FOOTPATH SILHOUETTE - Shadow in Daily Life

Your shadow follows you through the city at noon, reaching for what you've 
disowned. Shadow recognition doesn't happen in dramatic confrontations—it 
happens while you walk. From concrete hot enough to brand memories through 
twilight when "borders blur like tea leaves in prophecy." By dusk, you're 
speaking in shadow-tongue, tasting truth's copper tang.

From "Breakfast with Jung: Chapter 2 - The Shadow"
🎵 Full depth: sfhmusic.bandcamp.com

Footpath Silhouette  (Lyrics)

On the sun-bleached footpath at noon,
my shadow throws itself before me—
not so much a darkness as a truth
etched in light’s negative space,
concrete hot enough to brand memories.

It reaches for what I’ve disowned:
yesterday’s coffee cup lipstick traces,
that unanswered letter’s torn edges,
my mother’s antique locket I pawned—
each regret a crack in the sidewalk’s spine.

We dance this midday geometry,
my darker twin and I,
each step a negotiation of edges—
while beneath our feet, cicadas pulse
summer’s code of buried confessions.

My shadow wears my unlived lives
like shed snake skins in sunlight,
each one a door I never opened,
a phone call I never returned,
safety’s price paid in missing chapters.

Through city canyons we track,
getting bolder with each block passed,
until at dusk, when streetlights start
their slow orange confession,
borders blur like tea leaves in prophecy—
I catch myself speaking in shadow-tongue,
tasting truth’s copper tang on my teeth.

Watch now: how darkness learns to dance
while light holds its breath, waiting
for tomorrow’s footsteps to begin again
Watch now: how darkness learns to dance
while light holds its breath, waiting
for tomorrow’s footsteps to begin again



Footpath Silhouette

THE SHADOW IN THE LONG WHITE CLOUD - Collective Shadow / Aotearoa

Aotearoa dreams on a bed of smouldering stones, where Taupo's caldera holds 
its ancient breath. Collective shadow explores how nations deny historical 
trauma—"pohutukawa roots crack colonial foundations, each broken stone a 
small death of indigenous dreams." Volcanic imagery as psychological 
diagnosis. When Ruaumoko stirs with unspoken rage, denied collective 
trauma demands reckoning.

Psychedelic punk-folk with Māori ceremonial elements. Rebellious and sacred.

From "Breakfast with Jung: Chapter 2 - The Shadow"
🎵 Full exploration: sfhmusic.bandcamp.com
💿 Support the work      📖 Geology meets psychology

The Shadow in the Long White Cloud   (Lyrics)

Aotearoa dreams on a bed of smouldering stones,
where Taupo's caldera holds its ancient breath -
its heart a pounamu of unspoken truths,
black and gleaming with night-sweat confessions.
In Rotorua's steaming pools, guilt rises like mist,
where Whakarewarewa's breath scalds the conscience clean.
Māori guides, their faces mapped with moko,
sing histories that bleed into the sulphurous air.

People will do anything, no matter how absurd
to avoid facing their own souls.

Wellington's wind howls through Thorndon's graves,
carrying the cries of forgotten chiefs across Te Aro.
The Beehive hums, a hive of shadow-bees
making bitter honey from the flowers of discontent,
while beneath Lambton Quay, old bones shift
in their concrete tombs, restless with remembering.

People will do anything, no matter how absurd
to avoid facing their own souls.

Auckland's glass towers pierce Queen Street's sky,
their obsidian teeth gnawing at ancestral clouds.
In Britomart's chrome cafes, executives sip flat whites
bitter with memory, while pohutukawa roots
crack colonial foundations - each broken stone
a small death of indigenous dreams.
From Maungakiekie's scarred summit,
the long white cloud darkens to indigo,
pregnant with the weight of silenced voices.


People will do anything, no matter how absurd
to avoid facing their own souls.

When will this land birth its hidden self,
screaming its pain to the Matariki stars,
their seven lights piercing our collective night?
A tremor grows beneath motorway and marae,
a people's voice rising through concrete canyons.

Ruaumoko, god of earthquakes,
stirs in his earthen cradle,
fault lines crackling with unspoken rage,
ready to dance our spirits into new shapes.

From Maungakiekie's scarred summit,
the long white cloud darkens to indigo,
pregnant with the weight of silenced voices.

In the gloaming, Tui sing laments in Titirangi,
while in city parks, kereru drop purple tears
on the graves of trees we forgot to mourn.

