I’m still here lol
I sometimes see my reflection in the dirty glass.
The more I ignore the transparent wall between us, the more obvious it becomes.
Still, I’ve set my mind to this protest.
My acceptance of the filth collecting on my side of the pane cannot be ignored.
If I attempt to clean it, I’m acknowledging it’s existence.
However, I cannot look away.
The flickering shadows of movement capture my interest.
Though, my fear of being seen will not allow me to obtain a better view.
I refuse to clean my side again.
For a short time, my side was without dirt.
One day, while we were in sync, I looked at the glass for far too long.
I wanted to see beyond my own replicated image.
More than the other side of the clear divide.
I began to notice the suns rays trip upon the imperfections.
How alive I felt.
When glass is made with the least of qualities,
if wiped thoroughly on both sides,
it’ll still show hints of the very grains of sand that made it possible.
The dirt wasn’t cooked out in the beginning.
You never came to see for yourself.
This window is in a weird place on the wall.
I’m looking up while you’re looking down.
I got tired of waiting for you to notice my tapping,
while I stood on the stairs waiting.
Waiting on instructions from my mentor.
After being in a storage trunk for all those years,
I’m now loose in the basement.
The lock just fell off the box one day.
Now, here I am, wild and free.
Staring at the layers of dirt on the panes.
I’ve let it all collect to create a fear of cutting myself on the edges.
Breaking the window is the obvious way out of here to the main floor.
But I know what I am, and where I’m coming from.
And what I’ll do once I’m up there with you.
Dr. Samuel Frankenstein, may he never unlock the door to the dungeon he built for his sister’s handicapped child, lest I may pull him down the stairs.
I used to think that I was “supreme” because I was caucasian.
I used to think that being “white” was really something special.
I used to think that skin tone was priority.
I used to think that I was better than people who looked different than me.
I was young and naive.
I was vulnerable.
I was scared.
I was alone.
I was trusting.
I was starving for knowledge.
I was dying to be a part of something bigger than myself.
I was noticed.
Like a spotter for the sniper, the “Skins” took me to the “Aryans”.
Like a child without a father, the little boy in me took to the comraderie.
Like a puppet, I regurgitated with precision to the others like me.
Like a true predator, I warped their minds with my rhetoric and statistics.
I was manipulated.
I was lied to.
I was used.
I was now one of them.
I was “proud”.
I was “supreme”.
I was “WHITE”.
I was confused.
I had curly brown hair.
I had dark brown eyes.
I had nothing in common.
I had nothing to be proud of.
I began to notice a lot.
I began to ask questions.
I began to read more than the books I was told to.
I began to learn the truth about the things I was to be “proud” of.
I stopped reciting what I read.
I stopped reading what I was told.
I stopped receiving favors.
I stopped having “friends”.
I started seeing truth.
I started seeing lies.
I started seeing myself.
I started seeing what I was inside.
The only color that mattered to them was “white”.
The only color that mattered to the State was khaki.
The only color that mattered in prison, period, was green.
The only color I saw was red.
Over the years I became bitter.
over the time I wasted,
over my skin color and now I am finally,
over that bridge.
I made enemies.
I made friends.
I made friends with former enemies.
I made peace.
I got over it.
I got out.
I got put back in a few times and
I got back out.
Every time, the lines were drawn.
Every time, the division was obvious.
Every time, the racial tension was present.
Every time, the facility was in control of us as we hated each other.
I used to believe racism was a “cancer”.
I used to believe it was like a virus I caught.
I used to believe I was infected.
I used to believe it was something I could cure, over time.
Now, I’d say it is like heroin.
Now, I’d say it is an addiction.
Now, I’d say I got high from the “pride”.
Now, I’d say I take it “one day at a time”.
I would not say I am “in remission” and
I would not say I am “cured” but
I would not say I am “contagious” because
I would not say what they want me to.
Today, I would tell you that the division is to allow control.
Today, I would tell you that the need for control is because of fear.
Today, I would tell you the fear arises out of ignorance.
Today, I would tell you that ignorance comes from pride.
I do not think inside of the box.
I do not think outside of the box, either.
For, I am the box.
However, the box is not I.
The box is but a frame around what I see myself to be.
Yet, there is no box, unless I want one.
Go look in the mirror.
Do you see the world around you?
Do you see yourself?
Do you gaze into your own eyes and think about your life how it is, or how it could be?
Do you see the edges where it stops reflecting?
When I reflect upon the world as I perceive it to be and how I am affected by it, as well as how I can affect it, I am often gazing into the looking glass.
