The Conscientious Observer

God created pain and suffering so we can be able to rejoice in the ecstatic feeling of healing. I feel amazing right now.

Amidst the futility of life, pray you have those to carry you out of your bed if you can't move.

My piece, "My Head is Empty" has made it to the first edition of MAC's magazine.

📝 Check out this poem by your fellow Pauler Kaleb Asfaw (C1 major) On page 14 of MAC Megazine Volume 1!!! 👉 If you also want your work to be displayed on one of the various corners of the megazine this is your chance cause we are accepting submissions for MAC Megazine Volume 2!!📣📣 ✨Don't hesitate to send your submissions to @ERMIBossramos or @justruh. ✨You can check out the description of each corners at https://t.me/macstpoul

Merry Christmas, folks. ☦️

Dead Hounds Dead hounds Laid out on the red grounds Dead hounds laid down everywhere We can go pound for pound And I can swear They were the same strays that barked at me as I crossed their unmarked territories. Dead hounds, Laid down on the red grounds Underneath the grey clouds. Grey clouds in October's midst What the fuck happened to you, Addis? Your skies used to be clear this time of year, but that no longer is the case now, miss. I hear barks everywhere but when I head out, I ain't see no loud bitch, Except the stench from the hounds Who all happened to be dead now, bitch. Dead hounds, grey clouds, Red crowns, make proud men wash their hands from the blood that ain't dissolved by water. Takes you motherfuckers years to learn that these problems ain't solved by murder of identities, the only intangible things you can offer. ውስጡ ግብዝ ሆኖ ውጪው ፈጣሪን የፈራ እንዲመስልለት እድፍ ልብሱን አጥኖት በአቧራ፣ ጽሀይ ስትጠልቅለት፣ ሲለው ያን ዳንኪራ፣ ዕብሪተኛ አንደበቱ፣ ሲነዛ ያንን ጉራ፣ ሲነጋ ሚያፍርበትን፣ ሌት ሙሉ ሲያቅራራ፣ ሽንፈት መዋረዱን “ድል” ብሎ ሲያብራራ ያድርና፣ ይነሳል፣ “እንደው ባይኖርስ?” ለሚያስብለው ደመወዙ ሊሰራ። Earthquakes splitting my land, from December all the way to January. Tell me the things you like and I can use them as a litmus paper to test your proximity, towards the ways of your own purgatory. Love letters written by Times New Roman, so corporate, the tired brute woman incorporates verbal violence to her ever-growing repertoire, skillsets that ensure the recipe to everlasting loneliness. Fierce and blue lights, piercing through eyes, too strong for the lenses, true songs of expenses, being sang to the masses, but unheard and neglected. Blue lights, through eyes, yet this herd ain’t selected. Too many herds, too little packs, one dagger, one sword, can have them all stacked. “Sadness prevails, hopelessness rules. For how many days will this hell ensue?” I ask myself before saying what is long overdue. I got my family on sight, my niggas too on my side long since my mind been set right. Sadness won’t prevail when simplicity ensues. And if a cup of coffee as well as a good laugh with the ones I love is enough for me to break a fucking smile, then on God, this is living, on God, this is living, on God, this is living. Dead hounds laid out on the red grounds, and overfed clowns taking pride from red crowns, dressed in blood they have to wash off their hands every night won’t derail me from finding my joy in spite. And if the pups of the dead breathe life… And when the pups of the dead breathe life, then I have every reason to seek strife, do you get it? Hell, every season breeds triumph, if we let it.

All can be fixed, some mistakes can be avoided, and our sins can be nullified and voided if we own them and voice them to the right ears of a single entity existing as a trinity. You always taught me that, but I failed to listen, and had to learn the hard way, with calloused lungs and a broken heart, but still, I learned. As I ponder on this, I sense my legs tingling to embrace you in euphoria. I’ve lived in the past, even though you taught me to only use it to pave a pretty road once I start moving forward. Reminiscing on these lessons made me come to the realization that the question begged from that 7-minute-long letter, the one written in plea for your forgiveness, can be answered with four words: Nothing but youthful naivete.

