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📓 Sunday, August 3, 2025 – 10:36 p.m.
I’m learning the importance of author-ship.
Why?
Because author-ship is your fingerprint—
No, not the one stuck to your fingertip digits,
But the soul of you.
I author this ship.
You are what you say you are.
But in truth?
You will always be who you see—in your mind.
We dream at night when we close our eyes,
And we see clouds made of pink cotton
And—at least in my case—
My dead cousin Jesus visiting me.
Not talking.
Just showing.
At the time, I thought he was showing me death.
Not his death in this place we call Earth—
But something else.
A place we cannot see.
A place we may never enter as we are.
Not in this astronaut suit.
This human body? Not allowed.
In that dream,
He shed the sins of his human self.
Was he a bad person?
To some, maybe.
But to me?
He’ll always be Jesus—my brother from another mother.
I loved him then.
I love him now.
And I always will.
His astronaut suit is six feet underground in Las Vegas.
But his soul?
His essence?
It’s the wind all around me.
He touches me.
Touches you.
I can’t sit and talk to him directly—
But when the wind passes my ear,
Maybe he’s whispering.
I can’t decipher him.
But I can feel him.
And the oldest language I know is feeling.
I’m flowing.
Writing.
Trying to transcribe my thoughts on this digital screen.
The beat is blasting from my Sonos sound system.
No thoughts processed.
None censored.
Just the author in real time.
Not trying to say something nice, or pleasant, or cute—
Not to make people feel warm inside their little space suits.
Because that warmth?
You earn it.
Through cold nights.
Through shitty times.
I remember sitting in this little lit studio crying…
Crying…
Crying.
Eyes so red and puffy,
Like I’d just been bitch-slapped by the pimp on Figueroa—
Like I was some ho.
Yes—
My pimp:
My shitty attitude,
My victimhood,
My bad programming…
Bitch-slapping me.
But not anymore.
⸻
I am the captain,
The builder,
The author of my backstory.
The ship has a captain now—
The ocean is ugly.
No—
The waves are leading me to my next episode.
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