The City That Knows Better Than to Believe the Shine.

Author’s Opening Note

Here is something they do not teach you in school or put on postcards with smiling pelicans and brass bands frozen in mid note. Trees near water grow slower rings. They do not rush. They learn patience from standing where floods come and go. Cypress trees down here know how to wait. They keep their knees above the water like they learned a lesson the hard way long before we showed up with our opinions and our plans. Nature does not hurry when it knows storms are seasonal. That fact stayed with me longer than it should have, probably because I am not very good at waiting and neither are most of us.

New Orleans taught me that truth before I had language for it. This city has a way of whispering wisdom through cracked sidewalks, rusted gates, second line drums, and elders who look you dead in your face and tell you the truth with a laugh so it does not break you clean in half. Down here we decorate everything. Houses. Coffins. Pain. Joy. Even grief gets dressed up with a band and a march because raw sorrow by itself would drown us quicker than the river ever could.

This reflection came from a place where tears do not ask permission. I had to stop more than once. I had to breathe. I had to laugh at myself too because crying without a little humor in New Orleans is considered suspicious behavior. Somebody will ask if you alright or if you need a plate. That is just how it goes.

I wrote this because I am tired of pretending that shiny things satisfy thirsty souls. I wrote this because I have watched good people trade their peace for applause and call it progress. I wrote this because I have been fooled too. More than once. Probably more than I admit out loud.

If you are reading this and your chest tightens a little, that is not an accident. If something in you nods while another part wants to argue, that is normal. Truth does that. It knocks politely and then rearranges the furniture.

This is not a sermon. This is a conversation on a front porch after the sun has dipped low and the air smells like rain and fried food and memory. This is Part One. There is more coming. For now, pull up a chair. Wipe your hands. Leave the shine at the door. We need to talk about what is real.

The City That Knows Better Than to Believe the Shine .Mirrors, Mirages, and the Mercy We Keep Missing

Part One of a Two Part Series

By Kāteb Shunnar

New Orleans knows something the rest of the world keeps forgetting. Everything that shines is not gold and everything that glitters will eventually rust. We live in a city where beauty peels, where paint cracks, where iron bends, where music still rises anyway. That alone should tell us something. Down here, if you trust appearances too much, you will be disappointed before Mardi Gras even makes it to Ash Wednesday.

Everything on this earth comes dressed up. Cars shine like promises. Clothes whisper confidence. Houses stand tall like they plan to outlive us. Even people decorate themselves with titles, filters, and carefully chosen stories. We stack these decorations high and then stand back, hands on hips, asking the sky to applaud. Look what I built. Look what I own. Look who loves me. Look how full my life is. Meanwhile something inside is still thirsty and does not know why.

There is an old understanding that life is a test, not a showroom. That idea does not sell very well, so it gets buried under advertisements and hustle slogans and a constant hum telling us we need more to be more. More money. More attention. More validation. More stuff. More noise. We chase these things like they owe us something, like fulfillment is hiding behind the next purchase or the next promotion or the next relationship that looks good on paper.

But ask anyone who has lived long enough and they will tell you the same truth in different words. The thrill fades. The applause quiets. The shine dulls. And there you are, still you, still human, still asking the same questions you thought you bought your way out of.

I once heard an elder speak in a dream, the kind of dream that feels heavier than sleep. No thunder. No theatrics. Just a voice that carried the weight of someone who had seen too much to lie. The elder said the real life does not scream for attention. It waits in a higher place where patience is currency and humility opens doors. That voice did not scold me. It warned me gently, the way New Orleans warns you when a storm is coming. Not with panic, but with preparation.

The world we live in is full of mirages. Anyone who has ever been truly thirsty understands this. When thirst gets desperate, the mind starts lying out of kindness. It shows you what you want to survive. In the desert of dissatisfaction, you will swear you see water where there is only heat dancing on sand. You will run. You will believe. You will fall to your knees expecting relief and find nothing but dry hands and deeper hunger.

That is how this world works. From a distance, it looks like salvation. Up close, it tastes like disappointment. The lie is not always obvious. Sometimes it wears a friendly face. Sometimes it sounds like encouragement. Sometimes it looks like opportunity. Sometimes it calls itself love.

New Orleans understands deception better than most places because water teaches hard lessons. You cannot ignore it. You cannot dominate it. You cannot pretend it is something else. The river gives and takes. Storms remind us who is in charge. Cemeteries rise above ground not because we love death but because truth floats whether you want it to or not. Try to bury reality too deep and it will come back up.

This world is passing. That is not pessimism. That is honesty. Houses fall. Empires crumble. Trends disappear. Even the strongest oak eventually returns to soil. Dust is not an insult. Dust is a destination. Get comfortable with that idea and life becomes lighter. Fight it and everything feels heavier than it needs to be.