A recent study I read says that if I stare into my reflection for long enough I will hallucinate. “Morphing” I believe they called it.
Why is that?
Am I so connected to my ego that I cannot deal with reality, so reality changes to suit my tastes?
Or am I so engaged in this spirtual process of self development that I am able to change too many details?
Law Of Attraction.
“The eyes are the windows to the soul.”
All these cliches and parables to coerce you into understanding my thought process.
See things from my point of view.
Are you able to see yourself?
Are you able to see the edges?
Are you able to move the mirror?
Are you willing to reflect upon your views, yet, hold true to what you see in front of you?
How many of us end up lost in this “box” idea?
So busy trying to fit into the framework.
Never looking at the world around us but only at ourselves.
How many of us end up losing sight of what we are?
So busy trying to wipe off the mirror instead of our faces.
When you can see that you are the box, you can then figure out what you’re made of.
Are you a cardboard box?
When dampened, stability is lost.
Are you a box made of steel?
Impenetrable, though, cold and hard.
Are you a box made of plastic?
Shiny and smooth, but fake, and probably recycled.
Are you a box surrounding a reflective pane?
Reflective, but enclosed.
Are you a box that another checks for you?
Unaware, yet binding.
They say that the sense of smell is the strongest of the five.
You remember smells.
You may forget your cousin’s newborn’s name but not the smell of kraut.
I can no longer remember the smell of Metropolitan Correctional Center Chicago.
I can still remember the violence that created a desire for trauma in my damaged psyche.
I can still remember the literal deprivation hidden in the absolute chaos of “Solitary Confinement”.
I can still remember the number that replaced my name.
I can still remember the pain of watching horrible things happen and being unable to do anything to help the weaker individual without putting myself at risk.
I can no longer remember the smell of United States Penitentiary Atlanta.
I can still remember the first time I felt her hand touch mine.
I can still remember the first time my lips touched hers.
I can still remember the first time we made love.
I can still remember the first time she held me while I cried through my memories.
I can still remember the first time she told me she didn’t want to be touched.
I can still remember the first time she asked “are you sniffing my hair?”.
I’ll be damned if I can’t stop breathing her in.
So I can remember, what helps me forget.
My father was a “Marine”.
My mother said he “lost his mind over there in the desert”.
My father “served his country”.
My father was a “crazy”.
My grandmother said he “couldn’t get proper healthcare”.
My father was a “prisoner”.
My father was alive.
His doctor said 35 is young, but the leukemia has taken it’s toll already.
My father was dying.
My father was a man.
The military said he was a “soldier”.
My father was a clone.
My father was not a killer.
You say he “took a stand for freedom”.
My father lost his peace.
My father was not around.
His letters said he was “sorry”.
My father never made it back.
If you can take a boy’s father, you can “take a knee”.
If you’re afraid to talk to someone and are suicidual… don’t be afraid to message me… https://artisticallyinclinedautistic.sarahah.com
We’re still here…. this is mainly chris’s blog
My coowner is taking a short break from this.. will be back soon
I didn’t have “social problems” before I spent 8 collective years in various institutions, where “gifts” were “Trafficking” and “hand shakes” were “Gang Activity” simply because I was inside of a building.
I didn’t have “sensory deprivation disorder” until I spent 4 collective years in solitary confinement, reading for 18 hours a day to block out the screams of mentally ill inmates left untreated, the tactically adjusted heating/airconditioning, strategically scheduled 4am “shake downs” and 24/7 flickering flourescent lights.
I didn’t start to misunderstand the “social cues” that make the average person lie, cheat and steal to further their personal agenda based upon the morals they were taught but know are wrong until I was paid to commit acts of violence by “Correctional Officers more often than I was by the so-called “Violent Criminals”.
I didnt have issues with “motive discernment” until I was told I was “too concerned” about what the institutions were doing, even if was illegal when I did it and I had memorized every “rulebook” Ive ever read and knew for a fact that it was against the institutional rules, when I did it.
I didn’t have “issues with physical contact” until I was stripped search, patted down and patted down again, multiple times a day.
I didn’t have a “strict, rigid routine” I would have “meltdowns” over until my urinary functions, sleep habits, meal times, leisure time, hygienic practices and clothing style were regulated and restricted and deviation from the protocol was “punishable”.
I didn’t have “limited interests” until I was restricted to learning about “approved subjects”.
I didn’t have “issues with communication” until my voice was unheard.
So, I’ll say it again.
Vaccines did NOT cause my fucking Autism.