production. curation. imagination.
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To Be(Mo) Free

Just a few thoughts on my journey towards freedom; spiritual, emotional, financial, cultural or whatever...

Random Prose [Edited From]

Kniggas be talkin’ with nothing to say. Bombast syllabus, grouped incoherently to simulate sentences. Fools find knowledge in their diluted diction and wisdom in their hallow history. When did kniggas stop trying to be the smartest person in the room? When did kniggas become too arrogant for education? When did kniggas develop an allergy for prosperity?

My body language is closed with calculation. A relaxed grimace laces every muscle in my face. My gaze opposes the tired focus of my colleagues. This morning’s weed smoke sits heavily behind my right eye causing it to droop more than its companion. The combination of fatigue symptoms presents a face not agreeable to the public. Like any "professional development", an institution of assimilation, I don’t want to be here but the principles of responsibility whisper throughout my conscience; my father’s voice.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” No one looks at me as my self-addressed question falls mute.

To appease my father, I force a quick chuckle, a flawed show of gratitude, that parallels the smile on the facilitators face. She stands confidently on her observations as she describes the increased number of depressed youth in our community; proud to only understand. Her outstretched neck and rounded back resemble the hermit crab of mental disorders. She takes pride in profiting from diagnosed depravity.

I take pride in proving her wrong with my existence. My expression has transformed from calculated to intentional malice in hopes that my low-current waves of dissent will vibrate through my counterparts and reveal this lady’s pious deception. Fuck her and her power points.