Dear Forest, My old friend. How do your leaves reside, as do your snakes and your primates, your primal people alongside their readymade snares, the hungry panthers and the weary herbivores with ginormous antlers, as well as the birds soaring on your tree tops and the worms writhing on your bed? I hope and pray you are doing fine. The city? It is, busy, to say the least. But I have to keep living there so as to fulfill my broken promises. That one letter I sent you, do you remember that? It feels like ages ago but I remember it like yesterday. I’ve been loyal to your cause, but for the same reason why mirrors shouldn’t exist everywhere, I looked too deep within, and felt like a reprobate. I’d be a hypocrite if I said I never sinned, but did you feel like I turned my back on you as much as I felt like I did? Did you feel as though I burnt your trees, cut everything down to smithereens, when all I have done was nothing but exist within your premises before leaving eventually? Or am I the one with Alzheimer’s, the one who kept a blind eye and a deaf ear to all my past transgressions? Regardless, tolerance and apathy are symptoms of a dying entity, the greatest act of hate man dares showcase, and therefore, I may have had a point. In hating myself! And I did that a lot, before I learned otherwise before I was able to cut ties with these old habits. You are the only thing, capable of sheltering me from the opening of the Pandora’s Box that caused bedlam, after bedlam, after bedlam within my life. You are the Golden Fleece I always wait for gleefully, even though you are always next to me. The big question now, however, lies in the fact whether you are part of this reality. And if not, I need to know why I was sending you a letter full of self-pitying apologies. Last time I wrote you, I was in my own purgatory. Hell is when you repeatedly, damn yourself to a fate beyond your hands. I was in the undertow, unaware of where to go, unaware of how to grow, and rise amidst all of it. I’m disillusioned, jaded, disjointed and faded from things I have to accept, and guess what? I did. For long, it goes on. And it’s the same process that my naïve mind back then thought was completely over. No, no, no, no. Haha. It was only the beginning. Everything we deem as existence, is an ongoing cycle of events so rowdy and vicious, yet too addicting for us to accept the day we leave it. Same bloody process, but sub-zero progress within our species. Haha. I betrayed you with some of my actions, yes. For long, I was lost, but I am forever grateful I begged your forgiveness, as the other option was taking you for granted and coming back like nothing ever happened. Lord forbid! What a shame that would have been! But we mustn’t forget that I am one of you, I was raised from the depths of my youth, and still I reside here, if not by flesh, by mind. Forest? Was your harsh condition tentative? There was never a day I felt more afraid as the one when I saw a blizzard rain, rain, and then rain some more. Is it all part of nature? Or was it my offense? Did your warmth return because I made amends? Or did it do so as it was always part of the process? Everyone is asleep as I write these. And so, I need a moment of silence, The calm before the storm of words that exude nothing but violence, towards my once guilty conscience is upon the ever-present audience. I’ve placed the blame on everything including myself. But it was fruitless, so damn worthless. You always taught me I was futile but my young mind thought that I had no worth, even though you also said two things can be true at once. I failed to connect the dots, thus, I made lines that lacked congruence, and the bridge I thought I’d made broke down and all turned to a mess.

This is me bowing out btw. (I'm not but anything to get your attention eh? Lol. Haha). Y'all better watch this or else🔪

For the past three-and-a-half years, I have been creating different works under the pen name, The Conscientious Observer, in short “The Observer”. Apart from being a character, The Observer was a storyline where I could look within and build basis to my thoughts. The earlier days of this storyline were rough both literarily and personally. 3 years and a week back from now, I wrote part one of “My Friend, The Forest,” to express how I could no longer bear the burden of life and writing. I was at the lowest I had ever been internally. It was hell on earth. And at the time of writing it, I never thought I would ever return to the pen again. I got back 5 months later lmfao. The forest, for me, is my conscience. It was where I lived, and when I first addressed the forest (aka my conscience), I believed I had betrayed it. I felt homeless although I had a roof above me. After writing, reciting, and recording this piece, I absolutely cut off all things writing for 5 full months, and even after getting back, I did not bother look back at this piece. But I always felt as though there was something I did not address, and that was the question I asked on the final part of part one of “My Friend the Forest”. And some months back, I decided it was time. And what fitting way to end a story? These years have been awesome for me, as a person and a writer. It helped me define myself through writing, while at the same time, separating the part of me that writes to me as a person. I would like to express massive thanks to everyone who has followed me on this journey. መድኃኔአለም አብዝቶ ይስጣችሁ። So, without further ado, I present to you the final piece to The Conscientious Observer’s 3-year storyline: My Friend the Forest, Part 2.