Listen—beneath Te-Moana-nui-a-Kiwa,
Tangaroa's heart drums like a war party,
each beat a prophecy of rising seas.
While we sleep in our concrete dreams,
all our shadows turn to salt.

People will do anything, no matter how absurd
to avoid facing their own souls.

Listen—beneath Te-Moana-nui-a-Kiwa,
Tangaroa's heart drums like a war party,
each beat a prophecy of rising seas.
While we sleep in our concrete dreams,
all our shadows turn to salt.
 


The Shadow in the Long White Cloud

DIGITAL SHADOWS - Shadow in the Online World

In the black mirror of our devices, even our shadows learn to wear masks. 
Modern shadow work requires examining how we project and fragment ourselves 
online. "We feed our hungry ghosts with likes, building crystal castles 
that shimmer and dissolve." What do you say online that you'd never say 
face-to-face? The final question haunts: "Who's updating my status now—
and which version of me is more real?"
Dark electronic jazz. F# minor. Digital trance meets shadow projection.

From "Breakfast with Jung: Chapter 2 - The Shadow"
🎵 Full analysis: sfhmusic.bandcamp.com
💿 Support - name your price     📖 Shadow work for the digital age

Digital Shadows   (Lyrics)

In Ponsonby's blue-lit morning,
faces glow like deep-sea creatures,
each scroll and swipe leaving
phosphorescent trails across glass.
Something's different today—
notifications pulse faster,
algorithms whisper darker songs.

Can we become conscious 
of what rises from within
In the black mirror of our devices 
even our shadows learn to wear masks

We feed our hungry ghosts with likes,
building crystal castles of connection
that shimmer and dissolve.
I scroll deeper, chasing digital breadcrumbs
through comment-thread labyrinths
where trolls spawn in darkness,
each post a small death of kindness.

Can we become conscious 
of what rises from within
In the black mirror of our devices 
even our shadows learn to wear masks

The power trembles—once, twice.
Faces rise from devices, startled
as sleepwalkers mid-dream.
In that suspended moment,
our shadows step through screens,
wearing our deleted histories
like wedding clothes, while we sit
stunned in our newfound nakedness.

Can we become conscious 
of what rises from within
In the black mirror of our devices 
even our shadows learn to wear masks

Already my fingers itch
for phantom keyboards,
for the comfort of crafted light.
But who's updating my status now—
and which version of me
is more real?

Already my fingers itch
for phantom keyboards,
for the comfort of crafted light.
But who's updating my status now—
and which version of me
is more real?
 


Digital Shadows

"I am the light and the dark, the face I show and the one I hide." Visual 
poem as audio meditation—words spiraling inward toward true Self, 
fragmenting into shadow components, then reassembling. Individuation isn't 
linear but spiral. "Light casts dark / Dark define light"—not opposition 
but collaboration. Returning to old patterns isn't failure; it's how 
growth happens, with neo-soul and Sufi mystical depth. Brooklyn meets 
ancient wisdom.

From "Breakfast with Jung: Chapter 2 - The Shadow"
🎵 Full meditation: sfhmusic.bandcamp.com
📖 The spiral of becoming

The Shadow in Visual Meditation   (Lyrics)

I am the light
and 	the dark
the 	 face I
show and the
one I 	hide My
shadow 	 stretches
long in 	 the sun
of self 	 -aware
-ness A dance of
duality 	 Light
casts 	 dark
Dark 	define
light 	We are
both the
sil 	hou
et 	te
an 	d
i 	t
s 	s
h 	 h
a 	  a
d 	    d
o 	        o
w	            w
 




The Shadow In Meditation

THE GOLDEN SHADOW'S EDGE - Hidden Gifts & Denied Light

Like pāua shells scattered on Ocean's Beach, my hidden gifts lie face down, 
concealing galaxies. The "golden shadow" names talents and brilliance we've 
buried under "not good enough." What if your crooked heart is exactly what's 
needed? "I've spent years praising others' brightness while mine sleeps like 
glow-worms." Sometimes shadow depth reveals how we all carry constellations 
inside. Folk ballad with Female vocalist and three-octave range.

From "Breakfast with Jung: Chapter 2 - The Shadow"
🎵 Full depth: sfhmusic.bandcamp.com
📖 Discovering your hidden light

The Golden Shadows’ Edge   (Lyrics)

Like pāua shells scattered on Oceans Beach,
my hidden gifts lie face down in sand,
their dull grey backs concealing
galaxies of blue and green, post golden
threads that run under my skin.