The mistake we make is confusing decoration with direction. We start serving the very things that were meant to serve us. We bow to our own belongings. We obey our appetites. We let our schedules dictate our souls. Somewhere along the way, we forget who we are connected to and start believing we are self made miracles instead of sustained ones.

There is an acronym that came to me while sitting near the river watching the water move like it had somewhere important to be. MIRAGE. Moving Images Replacing Authentic God Essence. That is what deception does. It swaps depth for display. It replaces connection with consumption. It convinces you that what sparkles must be sacred.

Friends can be mirages too. That one hurts to admit. Not everyone who claps for you wants you whole. Some people love you as long as you stay entertaining, distracted, or lost alongside them. They will cheer your worst impulses and call it freedom. They will tell you that you do not need guidance, that accountability is weakness, that humility is optional. They sound supportive. They feel familiar. They pull you further from your center and call it growth.

Even work can become a mirage. Opportunities arrive dressed like destiny. They promise security but demand your spirit as collateral. They keep you busy enough to forget why you started praying in the first place. Relationships can do the same. So can ambition. So can fear.

New Orleans folklore tells of a man who spent his life collecting masks. He wore a different one for every crowd. The businessman mask. The lover mask. The holy mask. The rebel mask. He was admired everywhere and known nowhere. When he died, they buried him with all his masks. Years later, after a flood shifted the ground, the casket cracked open and the masks floated away. All that remained was a bare face no one recognized. The elders say the lesson is simple. Whatever is not you will eventually leave you.

There is humor in this if you let it breathe. We spend so much energy impressing people who are also pretending. It is like a parade of mirrors congratulating each other on their reflections. New Orleans laughs at that foolishness because laughter keeps us sane. Sarcasm is a survival skill here. We smile and say bless your heart while quietly hoping you wake up.

This reflection is not asking you to abandon the world. It is asking you not to drown in it. There is a difference. You can enjoy beauty without worshiping it. You can appreciate comfort without being owned by it. You can love people without letting them replace your connection to the Creator.

The dust is coming. Not as punishment. As balance. As reminder. If not today, then tomorrow. That truth is not meant to scare you. It is meant to free you. When you know nothing lasts, you choose what matters more carefully.

This city dances at funerals because it understands that grief and gratitude share the same breath. We cry and laugh in the same sentence. We honor what was without clinging to it. That is wisdom wearing beads and second line shoes.

If you feel exposed reading this, good. Exposure lets light in. If you feel defensive, sit with that. If you feel seen, welcome home.

This is only Part One. There is more to say about thirst, about water, about connection, about how to recognize the real from the replica. For now, remember this. Do not become a servant to your decor. You are more than what you own. You are more than what you display. You are more than what applauds you.

The real life waits patiently. Like a cypress. Like the river. Like truth.

---

Author’s Opening Note

Here is another fact nature does not announce with a microphone. The Mississippi River is older than trees. Before oaks learned how to stretch their arms toward the sky, before cypress figured out how to kneel in water, that river was already moving, already carrying stories it did not ask permission to keep. Scientists will give you measurements and timelines. Elders will tell you something else. The river remembers who you were before you learned how to pretend.

I grew up knowing that if you sit by the river long enough, you will hear things you did not ask to know. Not voices exactly. More like realizations that arrive without knocking. The kind that make you stare at the water a little longer and forget your phone exists. The kind that humble you without humiliating you.

Part One spoke about the shine, the mirage, the decorations we confuse for destiny. Part Two is about thirst. Real thirst. The kind no brand can fix. The kind that creeps in even when your life looks full on paper. This is where New Orleans stops joking for a moment and gets serious in that gentle way it does. Like an auntie who laughs first, then tells you the truth you cannot unhear.

This part was harder to write. I will be honest about that. Not because the message was unclear, but because clarity asks something from you. It demands you stop bargaining with illusions. It asks you to admit where you have been drinking salt water and calling it nourishment.

If you are still here, reading Part Two, it means something in you is listening. That is not accidental. Sit with it. Let the river speak. Let the city teach. Let the thirst guide you back to what is real.

When the River Stops Pretending. Thirst, Truth, and the Things That Still Float

Part Two of a Two Part Series

Written by Kāteb Shunnar

New Orleans knows thirst in ways outsiders never fully grasp. Not just the thirst for water, but the thirst for relief, for meaning, for something solid in a city that has learned how to sway instead of snap. This is a place built below sea level, which means survival requires faith whether you call it that or not. You trust what you cannot see. You prepare for storms before the sky darkens. You learn early that control is an illusion best laughed at.

