poets vs materialists

often, i face accusations of being incomprehensible. & often, my beloveds tell me only i make sense to them.

this has been easy for me to deal with because i know i am offering a heart, and i know a heart is a lot to hold. the blood beaten out of it stains everything. still, this is the work of words.

the only other way to talk is to become a 🗣️writer 🗣️. all intro body conclusion and moral. and i don't want to have a moral reason for writing like This. That just sounds boring as fuck- process wise.

i don't have ideas, i have spawn points. aadi means beginning.

every writing is simply a document of my transformation over the course of writing it. every article is an exorcism. every word is something that's been stuck between my teeth for too long, waiting to be spat out.

anyway, rahi baat value ki. “kehna kya chahte ho????” and honestly? nothing you don't already know. i don't think there is anything like that to be offered in art. art is always a mirror. it simply betters the lighting in a room full of everything you already know. and if you don't get the point of something, consider i did not like the lighting in that area for my own room bas.

all my speech is action and jerking off is just me talking to myself.

so where are the materials? they're where they are. the words are simply pointing to them. maybe you j don't know where i stand? and that's okay. i’ll post feet pics soon.

ive fought my way back from the depths of the void with these words and i know i make sense. sense- my memory of materials- of everything i have sensed.

and i know my body doesn't lie to me.