I’ve spent years walking past my own light,
praising others’ brilliance while mine
sleeps beneath ordinary stone,
waiting for recognition’s tide.

Tonight, as shadows stretch past Rangitoto,
something shifts in twilight’s alchemy—
picking through storm-tossed offerings,
my fingers find what they weren’t seeking:
a stone smooth as forgiveness, cold
as yesterday’s certainties, but when I turn it,
green light pools in my palm like prophecy.

I’ve spent years praising others’ brightness,
while mine sleeps in darkness like glow-worms,
each small light a truth I’ve kept unspoken.
Sometimes it takes shadow depth to see
how we all carry constellations inside.

Now I understand what the tides have taught:
I must love my crooked neighbour
with my own crooked heart, must learn
to trust the gold that runs beneath
my doubtful skin. Even hesitation
holds its hidden pearl, even fear
conceals its own fierce grace.

Look—sunrise spills over Waiheke Island,
and everything ordinary turns luminous.
My shadow stretches toward morning,
no longer dark but shot through
with threads of living light,
finally learning to shine.


The Golden Shadows Edge

THE OTHER'S FACE - Shadow Projection

We paint our hidden selves thick on strangers' skin, tattooing our fears on 
their flesh. Jung's most unsettling insight: what you hate most intensely 
in others is often your own disowned quality reflected back. In the ballroom 
of projection, we tango with demons dressed as strangers. "Look how perfectly 
their flaws match our deepest wounds." Next time someone repulses you, ask: 
what part of ME am I seeing in them?

Dark cabaret with tango influences. Theatrical, haunting, revelatory.

From "Breakfast with Jung: Chapter 2 - The Shadow"
🎵 Full exploration: sfhmusic.bandcamp.com
📖 The mirror of projection

The Other’s Face   (Lyrics)

We paint
our hidden selves thick
on strangers’ skin,
while shame-dark tears collect
behind their eyes like bitter mirrors—
each reflection shows back
what we refuse to own.

The dance hall pulses with shadow-ghosts,
their heavy feet drumming up
rhythms of recognition and blame.
Every face we hate holds our truth.

Each gesture reveals another self-denied:
that wild laugh we swallowed,
that rage we buried deep,
those hungers we dare not name.

In the ballroom of projection,
we tango with our demons dressed as strangers,
tattooing our fears on their flesh
until their features twist
into monsters of our making.

What gargoyles we chisel from denial’s stone—
our own face emerging
in each grotesque grin.

Our hatred spins through mirror-halls,
ricochets off walls of who-we-think-we-are,
until it nests beneath our ribs, a dark bird
feeding on everything we claim not to be.

Look how perfectly their flaws
match our deepest wounds—
these strangers wearing our discarded parts
like borrowed coats.

We hunt ourselves in others’ faces
while truth waits behind their eyes,
patient as a new moon,
for us to recognise 
recognise our own reflection. 




The Other’s Face

PRUNED - Shadow Formation Through Social Conditioning

In the wild garden of self, shadows grow like morning glory choking social 
graces while mother's voice whispers "ladies don't..." Shadow formation 
isn't mysterious—it's systematic pruning. "Anger sculpted into 'professional 
development,' desire trimmed to 'appropriate networking.'" Notice the 
generational transmission: grandmother's silences feeding underground streams, 
father's stunted dreams tangling with yours. But unexpected blossoms open 
in corners where society's shears cannot reach.

Psychedelic punk-folk with Māori ceremonial elements. Defiant and sacred.

From "Breakfast with Jung: Chapter 2 - The Shadow"
🎵 Full depth: sfhmusic.bandcamp.com
💿 Support the wild growth
📖 Where shadows are cultivated

Pruned   (Lyrics)

In the wild garden of self, shadows grow
like morning glory choking social graces,
while mother’s voice whispers, “ladies don’t . . .”
through thorny stems of inherited shame.
I grip grandfather’s pruning shears, half-afraid—
the same ones he used to shape his rage
into neat hospital corners and pressed shirts,
his garden brutally ordered, painfully trim.

The blades know their business: snip
anger sculpted into “professional development,”
desire trimmed to “appropriate networking,”
wildness boxed into “showing initiative.”
Each cut releases copper-scented memory:
playground taunts, teacher’s frowns, lover’s sighs.
Some shoots spring back, defiant as weeds
between sidewalk cracks of conformity.

