FLESH, SWEAT, AND VERTIGO: Lucid Rage

The world isn’t falling. It’s letting go and you think you’re still holding on but you take a step and the ground shifts, and it hurts in the hands, in the feet, in the eyes. I get up, wash my face, the coffee burns my tongue, light floods the window and makes me dizzy, the air smells like the city and like nothing, shoulders heavy, stomach burning, heart pounding but it’s not enough and I think: all this is a lie, all this is built to look like it works but it doesn't work, not for me not for those of us who see it first, feel it first, pay for it first.

I kept quiet a lot, not out of patience, not out of courage, out of fear, fear of being left out of losing body, job, house, dignity, because being left out gives you vertigo, because nobody teaches you how to hold onto lucidity without breaking and I’m broken anyway, but I hold it.

I hold myself up because there is no other choice, the meetings the dinners, people laughing and me feeling everything inside melting like gelatin that never hardens again, the body doesn’t negotiate, the body collects the debt, sleep doesn’t come, coffee isn’t enough, the stomach burns, the shoulders crack, and still I walk like an idiot, like a hero without a cape, like a tired animal that won't stop running, the world demands adaptation “be flexible, resist, don't complain” pretty words to say: endure it, swallow it all, disappear in silence.

And no enduring isn't living, never was, there is rage, not violence, lucid rage rage against organized stupidity, against systems that reward mediocrity and punish clarity, against those who call pain normality, against the routine that destroys and nobody notices, against everyone selling consolation as victory.

And you, if you are still here, you know what I’m talking about, you feel cracks, exhaustion, fear, you recognize yourself, there is light not outside, not on screens, not in pretty words, in your lucidity in the decision not to betray yourself, in the minimal connection, in the spoken word, in the shared look in brutal honesty, no hero, no comfort, no manual, just holding on breathing on your own means your limits, your fear and that, my friend, sister, that is epic.

The cold of waking up alone, the empty room, the smell of the city cutting your lungs, meetings where everyone pretends and you know, sweaty hands, burning coffee, cutting wind, nights where you cry without anyone knowing, no metaphors, just flesh, sweat, vertigo. Honesty, some call it crisis, others destiny I don't give a damn.

There are people, not many who operate like this, see it first, feel it first, arrive exhausted at places where others are still comfortable, and stay alive, it’s not a gift, it’s not a curse, it’s a way of being alive.

I lied to you I said, “I was scared too” and I lied because I, my friend, sister, I AM scared too.