i probably benefit from crying at least two to three times a week, i have so much pent up stress release and expression is really the only thing i can think of that is helpful to me and accessible
dystopic real-ity
my reality blends with my nightmares. not really 'unrealistic' in any sense but wholly terrifying in terms of power and force.
fantastical extensions of 'reality' not as we use it today as synonymous with the present but as more like our current interpretation of what is being experienced, pasted together from our senses. the days and night fluctuate, aware of an ever pressing possible jarring escalation of police terror- thus is the reality of agitating in and against the state.
but it expands in us. our minds reflex, our will hardens our vigilance increases. and so does our trauma. we learn and simultaneously, we unlearn. these humyn emotions, in the raw search for liberatory praxis, are unfiltered. we explore and explode their constructs as we become more and more aware of our position as products.
we trace our triggers and conditioning as we reject the performance compulsion of social and institutional norms, and then of moralism. our 'reality' becomes less finite. our perception of living and breathing and consuming becomes less and less linear- the constructs of safety and permissibility change. and revolt becomes less daunting.
I would like to write more To share more But I fear being trapped by my own articulations As though that feeling As it is written Will be all that I am
why do i want to blog about feelings
why feelings
how can you tell me treat me accordingly give me identity
when i cannot even fathom the depths of this lost the deep betrayal of self from expectation
my identity belongs to someone other than me constructed, copied and placed into context
quickly pasted together in a rush to conform to some amerikan dream a theatre of proportions
told me who i was supposed to be cut me up into so many parts i don't even know which parts to share with people anymore
fear stomped onto pavement vulnerability learning to explore the revolt with my self
and in small moments when the sound isn't muffled i take distance away from the corners of my self i let my self walk around weigh the urge of hopelessness with the draw of willful defiance i let myself feel it i measure my life away from my self i have no identity here just reflex or flexibility
then there are moments shrouded in fervor repressing, depressing
contextualizing the revolt
there are no words just air, and breath
but the scent of revolt makes the streets taste bitter bottles, more easily breakable and all the flags burn
i don't have an identity here in every moment and shadow presumption is destroyed by sheer force of will broken window glass picked off the passenger seat each bead brighter than the rest you wonder
FASCISTS?
you wait idly
the mechanisms of the machine hum your hallelujah you drink beer on a bench
you wonder, again
you feel so much that it's almost impossible to begin anywhere at all so you keep form, formation, formulation
you can hear the echoes voices in the dark where'd you go? i miss you so?
all of the mundane things that trap you rage at you your habits draw you back into the fold
identity does not 'belong' shaped by none like energy it will be fluid it will live we will breathe