“walking down your authentic path can be one of the loneliest roads to travel on because the longer you’re on it, the more you realize that only a select few will be compatible with who you are with no mask on.”
— billy chapata
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“walking down your authentic path can be one of the loneliest roads to travel on because the longer you’re on it, the more you realize that only a select few will be compatible with who you are with no mask on.”
— billy chapata

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Legend holds that our language was buried fully-formed from the desert sands. Our ancestors sank to their knees, plunged their hands deep into the sand, and found the first word. It sparkled in the sunlight - blinding if you held it at a particular angle. This was the word for 'dig'.
The language wasn't a flat object, nor was it buried too close to the surface. Its veins and tendrils snaked in every direction, forming a cage that contained nothing but tonnes and tonnes of sand.
To uncover it, our ancestors started digging. With their bare hands, they dug into the sand until they could uncover more and more of this language left to them as an inheritance. Wood, metal, shovel, pickaxe, love, camaraderie, curiosity, endeavour, all these words entered the virtual lexicon.
As they uncovered more and more of the language, our ancestors learnt about more and more things. Ideas that existed in a time before they arrived in the desert, tools and implements, and of course, violence and weapons. There was conflict, and collateral damage. Many words were smashed to pieces, lost forever in a jumble of shining syllables or crumbled into dust that became one with the sand.
The hole in the desert grew wide and deep. Our ancestors learnt about things that they had not, could not have conceived of. With the wealth of other words they had uncovered, they began working their way towards making those inconceivable words conceivable. They worked to make the hypothetical real.
Away from the hole where new words were mined, an entirely new occupation coalesced. The words uncovered from the hole were processed, their properties determined and re-arranged, so that our ancestors could do something unprecedented. They created new words.
These words could be purer, bigger, shinier. You could use them in ways heretofore unimagined.
A rift was formed between those who created and used these artificial words, and those who worshipped the words in the desert. After all, if the language was fully-formed, there was no need to create new words. The right words only have to be found. They would occur naturally.
Further problems emerged as artificial words were passed off as natural discoveries. One perpetrator of such fraud was unrepentant about his actions. "This word, when found, will be of the exact same composition as the artificial word. So what difference does it make if we use it now, before it has been uncovered?"
No one knew the true extent of the language. Did it stretch across the entirety of the desert, or perhaps comprise the entire sphere that formed the planet? These thoughts, which could not have been put to words once, were now on the lips of every citizen.
These speculations eventually caused the digging to slow down. Did we really need more words? The sand reclaimed the hole. And now, the language lies buried so deep, that if you were to start digging now, it would take years to find the first new word.
Take away my soul.. Make me numb to pain.. Tell me what to do.. Because I’m going insane.. I have nowhere to run... So i'll just try to hide.. And you can find your closure.. In my lying eyes..
Take away these memories.. I don't want to remember.. Every word you said.. That ended with forever.. I’m losing my mind.. I’m losing my way.. And you can find your closure.. In the smile upon my face..
Take away these feelings.. Don’t let them rot my heart.. I’m in a state of slow decay.. Inevitably falling apart.. I’m losing my will to continue.. I’m encapsulated in this fear.. And you can find your closure.. When I’m no longer here..
I put too much pressure on myself to write the most elaborate, thought-out ideas that can span multiple generations of ideas and because I struggle with perfectionism I basically never get anything done.
I decided to try and just write
It feels daunting, somehow, just to write and not come up with the biggest, most elaborate idea ever, but I'm gonna try it and actually have some stuff for you all to read finally.
No.
The circle is closed.

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i am the "figure it out yourself"
the "dry your tears up", the "muster
your courage" daughter
who was used to being left alone
to navigate her pains and fears
never complained, never questioned
why she needed to grow up
sooner than her peers
to the world, i was just a child
who needed protection,
needed warmth and comfort,
needed to be mothered
but to you, i was the "up to no good",
the "ungrateful", the "won't make it
on her own" daughter
because i put up boundaries
your adult ego refused
to respect
-katie, 20:31
Your Name in the Air
It wasn't me who said it.
It was simply there
between the smoke and the rain.
And the sound of a spoon
from the small shop next door.
My tongue knew its shape
before my mind could stop it.
That is how something loved
works inside the body.
Quietly,
without goodbye,
without asking
whether you are ready.
The air holds nothing.
But my chest holds everything.
Every time your name passes through,
it presses something in there.
That has no name
in any dictionary.
Tonight the wind comes from the west.
Your name came with it
from whatever city,
from whatever mouth.
And I am here
not saying it.
Only feeling it pass.
Like someone
who is learning to let go
by staying still,
when what they've released
touches their shoulder
one more time.
You are not here.
But your name
has taken a place
in the corner of this room.
As if it has the right.
And I have not asked it to leave.
There is something heavier
than loss,
when what is lost
still leaves its weight.
In this mattress.
In this cup.
In the pause before I answer
someone else's question.
Someone asked me earlier,
“Are you okay?”
I said yes.
Your name passed through
the spaces between
those letters.
What no one teaches you
about longing is
it does not arrive large.
It arrives small.
The size of your silence before sleep.
The size of a radio jingle
slightly off-key.
The size of a detergent scent
that isn't yours.
But somehow
feels like home.
I no longer say your name
out loud.
But my body
still says it
in its own way.
A heartbeat slightly different,
a breath slightly held,
a hand that stops briefly
in the middle
of doing something else.
Perhaps this is how it goes.
Your name in the air,
me beneath it.
Not waiting,
or forgetting.
Only standing inside
a life that keeps moving.
Learning that
some things don't need to be finished
for you to go on.
*:..。o○ ○o。..:*