Even when you think you can’t; when things are unclear, when the fairy tale is abstract and devoid of joy. Picture me. Use your imagination to visit me, bare your soul and trust I’ll feel, from places beyond, your word at all times as such is our bond. Always yours, near or far, together or apart our souls tied forevermore.
Radicalised by pain,
sufficiently conditioned to reject
the meritocratic myths and
barely interested in conditional freedoms,
liberal bourgeoisie notions of self,
the sort of ideas that pave the good intentions to hell.
The sort of hell fashioned by the idea that our practices,
our ways of organising are anything more than ideas…
anything more than the brain children
of those who existed in a society prior
– the sort of society that they themselves once wished to redefine.