“we’re faceless martyrs of this generation, aren’t we? us, with our bruised wrists and these damned scarred minds. and we’re still trying, aren’t we? one hand paddling to stay afloat, the other around our necks, clasped too tight and we’re still hoping to come out of this alive, aren’t we? even when the darkness whispers otherwise. and we won’t be remembered in books of History, would we? no, not us. not the fools who became their own enemies. but we don’t really care, do we? not when wars rage in our heads and we see everything in bloodshed not when the world is too big a place and we’re too busy trying to save ourselves and not when we’ve seen the universes beheld in One to bother ourselves with everybody else.”
— we’re survivors // nameless heroes of our own stories
forgot this was a thing but apt political alignMENT #REPresent (read: r*pe-resent) in me early writing tbh. aka when there were words but no precise definitions or when we had all the meaning but no words to name our feelings. the person who wrote this is buried in these bones even today. see: words stayed, but words also changed. or the meanings morphed, into something Word could not recognize; till mirrors turned horror films.
the One; as Allah
the One; as Selfhood
the One; as Soul
the One; as Sex
remember, how Word
was so self-assured once?
whatever happened to us,
Word? you & me?
the RedAPplE
ripening on an aged tree?
