The background ambience bleeds through my ears as the thumping kick smashes in my headphones—a subtle reminder of the world's chastity, of the ghosts seated across from me. The hairs on my neck rise, sensing their icy breath, the chill spinning like a fan that strips sweat from every anxious face in the room.
This plane of space is cluttered, performed. The fan can never truly correct the room's energy unless we exert the agency to break a sweat.
The first time I went clubbing, my body was drenched, dragging itself through corridors and vast open spaces. Frightened and insecure, my emotions punctured by the icicles of alcohol, my brain became a fried motherboard, alight.
The dread I'd typically feel in such foreign territory was absent—not because I didn’t recognize it, but because I couldn’t conceive of it at all. I entered a plane disconnected from modern life's surveillance. No one was watching—yet everyone could witness. It felt like every light had dimmed, leaving only me and a cigarette swaying gently, intimately.
It's a place we endlessly seek—the essence of what that experience ought to be. Contemporary clubbing can't always provide such bravado, but it's important to find the mini-clubs within our minds. I enter voids and zones—spaces of liminal imagination where dreams imperfectly reflect reality, never truly convincing me I've escaped.
“Shit.” I sharply inhale my cigarette, smoke cascading down my throat, laughter shattering my fragile solace.
Electricity floods my veins, space and peace intermingling. Dopamine from drugs surges, rendering this contemplative moment morphine-like—an out-of-body clarity rolled in a cylindrical paper cancer tube.
Morphine pulses through me; violently erupting into cascading reflections of my self-image. I breathe deeply into this peace—like stepping into a dark cupboard amidst a bustling room. No one outside knows what's happening within, yet somehow everything remains understood.
I dream of injecting myself with mushroom, oxygen, water—acidic innocence—to regenerate the purity of my childlike awe.
I yearn for Mother—the space, the sensation. The wet ceiling of sweat and bodies, the forgiving slip of tongues, the loving movement of each moment.
It’s a sanctuary of escape.
If I am to live only once, and heaven lies at my feet, then—if I must consume—I shall dine only upon life's finest dishes.
Escapism as a vice is mischaracterized; instead, it's paint on the canvas of existence. It cuts fragments from magazines, rearranging them into new visions.
Thus, it bleeds red, breathing the shared air of our collective spaces.
I look up and see a family—a network. My experience intertwines within spaces of liminality, flickering between coffee shops, clubs, parks.
Our sonder surpasses any single definition—brief flashes of shared air in life's pan. A dance, a glance, a shifting motion, endlessly reimagining love and being.
I adore feeling, moving, dancing, writing—experiencing all rebellious forms of music. I journey, I observe, I consume, I comprehend, and I create.
Yet beneath it all, I remain exposed, naked in expression and self-doubt, mirrored in your trembling eyes—a once-stranger, now shared consciousness.
ROBESON, GOD’S SON, HURSTON, AKHENATON, HATSHEPSUT, BLACKFOOT, HELEN,
LENNON, KAHLO, KALI, THE THREE MARIAS, TARA, LILITH, LOURDE, WHITMAN,
BALDWIN, GINSBERG, KAUFMAN, LUMUMBA, GANDHI, GIBRAN, SHABAZZ, SIDDHARTHA,
MEDUSA, GUEVARA, GURDJIEFF, RAND, WRIGHT, BANNEKER, TUBMAN, HAMER, HOLIDAY,
DAVIS, COLTRANE, MORRISON, JOPLIN, DU BOIS, CLARKE, SHAKESPEARE, RACHMANINOV,
ELLINGTON, CARTER, GAYE, HATHAWAY, HENDRIX, KUTI, DICKERSON, RIPPERTON,
MARY, ISIS, THERESA, PLATH, RUMI, FELLINI, MICHAUX, NOSTRADAMUS, NEFERTITI,
LA ROCK, SHIVA, GANESHA, YEMAJA, OSHUN, OBATALA, OGUN, KENNEDY, KING, FOUR
LITTLE GIRLS, HIROSHIMA, NAGASAKI, KELLER, BIKO, PERÓN, MARLEY, COSBY,
SHAKUR, THOSE STILL AFLAME, AND THE COUNTLESS UNNAMED."
germansingergirl
turnnoffyourmind
yousharknotpass
dededos
jacobvanloon
baratheonpilled
areudirty