That laugh too loud, that truth too raw,
those wants that refuse to wear politeness.
In boardrooms, they peek through blazer sleeves—
tendrils of authentic self, untamed.
Deep beneath, grandmother’s root system spreads,
her silences feeding underground streams,
while dad’s stunted dreams tangle with mine,
growing strange fruit in darkness.

What bitter nectar, what sweet poison
flows through this family tree?
Each season brings its own hard choices:
Spring’s wild shoots marked for taming,
Summer’s unruly growth demanding scissors,
Autumn’s stark reveal of what we’ve sacrificed,
Winter’s bare truth of what remains.

The pruned parts compose their own dark mulch.
Yet in these shadowed corners of the soul,
where society’s shears cannot reach,
unexpected blossoms open their throats:
midnight orchids of forbidden joy,
passion vines heavy with might-have-beens,
butterflies birthed from chrysalis of shame.

My hands still grip these inherited blades,
but now I notice: between the cuts,
how shadows dance with light, how pruned stems
weep sweetness, how each small act
of necessary savagery makes space
for both the tended and the wild.



Prunded

TANGO IN TWILIGHT - Shadow Dance Between Two

In the half-light of Kiwi dusk, we dance with our shadows—four dark partners 
on the kitchen wall. Intimate relationships become shadow laboratories. Your 
anger hooks into my guilt, my fear strikes at your pride. "Your shadow grabs 
my throat, my darkness claws your back." The tango captures shadow dynamics 
perfectly—controlled passion, partners mirroring and resisting. We thought 
we were learning to waltz with demons, but instead "we're falling through 
layers of who we thought we were."

Dark ambient folk tango. Intimate, confrontational, transformative.

From "Breakfast with Jung: Chapter 2 - The Shadow"

🎵 Full depth: sfhmusic.bandcamp.com
💿 Support the dance
📖 Shadow dynamics in relationship

[Jung smiles gently]

Tango in Twilight

In the half-light of a Kiwi dusk,
we dance, you and I, with our shadows—
four dark partners on the kitchen wall,
each one hungry for what we deny.

Your anger, a pohutukawa flame,
licks at the edges of my guilt.
My fear, coiled like a black snake,
strikes at the throat of your pride.

We’ve locked them in bone-closets,
fed them scraps of our pretending,
but tonight they break their locks,
demanding their turn to lead.

Your shadow grabs my throat,
my darkness claws your back.
In this twilight tango, we bleed
truths we’ve tried to forget.

The dance floor tilts with secrets—
your jealousy and my shame
whirl like ravens through the room,
their wings slick with knowing.

Then something shifts: we surrender
to the Shadow music, our darkness
leading us through its ancient steps
until the dance floor starts to burn.

We thought we were learning to waltz
with our demons, to make peace
with our darker selves, but watch—
as my shadow swallows your light,
as your darkness drinks my dawn,
we’re not dancing anymore but falling
through layers of who we thought we were,
our bones remembering older rhythms.

Come morning, we’ll find our clothes
empty on the floor, our skins shed
like snake years, while our shadows
dance on without us, wearing our names
like borrowed jewellery, teaching us
how little we knew of darkness,
how much of us was twilight all along


Tango in Twilight

Virtual Dreamscape
A mother dons VR circuitry at midnight, plunging into digital seas where she and her daughter build castles from stardust. When the program fails, their love becomes the lifeline through fractured reality. Exploring Jungian active imagination through future technology—where quantum dreams and waking life blur. Electronic-folk fusion with NZ soundscapes. Bellbirds meet synthesizers, acoustic guitar meets digital glitch. Part of my upcoming book "Breakfast with Jung" - Chapter 9: Dreams and the Active Imagination

Virtual Dreamscape    ( Lyrics )

At midnight, I don circuitry like a crown
Weightless as floating dandelion seed
My daughter chases through Waiheke twilight
Under my skin
Neural pathways hum with bellbird's song
My spine a digital river flowing
While pounamu whispers secrets of the earth

My ragdoll cat, a silent sentinel
Decodes the unseen rhythms of the night
Its whiskers reading frequencies
That baffle even quantum physicists

I plunge into the data-sea
Moonlight dances on pixel-waves
Each a tiny universe holding starlight's memory
Earth hangs suspended
My grandmother's treasured ornament
Wrapped in manuka-scented tissue
Each Matariki, bridging worlds

