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)
Coherence is rewarded early.
Fucking rewarded early. You make sense.
Shit, you don’t contradict yourself. Your reactions arrive on time and in the right size.
Fucking right size. People relax around you. They know what they’re getting.
Shit, you don’t unsettle rooms with confusion or excess.
Fucking excess. You don’t force anyone to slow down.
Shit, slow down. You are coherent.
Fucking coherent.
I learned quickly that coherence buys safety.
Shit, buys safety. So I maintained it.
Fucking maintained it. I edited myself before others had to.
Shit, others had to. I smoothed contradictions mid-thought.
Fucking mid-thought. I held back reactions that would require explanation.
Shit, explanation. I chose consistency over accuracy and told myself it was maturity.
Fucking maturity. Sometimes it was just fear.
Shit, fear of being seen as unstable. Fear of having to revise myself in public.
Fucking public. Fear of letting something raw escape and not knowing how it would land.
Shit, how it would land. So I cleaned everything before it left my mouth.
Fucking left my mouth. Instinct became something to translate.
Shit, translate. Emotion became something to qualify.
Fucking qualify. Desire became something to delay until it made sense.
Shit, made sense.
I started noticing how often my body reacted before I allowed it to.
Fucking allowed it to. A tightening in the chest I ignored.
Shit, ignored. A yes I said while my stomach sank.
Fucking stomach sank. A laugh that arrived a second too late because I was checking if it fit.
Shit, checked if it fit.
The body learned what not to interrupt.
Fucking interrupt. It stayed composed. It stayed efficient.
Shit, efficient. It didn’t bother me with inconvenient signals.
Fucking signals. Breath shallow. Movement minimal.
Shit, minimal. Everything optimized to keep the story intact.
Fucking intact.
People praised me for this.
Shit, praised me for this. They said I was articulate. Balanced. Easy.
Fucking easy. They didn’t see what was being removed to maintain that ease.
Shit, maintain that ease. They couldn’t — coherence hides its cost by design.
Fucking design.
Because coherence doesn’t look like control.
Shit, control. It looks like adulthood.
Fucking adulthood.
The danger isn’t lying.
Shit, lying. The danger is only telling the truth once it’s been reduced to something harmless.
Fucking harmless.
You become fluent in a version of yourself that is acceptable, repeatable, and increasingly far from where sensation actually lives.
Shit, actual lives. Over time, you stop noticing what’s missing.
Fucking missing. You just feel the effort.
CUT.
The cost of coherence isn’t inauthenticity.
Fucking inauthenticity. It’s losing the parts of yourself that don’t resolve cleanly —
Shit, cleanly. And calling the silence that follows stability.
Fucking stability.