Come with me to the river of boundlessness. Drink from the nectar of the Gods and bathe in rivers of holy coding.
Stretch the sky with both hands and leap in, left thigh first and touch the bottom of nothingness.
I want to bear the weight of a thousand cherry-yellow gold chains, holding my many names and dive into the sublime. I want to see nirvana, even if it means I gotta die. Frank Ocean was right:
You gotta fuck with me after my shift. I catch you dripping in yesterday’s prophecy, handing you the throes of your sovereignty. This isn’t simply a game, to me —
What we’ve lived for, We will finish this time around and nothing stands in the way of a WHOLE portrait, dripping in tomorrow’s paint. The future is the now in a different face.
Moving in a slower pace, with deeper grace and a field to be reckoned with.
Will they write stories about us? Laden pages honoring our quiet grandiosity?
Will they silence us? Fill our opened lotuses with dirt? Will they try and forget us? Forage us out of their memories, though we take to the root, mold with it, wherever we land? Will they capture our late night shape shifting? Trying on different skins, each and every one of us, buzzing and illuminating to the shade of: KIN.
Patience and blessings and Handkerchief’s to the ones filled with grief, the Kali Yuga is really dancing in the duskfilled sky; Many of us, ushering the end of times, trumpet, horn, confetti, welcoming it, with a smile.
Reminded when eons ago, we danced with twisted feed around fires like these, celebrating collapsing cycles because finally: we’ve tapped Freshwaters. Bridging the capacity to stomach miracles from the greatest architect of reality.
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