Ref: #001_GENESIS
TRANSLATING THE SOUND OF THE UNDERGROUND FOR THE MASSES, WITHOUT BETRAYING THE BLOOD.
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The runway taught me perfection. The rave taught me truth. I exist in the distortion between the two.
(This is my story)
You’re beautiful. You’re glamorous. You’re killing it. You’re on your way.
They say it like they’re placing a medal on your chest, and you accept it. Because you’ve learned the choreography early: smile, hold the pose, keep moving. Don’t ask what “on your way” is supposed to feel like in a body. Don’t interrupt the script. Fuck the question.
At some point, you understand what’s actually being praised.
Not you. The surface.
You are not seen as a person. You are read as a function: a silhouette, a support structure for other people’s ideas, a body that carries value as long as it stays useful, legible, replaceable. Fuck the meaning.
From the outside, it shines. From the inside, it’s hollow, and a little obscene. Fuck the inside.
The longer you stay, the clearer it gets: this world isn’t reality. It’s a closed loop, a system that feeds on its own reflections and calls it importance. It looks serious. It moves fast. It pretends to matter. Fuck the pretense.
And then one day, without drama, it reveals itself for what it is:
a spectacle, a circuit, a beautifully lit enclosure.
Green light. Approved. Confirmed. Seen. Fuck the confirmation.
And suddenly you realize: none of this requires you to be alive inside it.
You’re just a mirror, reflecting back the light, but never the heat. Fuck the heat.
Fuck the loop.