seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Japan
seen from Spain
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Argentina
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Cambodia
seen from Indonesia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Poland
seen from Malaysia
seen from Yemen
seen from China
seen from United States
Low Chaos Corvo reads to me as, "They tried to paint me in a murderer's colors. I'm going to prove them wrong, in every way, every single day."
Perhaps a little: "I can't prove my innocence if I don't stay innocent."
Maybe even: "I may be a killer, but I'm not a murderer. Not an assassin."
Even the water carries memory it cannot release.
It moves in circles, but some pieces are gone forever.
A fountain remembers every drop it ever held,
every drop recalls a summer that never came back.
Even sparkling water can ache.
Some beauty refuses to stay.
Silence.
Devoid of sound beyond the flow of air currents, even that may not be guaranteed.
In a space where one would wish they weren't, wide or narrow, any place it can precede.
Creeping into crevices and swallowing open pastures whole, creating a void of stillness, a grave of dead symphony.
A state when nothingness meets its final goal, prevailing over all in its grasp with calm infamy.
Heavy in its presence, like fog rolling over an open plane.
Carrying with it the hum of its essence, that any and all become vain.
Melancholy.
When you stand at the center, within its shroud of nothingness.
Where the void of sorrow met her, a lonely soul lost to a frayed consciousness.
Waiting not for hope, or any powers that be, existing not to cope, but to live by shadows so free.
(A poem I wrote and originally posted on my Substack <Esperance Mwambi>)
" Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down to eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it's much better to be killed by a lover."
- Charles Bukowski / Kinky Friedman
State of *gestures at everything* below:
It’s bad.
It’s like really fucking bad.
It’s worse than when he won in 2016 because that was a “well the electoral college got him on that one!” And this….like he’s solidly won the popular vote. After everything. After EVERYthing. And I think that’s the worst part.
Hope and I…have a very weird relationship. And I’ve talked about that before. We don’t see each other a lot and when we do there isn’t a lot of trust in it.
I am trying very hard to hang onto hope during this, bc there is nothing else at this point that we have.
But he’s got the courts now. He’s got Congress now. He’s got proof that people will follow him despite all the shit he’s done. He can shoot a man on 5th avenue and face no consequences.
And I’m…I got no words. I have to believe we’ll get thru it again. I have to. Because drowning in it isn’t gonna help much of anyone. And we owe it to ourselves and the people in our communities that are endangered to persist and show up for them.
But fuck man. It’s really fucking bad.
I know it’s not much. But if it helps I love you. Stay off twitter and tiktok. I am wishing you comfort. And…that’s all we can do is comfort each other.
March of "The Faithful"
View On WordPress
when summer lasts until september.
You think I am here with you.
But I am not.
I always forget that I am here.
Right now, I see that I am here.
Taking to you, walking with you.
Laughing with you,
The usual stuffs.
But I am not.
I am somehere else.
In the books I have read.
In the songs I have listen.
In the dramas I have watched.
In the thousand stories I have imagined in my head.
I am so far away.
In places further than the galaxy.
I am not here.
I was never here.
