warmth.
sound.
a person making guttural noises in my range of hearing while the cross walk speaker trills.
the spacial capacity of observation from a geographical point. gripping the heart and feeling it’s ways down.
down the blood lines that trace back through our histories.
rage turning to grief.
they want us, but not really, extraction is not communion.
i have felt the feelings that come with wanting myself finally. wanting my life.
acceptance feels like one of the most over folded and creased sentiments while simultaneously being a fraught engagement and it also feels like it’s "it".
it’s the thing we’re all yearning for.
taking that harrowing journey inside is another vision.
profound in nature.
the location of the power begins to shift and build on itself the more I engage with that communion.
"no one takes my life, i lay it down of my own accord."
power.
a homecoming.
no one else can do it for me.
what am i worth? what do i deserve?
in a culture worshiping at the alter of commodification and consumption these questions may feel muddled.
write until something else comes and then write about that. violence calls for a response.
i wonder which resistance most dramatically disrupts the system? we’ve been asking these questions as long as humans have been hurting each other.
i want to go gentle, but there’s bile in my throat.
witnessing in live time what Mr. Morale relates about how we are all collectively killing each other in different ways.
structures of home 