said “I’m done” and didn’t mean it.

And the riverboat glowing back there? That’s movement without rushing. Progress without panic. New Orleans don’t sprint spiritually. We sway. We simmer. We let it cook.

This whole piece is basically saying: Slow down. Stop counting what don’t feed you. Stop acting brand new when your spirit been knocking. And for the love of everything holy, stop pretending you don’t know better.

This artwork ain’t here to impress you. It’s here to remind you.

And yeah… it’s watching.