The tale of the Saxon and the Roman “There is enough treachery, hatred, violence, Absurdity in the average human being To supply any given army on any given day. AND The Best At Murder Are Those Who Preach Against It. And The Best At Hate Are Those Who Preach LOVE AND THE BEST AT WAR --FINALLY--ARE THOSE WHO PREACH PEACE” [From Bukowski ‘The Genius of the Crowd’ First Stanza] Thorn on my back Thorn on my side. I’ll turn a blind eye, and deaf ears to your screeches and outcries. I’m not your savior, so, turn your head elsewhere. Do yourself a favor. Do your family a favor. Do your nation a favor. Do your god a favor. Thorn on my back, Thorn on my side, Announce death to the beautiful bride, Tell her there’s no longer her armor and pride, Tell her to leave her stable reside at this very moment. Because I’m tearing this place apart, I’m burning bridges, I’m stealing riches, just to watch them extirpated by the campfire I lit up. That’s what you get for having what I don’t, when all you have less is the might that I possess. Thorn on my back, Thorn on my side, I planted it on my own, But I’ll point my fingers at you. “It was not part of their blood, It came to them very late, With long arrears to make good, When the Saxon began to hate.” [First stanza of Kipling’s ‘The Wrath of the Awakened Saxon’] And hate, he will, Until it be his demise. You! Cleanse yourself, you’ve been vagabonding with those whose tribe will spit on your face. Cleanse yourself well. The water and soap are over there. Nobody is your friend in this land. No one will give you food. No one will give you water. Nor will they provide shelter. You’re not one of them, Nor will you ever be. They will take your land and everything you claim a heritage, markers of your renaissance will be theirs to hell with your history to hell with your identity. They will take all that is yours, and close the doors when you seek retribution. Their museums will be full of all the things you thought you owned. You are theirs, but they will drop you at the nearest inconvenience. You are theirs, but they will drop you when there’s disservice to your presence You are like their dogs, Except their dogs get fed. You are like their dogs, Except their dogs receive affection, You are like their dogs, Excepts their dogs are deemed companions, You are like their dogs, Except their dogs’ lives are guarded You are like their dogs, Except their dogs’ lives are more honored than yours will ever be. Me and the Saxon feel the same rage, but me and him are on differing pages. Me and the Saxon feel the same wrath, but me and him will never cross the same path. We are congregated on different time loops, as we should, and as we ought to.

Fallen Angels Dragged reputation. I’m the monster in my worst perpetrators’ fairytales. Fallen angels guiding me with their wings from all that is bright Clear skies, yellow sun, yet my eyes tell me it’s dark and my skin says it is too cold. Dragged reputation, I’m the villain in my worst perpetrators’ storylines. A supposed walk in the park becomes one in the valley of the shadow of death overnight. I fear no evil despite, but I feel things I despise. Biles and blood Biles and blood Biles and blood Biles and blood Biles and blood. I see them, I sense 'em. I hear a violin thud like it's held by a violent thug. It begins to play a note about the sorrows of my soul. I’m yet to know what is next that follows, but what I do know is that this has been going on for too long for me to not wanna break each of these fallen angels’ goddamn wings.

Original Lies and Damnati Praevalebunt. Live at Atmosphere.

Hypovolemia Recibi un correo electronico del destino, pero no me siento lo suficientemente preparado para abrirlo. The sun hits the ground perpendicularly. The vertex of my head absorbs its light, but my mind is still empty and not as bright as I thought it’d be. My black shirt absorbs its heat. Yet I still feel… Cold. The walk back home feels a tad bit longer than it used to. Yet I still walk. Sitting upright feels more of a chore lately. Yet I still sit with no hint of slouching. My heart beats, My skin bleeds. My heart beats My skin bleeds. My heart beats My skin bleeds. Yet I still walk. Your embrace is something I can recall to this day. The moment before the inevitable happens, the tension but the certainty amidst it. These are the things that make me wish death upon my memory but part of me preserves it. Does all of me deserve it? I doubt it. But I sense the remnants of memories I had with you lurking around within me. My heart beats, in a feebler manner this time. My skin bleeds, more profusely this time. And blood is soaked on my black shirt. I ask if those around me can see it, They say they can’t. Maybe I’m imagining things. Regardless, I still bleed and my consciousness is seemingly fading away. And as it do, my long-lost twin would appear. He looks at me, apathetically. As if he is my enemy. As if he is my nemesis. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t listen he just stares, nonchalantly. I head away from him, he calmly follows suit. I head North, hoping its lights guide me that was then he chose to speak, “The Northern Lights won’t save you once you let things head South,” and that was when I knew I took it this far, I close my eyes, accepting my fate, allowing my evil look alike to take me into the abyss. Before I know my, consciousness disappears, and so, I can’t speak of what happened after I passed out. I awaken, thankfully Or unfortunately, you decide. Surrounded by those next to me prior to the incident. My bleeding stopped, My heart beats, This time normally. But the memories I had with you, they remain. And my mind would remain empty but for those wretched fibers. I now know you were the worst for me, but I remember the days when my mind thought you were the best thing about me. In hindsight, this gave me an insight to how recovered addicts be when exposed to what they used to take. I look around, I see my evil twin. He smirks. This cunt doesn’t know the torment he put me through, but I don’t blame him at all. After all, he’s here, not to kill my memories of what happened, but of the good things I felt from taking in the forbidden fruit. He seems like a great guy. I might let him in for coffee or tea one of these days. He’s probably better that what you would have been... Had I let you back in.

"When I show up at the gates of Hell I'm gonna walk up to the fallen star and take his horns When the pigs throw me in jail, I'll annihilate the walls that keep me in" Type shit I be on when I lock in (AKA 24/7)

Freed from the shackles of prolonged exam stress. God is great.

The Windy Oracle