Backyard

Broken you're red of my greys you're alliterations of my phrase I could be a looser, dying for a praise. maybe people often assume I'm a poser, false and fabricated. sometimes I try to prove their assumptions so they stop thinking about me. they are the saturation, and their thoughts are hue to my world. I wanted to be canvas and he filled it with colours of you. you're the contrast. I wanted to look at you as Icarus to the sun, but sorry, I'm part of society. knights are bound to contract. so sorry, I can't be happy. I fear ends. red of my greys.

Inspired by the original thought of rhyse/glittering garbage, which I tried to reinterpret and carry into a different reflection. Might feel stiff but it is what it is........ We feel seen beneath the night sky because it seems to be reflecting something of us. The darkness is apathetic, endless and absolute, holding millions of stars within it, some brighter by chance, some too faint to be noticed through the dark, yet still burning. I sometimes wonder if they know what it is to shine without being seen, to keep burning quietly while the vastness around them remains indifferent. Some seem to answer one another in light across impossible distances, while others keep their distance, carrying whole histories no one will ever read. When I look at the sky, the stars seem to whisper their unshared stories to me. Their light has crossed an emptiness so old that I cannot imagine its beginning, arriving here long after the moment that gave birth to it has vanished. There is something beautiful about that distance. The light reaching me tonight may have begun its journey before I was born, travelling through centuries of darkness only to arrive for a moment in my eyes. I will never know what happened around that star when the light began its journey, what it witnessed, what worlds may have existed beneath it, or how many eyes have looked toward it before mine. Somewhere in that enormous dark, a star may have died before humanity learned to write its first sentence, and still its light is travelling toward us. I find something almost haunting in that. The dead can take centuries to arrive. A vanished thing can keep appearing. A moment can outlive the one who lived it and wander through the universe until, by some absurd accident of distance and time, it finds a stranger. The sky is full of such accidents. Every point of light is carrying a past, and I can see only the part that survived the journey. Sometimes I wonder how much of the universe is already gone. How much of what I see is only an afterimage, the final memory of something that has been dead for longer than I have been alive. And then I wonder about myself. How much of a person remains after they have disappeared? A voice remembered incorrectly. A photograph fading in someone's drawer. A sentence repeated years after its author has forgotten saying it. A name surviving in a place where nobody remembers the face that belonged to it. Perhaps this is why the stars feel so strangely kindred. They are ancient things reaching me as remnants of themselves, and I am a temporary thing looking at them, already becoming a remnant in the eyes of someone I will never meet. The stars seem to know this without knowing anything at all. There is something almost cruelly beautiful about it. The universe keeps no memorial. And still, everywhere I look, something is leaving a trace. Light. Ash. Names. Footprints. A body returning to the earth. A thought passing from one mind into another. Nothing asks to be remembered, and yet everything seems to leave something behind. I cannot tell whether the universe is indifferent, or whether indifference is simply the name I give to something too vast to answer me. So I keep looking. The night remains silent. The stars continue burning in places I will never reach, carrying their ancient light through the dark, unaware that someone below has stopped for a moment to watch. And somehow, that is beautiful.

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Yes I judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree

I judge the fish by the tree, call its drowning incompetence, then crown myself wise for inventing the ladder. I measure wings by how well they kneel, call silence a failure to speak, and name my cruelty a standard.

I arrived late to my funeral. The flowers were already tired, the candles had forgotten what they were burning for, and someone was crying beside a photograph I don't remember taking. They said I was a good man. I almost interrupted them. The coffin was closed, which felt rude. I wanted to see who they had buried. So I asked the priest if the dead ever get to attend their own endings. He looked at me the way people look at questions they have already buried. I came back the next morning. The flowers were gone. The photograph was different. The coffin had my name again. But this time everyone was crying for someone else. I began to wonder if I was dying or simply arriving too late to every version of myself. By the seventh funeral I stopped asking who was inside. By the twelfth I recognized the face. By the twentieth I was the one giving the eulogy. I told them he had spent his whole life trying to become someone worth remembering. Then I looked down. There were flowers in my hands. I don't remember buying them.

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water is wrong too thick it keeps me or i keep it hard to hold the thought there is something pale pressing above not light just pressure it drinks through threads through me i remember hands no i remember forgetting them fingers went soft first then names then the need to belong to a face eyes stayed shouldn’t have they didn’t close they melted inward now something moves through one slow like it was always meant to pass not seeing not knowing just entering i try to rise i don’t the pond holds its breath or maybe i am the breath something above trembles not wind something like grief stuck halfway it wants to stay clean it keeps taking me mist thickens or i spread no depth no surface just this just staying too long just rot learning how to look through me through what used to see as if i never stopped

should I be consistent? (No right?)

from 500 to 281 this channel has seen true downfall Icarus must be proud!! or maybe not 💃

anyone up?

empty within… this heart of mine no ink enough to fill it, none to drive away the dark such weight upon my eyelids, as though the world rests on them an atheist I was, yet now… O God, I leave myself to you I have done nothing in life, and yet it feels as though all is spent, nothing remains a worshipper of art, I call myself a creator—yet I have created nothing with a petty mind I set out to measure the world so ignorant, yet eager to offer wisdom to all so indolent am I, I cannot walk on my own feet I move, instead, leaning upon others and yet, I have arrived somewhere… from here, I can see the sun perhaps it will bring a dawn I am empty within… perhaps it will chase away this darkness

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let me cry a little leave it, laughing feels more appropriate after all, it’s all just a joke this country, its system, its education, its ministers all of it is just a joke children getting beaten is a joke their future crying on the streets is a joke this country is a joke where asking questions is a crime where asking for rights gets you beaten where journalists’ bodies lie like discarded beggars there, children’s future, government accountability, corruption, all of it is just a joke come, let’s laugh together at ourselves, at the state of this country let’s laugh at our helplessness, laugh at their tyranny, laugh a little louder maybe if not the crying, they’ll hear the laughter why not wrap money around ourselves like clothing, maybe then they’ll notice us they sit too high, it takes time for voices to reach them so until then, let’s just laugh a little after all, it’s all just a joke

There is a wall. In its corner, a spider’s web, paint peeling, a ceiling damp with quiet decay. There is a wall. Long cracks running everywhere, sunlight slipping through them, trying to look inside. Still it's standing, holding the ceiling above its head. There is a wall. Between self-respect and the weight of being looked down on. Between peace of mind and the echo of people laughing. Between a life that could feel enough and the ones who keep tightening the grip. There is a wall. It’s the wall of my house.

Yo guys I've out their doing so many side hustles One of them was making bots here in telegram So like I've been working on a bot it's been few days it's a ai detector an an reverse image search Image search is but buggy right now but I'll fix it soon but that's not the case I actually want you to text its ai detection like who most likely it's accuracy scale is It's the name of @Neuralyzerbot and yeah test it out you can give your feedback to me through ananoymus bot the link Must be somewhere in this channel I don't know

Ocean of tears dried when the lotus within it died