Few people know the real story. It stays tucked in the folds of smoke and half-remembered nights. The twists, the turns—who could’ve seen it coming? One bright day, I think it was Wednesday, everything just… tilted. No warning. Too late to turn back.
There I was, knee-deep in the wreckage, half laughing, half done with it all. Meant to be, but somehow the survivor—named after Daddy’s favorite drug. A walking contradiction. A train wreck aimed straight for the light. And I went willingly.
Couldn’t stay there. Couldn’t live like that. I’d trade the whole damn circus for one quiet breath where the trees change color and the snow falls hard. You try to smoke it, snort it, drink it, eat it—anything to escape the skin you’re in. But the thing about being trapped in your own vessel is that you can’t outrun it. It’s home and hell, all at once.
It’s hard to be free without wings.
The spirit doesn’t care, though. The spirit goes where it wants—wandering barefoot through galaxies, chasing the hum of electric skies. Before I knew it, I was here, maybe by accident, maybe by design. Half a tank of fate, an ounce of “keep on keeping on” still left in these bones.
But the hunger doesn’t stop. It’s never quiet. It gnaws at the corners of everything, whispering more. More life, more love, more meaning, or maybe just more noise to drown it out.
When it’s just you and your shadow, it’s easy to drift. You meet wild-eyed travelers along the way—some stay, most fade. Strangers who become friends, friends who turn back into strangers. And still, the road winds back to that one place. Always that one place. I’ve been there more times than I want to admit. It calls me like a song that never gets old, and every time, it steals my breath.
The 3D clings to people like sweat on a hot night—heavy, sticky, loud. Maybe they’re still asleep, or maybe they’ve woken up and realized they’re just mirrors. My mirrors. All of them reflecting my fears, my lessons, my ghosts.
You don’t clean your face by wiping the mirror.
Out here, everyone’s riding dirty, polishing reflections that don’t belong to them. But it’s all the same story—as above, so below. The Egyptians said it. Or maybe it was the witches. Or the Christians. Hell, maybe all of them knew and just used different names.
The ego loves to trip you up. Makes you point fingers when you should be looking inward. “Stop looking at me,” I want to say. “I know what you did. I saw it when you thought no one was watching.”
But I’ve died a thousand deaths in the minds of others, and every time I come back brighter.
Hate doesn’t come from above. It festers in the cracks below. So don’t get mad when I step over you—
I’m just following the light.
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