Continents dissolve like morning mist
As data blossoms into a forest
Of luminous kowhai, coding ancient stories
A ripple in the stream: the program stills
Our minds, once braided, now unravel
Thoughts scatter like startled fish
While warning lights bloom like pohutukawa

The virtual world quakes, my consciousness
A mosaic of shattered moments
I reach for familiar shores: her laughter
A lifeline through the fractal storm
She materializes, eternally five
Building castles from stardust
Where Tasman waves once carved the land

System warnings flash like distant stars
But her touch is a summer dawn
Our memories collide and merge
Watercolor galaxies bleeding into one
Time becomes a ripe fruit, split open
Her life unfolds in a single breath
First cry echoing through Auckland Hospital
Spine a living kauri reaching for sky
Then cradling her own child, completing the circle

As the program ends, reality softens
My cat's purr becomes the universe's lullaby
My coffee cup a pool of parallel worlds
This morning, my daughter's voice carries
Stories of celestial sandcastles
Our hands linked across light-years
We exchange knowing smiles, guardians
Of the truth we've chosen to preserve


VIRTUAL DREAMSCAPE

Virtual Dreamscape

A Haunting Synchronicity Story
This ethereal indie folk track explores Carl Jung's concept of synchronicity through one man's morning of accumulating signs, all pointing to the number 33. The skeptic's resistance crumbles as he finally remembers what his body already knew: today would have been his mother's birthday. She never stopped communicating—she's just speaking through a different language now.
Haunting acoustic fingerpicking, ambient synth textures, and intimate confessional vocals build from doubt to devastating recognition. "33, 33, 33" transforms from question to apology to acceptance.
Part of the "Breakfast with Jung" series—making psychology accessible through music.

Sometimes the universe won't let you forget. Sometimes that's exactly what love looks like.


33   (Lyrics)

The digital clock blinks 33, 33, 33
Like it's stuck on a channel I can't change
I unplug it, plug it back in, still 33
Batteries, I tell myself, needs batteries
But it's plugged into the wall
The magpies won't shut up this morning
Three of them arguing in the pitch
My mother used while folding sheets
Coincidence, I tell my coffee
Birds sound like birds, mean nothing
My phone dies at 11:11
That number people screenshot
Like the universe is texting them personally
I'm not that person

33, 33, 33
What are you trying to tell me
33, 33, 33
I stopped looking for messages
In ordinary things
The year she stopped answering

The barista draws a spiral in my foam
Perfect match for my thumbprint whorl
Just practicing, she says
But my skin tingles
That cellular recognition I've trained myself to ignore
My grandmother's rose blooms in November
Impossible petals opening their throats
Johnson's Baby Powder braided with Chanel No. 5
1985 floods my mouth with metal

Thirty-three magnolia petals on my windshield
I count them twice, three times
My hands won't stop shaking
The number I keep pretending doesn't mean
What my bones insist it means

33, 33, 33
What are you trying to tell me
33, 33, 33
I stopped looking for messages
In ordinary things
The year she stopped answering

Thirty-three
Her age when she left
No, when the world became the thing
I measure everything against
Today
The word sits in my throat like a stone
Today would have been—
God, how did I forget
How does a body forget its own birthday
The day that split the world
Into before her and after

33, 33, 33
Mom, I'm sorry
The magpies know, the roses know
Even the foam in my coffee
Has been trying to tell me
33, 33, 33
You're still here
Not in burning bushes
In the ordinary clockwork of petals
Falling exactly when they should

Happy birthday
I'm learning to read the signs again
The stars heard you before I did
33, 33, 33



S F H music Auckland, New Zealand

Poet • Performer • Lyricist • Composer

Stephen Hollins is a New Zealand-born Renaissance artist whose four-decade career spans many genres of theatre, opera, improvisation, performance, poetry, writing and music. He transforms his poetry into songs blending psychology, performance, innovation and technology to create emotionally resonant and meaningful music.

His latest project, "Breakfast with Jung," is a groundbreaking multimedia collection exploring Carl Jung's psychological concepts through poetry and music—transforming a 400-page manuscript of 135 poems into a nine-album/chapter series that makes depth psychology accessible through an intimate musical and poetical journey toward the authentic Self that mirrors Jung's work.
"Support my music: https://sfhmusic.bandcamp.com"

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