Thirst does not always announce itself politely. Sometimes it shows up as restlessness. Sometimes as ambition that never rests. Sometimes as loneliness disguised as independence. We call it boredom, stress, burnout, midlife crisis. We give it fancy names so we do not have to admit the truth. Something inside us is dry.

The problem is not thirst. Thirst is honest. Thirst is a messenger. The danger comes when we start drinking from the wrong sources. Salt water looks tempting when you are desperate. It sparkles. It stretches wide. It promises abundance. But it only makes you thirstier.

I have watched people stand on Canal Street surrounded by noise, color, laughter, and lights, yet look emptier than a church on a weekday afternoon. I have felt it myself. That strange hollowness that shows up right after you get what you thought you wanted. The raise comes through. The relationship begins. The applause lands. And still, something inside whispers, is this it.

That whisper is not ingratitude. It is awareness.

There is a quiet understanding among the elders that the world is loud on purpose. Noise keeps you distracted. Distraction keeps you from listening. Listening changes things. So the world keeps selling volume. Louder opinions. Faster lives. Bigger dreams with no depth. It calls it progress. New Orleans calls it foolishness and pours another cup of coffee while shaking its head.

I remember an old folklore story told to me outside St Louis Cemetery No One, not by a tour guide but by a man who looked like he had been standing there since before the gates were painted. He spoke slow. He said there was once a woman who tried to outrun her thirst. She danced every night in Congo Square, laughed loud, wore gold like armor. Folks admired her shine. She never missed a parade. Never missed a party. But she never drank water. Not real water. Only wine and praise and borrowed affection.

One summer, the heat pressed down harder than usual. The city sweated. The river rose. The woman collapsed right there between the oaks. When they carried her to the edge of the square, they found her lips cracked but her jewelry untouched. The elders said her spirit wandered until it found the river. When she finally drank, she wept because she realized how long she had been thirsty while surrounded by water. They say that is why the river hums near that spot. It remembers her regret and warns the living.

New Orleans folklore always has a lesson tucked inside a story like a note folded in a pocket. The lesson here is simple. Proximity does not equal connection. You can live near truth and never taste it. You can speak spiritual language and still starve inside. You can attend every celebration and miss your own awakening.

The Creator does not compete with distractions. That truth used to confuse me. I thought divine connection would shout louder than everything else. Turns out it whispers. It waits. It respects your freedom enough to let you walk past it a thousand times.

There are senders in this world. That is something you learn with time and a few scars. Some senders are aligned with your growth. Others are aligned with your ego. Discernment is the difference. Not everything that arrives is meant to stay. Not every open door leads home.

New Orleans landmarks teach this without sermons. The Superdome stands massive, yet it once held both refuge and despair. Jackson Square looks peaceful, yet it has seen centuries of contradiction. Bourbon Street sparkles at night but smells different by morning. Appearances shift depending on the hour. Wisdom learns to look twice.

There is an acronym that kept returning to me as I walked past the river at dusk. WATERS. Walk Away Toward Eternal Real Substance. Sometimes faith looks less like running forward and more like stepping back from what dazzles you. Sometimes obedience looks like boredom to people addicted to stimulation. Sometimes growth looks quiet.

We joke a lot here because laughter keeps sorrow from settling too deep. But do not mistake our humor for ignorance. This city has buried too much to believe the lie that this world lasts. We decorate because we know decay is coming. We dance because we know time is limited. We season our food heavy because life is already bland enough without pretending.

If you are honest, you can trace your thirst back to moments when you ignored your intuition. When you stayed where you should have left. When you chased approval instead of peace. When you confused being busy with being alive.

The mirage always promises now. The truth promises lasting. That difference matters more than we admit.

I am not writing this from a mountaintop. I am writing this from ground level, where mistakes are visible and grace feels personal. I have drank salt water and called it celebration. I have mistaken noise for connection. I have trusted voices that fed my ego and starved my spirit. And I have learned, sometimes the hard way, that the Creator does not rescue you from every mirage. Sometimes the lesson is in reaching it and finding it empty.

New Orleans teaches survival through remembrance. We remember storms. We remember names. We remember rhythms. We remember who we were before we got distracted. That memory becomes a compass.

If something in you is tired of pretending, honor that. If something in you is thirsty for something quieter, something truer, listen. The river is still moving. The invitation still stands.

Part Three is not promised. Neither is tomorrow. Drink wisely.

Author’s Closing Words

If Part Two spoke to you, challenged you, or named something you have been avoiding, please share this work by any positive means. Words meant to heal are meant to travel.

If you are able and feel led, please consider donating to support my writing and blog. This work is heart labor. Your support helps keep these reflections alive and accessible.

Thank you for walking with me through this series. Thank you for listening deeply. Thank you for choosing what is real.

With humility and gratitude,

Kāteb Shunnar

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