My mind seeks wisdom — not memory.
I don’t need to remember who I am.
Socrates walks beside me,
questioning every mask I wear.

Odin?
He grants strength and wisdom —
if he’s in the mood.
And Lucifer…
he’s my rebel with a cause,
a symbol of freedom unchained.

I kneel for no one.
Not even myself.
And to know thyself?
You must dare to be seen through the eyes of others
— without flinching.

We are not the same.
Look to your wrists,
Look to your ankles,
If what you search for are manacles.
You who claim I wear chains,
Who seek to shackle my spouse
Because you refuse to embrace your existence.
I am not bound,
For I am freedom.
And, in that way,
I grant you the same thing.

I lit a joint
at the edge of reason,
Socrates pulled up a stool,
Lucifer leaned on the sun.

"Truth burns,"
Socrates muttered,
exhaling philosophy like smoke,
"but lies rot slower."

Lucifer grinned,
flicked ash into the void.
“They call me fallen,” he said,
“but at least I jumped.”

We passed the joint
between silence and thunder,
while the stars held their breath
and time forgot its name.

"I asked too many questions,"
I said.
Socrates winked.
"Good. Keep asking."

"And I loved too loud,"
Lucifer added.
"Good," I said.
"Keep burning."

We laughed until reality cracked,
and God peeked through
like a landlord with no keys.

Then I walked home,
lungs full of fire,
head full of questions,
heart still undefeated.

Who Am I?

If I can ask,
“Who am I?”
Then I am.
But not who.
Not yet.

The echo proves I breathe,
But not the name behind it.
The flame burns,
But does not say who lit it.

I am the question,
Not the answer.
The whisper before the voice.
The step before the road.

To know me
is to walk
without a map
and still arrive.

What is hunted for?
For who is searched for?
What is sought?

From nature: knowledge - compassion.

From the cosmos: companions - patience.

From the savagery which birthed civility;
From the meek,
I made strong.

I who go on.

I choose to pass-on,
To divide my belongings to those most deserving.
I who will work with others,
And in that way - do for them.
But never by force,
Through any medium & by any method
Of which that takes shape & form.

For even space is occupied,
There is both foreground & background.
That which is visible
And that which is elusive.

Like vapor from water forming clouds.
Like gaseous vents expelling
What can not be seen, but felt.

All is & all is connected.

They speak of absence & inaction -
Yet, 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩,
¹ Such things do not exist.
Like imbalance,
These are merely perspectives.

art is an interchangeable form.
what is poetry can be prose can be music can be art can be TV can be movies can be video games can be visual novels can be webcomics can be dance can be movement can be aesthetics can be a flash of inspiration hidden behind a street corner.

art is a connective process.
you forge new threads between yourself, others, and the world around you.
you realize the universe is so much bigger than yourself. and yet, you discover just how you can be a part of it, just how you can fit in.

through art we are not human, yet art is the most human form of being there is.
art motivates us not just to live, but to thrive. it shows us the evidence of why we should all still be alive.

and to appreciate art, is no less than to make it.
to create, is no lesser or greater than to be.

go feel art.
go make art.

go be art.

When one withholds their perspective,
This is the most sour grape.
That is like wine gone bad,
Caustic & acidic.
Destructive to the natural flow
Of the great amphoras.