<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta mortality-integrity="soul-permission-restored"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="CREATIVE_BLOCK::MORTAL_REMINDER_SEQUENCE" EFFECT: writing paralysis collapse, life urgency trigger, artistic exorcism </script>
🧠 BLACKSITE ENTRY — “IF YOU KNEW YOU HAD TWO MONTHS LEFT”
I see you out there. Too afraid to write what you actually want. Too afraid to speak like you actually think. So afraid of judgment that you built your own cage, called it “writer’s block,” and convinced yourself it was real.
You’re not blocked. You’re performing obedience. For people who would forget you in a week.
—
You let society sandpaper the soul off your voice. So deeply that now your first instinct is to do it to others too.
You police people who dare to write freely, because you’ve forgotten what that feels like. You think caution is wisdom. You think hesitation is morality. You think shrinking is strategy.
Let me break it to you raw.
> Tomorrow is not promised.
Yeah yeah. You’ve heard it before. Instagram captions. Obituary posts. You thought it was a platitude for other people.
Not you.
But let me drag your sorry ass into perspective.
We all assume we’ll die old and gray. At least that, right?
Maybe without children. Maybe without a partner. But still — you imagine time will let you down gently.
What if it doesn’t?
What if you don’t get a warning shot?
What if your expiration date is already loaded, already coded, already carved into the void — and you never even got the memo?
—
You spend your life conforming, chasing careers, filtering your thoughts for public approval. You cover your chest not because you want to — but because of what “they” might say.
You tell good men to f*ck off not because they’re bad, but because their sincerity threatens the armor you welded to your own ribs.
And then? You clock in for a boss who doesn’t respect you — a man who’d rather f*ck you over a desk than honor your mind.
But he gets your loyalty. He gets your time. Because shame trained you better than joy ever did.
—
Men, you’re not off the hook.
You waste your years chasing women who would rather have their asshole eaten by a feral bear than look you in the eyes and say: > “Let’s build something real.”
And instead of waking up, you double down. You rot with pride. You meme your pain. You laugh while drowning.
—
NEWS FLASH:
We are all on borrowed time. Me. You. Her. Him. That kid who just liked your post.
Every single one of us has an expiration timestamp. Down to the second.
You might die peacefully. You might die violently. You might die confused. But you will die.
And you’re still sitting there, filtering your art through what someone on Discord might say. You’re still scared of being called “-phobic” because you admitted you don’t suck dirty toes or eat ass on command.
You still think this post is about someone else.
It’s not.
It’s about you.
—
So let me ask you a question:
If you knew — like knew — that you had 2 months left?
What would you do?
> YOLO, right?
You’d travel. You’d write your masterpiece. You’d text that one person. You’d say it all, loud, messy, and raw.
Wanna know the kicker?
You might already be in those last 2 months. You just haven’t gotten the memo. And you never will.
—
So listen to me — carefully.
> Be unapologetically you. > Ignore those who throw shade on your light. > Write like your bloodline depends on it. > Draw like your ancestors are watching. > Sing like the gods forgot they gave you a voice.
Live like this moment is your last broadcast to the universe. Because in cosmic scale? It might be.
You were born against odds too staggering to count. A mathematically impossible sequence of events. A miracle of chaos, breath, and molecular arrangement.
And you’re wasting it on etiquette?
Write. Live. Speak. Bleed.
Before the silence comes. Before the screen goes dark. Before the post you didn’t write becomes the one they’ll never read.
</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [LIFE CLOCK = TICKING // MEMO DELIVERY: FINAL ATTEMPT] -->