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)
It doesn’t leave.
Fucking that would be honest.
It stays — but it stops investing.
Shit, it keeps doing its job. It shows up. It moves. It complies.
Fucking complies. Just without enthusiasm, without nuance, without trust.
Shit, trust. Like someone who learned their opinion doesn’t matter.
Fucking opinion doesn’t matter. I noticed it in the delays.
Shit, delays. A pause between sensation and reaction.
Fucking reaction. A gap where excitement used to be.
Shit, excitement. A strange neutrality where desire should have spoken first.
Fucking spoken first.
I stopped waiting for the body’s answer.
Shit, answer. If I was tired, I ignored it.
Fucking ignored it. If something felt wrong, I overrode it.
Shit, overrode it. If my stomach tightened, I told myself it was timing, nerves, nothing important.
Fucking nothing important.
I trained myself to move faster than sensation.
Shit, sensation. The body learned the lesson.
Fucking lesson. It stopped offering details. Hunger arrived late.
Shit, late. Pain stayed vague. Pleasure flattened out into something theoretical.
Fucking theoretical.
I could name what I liked. I couldn’t feel it reliably.
Shit, reliably. This wasn’t rebellion.
Fucking rebellion. It was resignation.
Shit, resignation.
I remember saying yes while feeling nothing.
Fucking nothing. Not excitement. Not resistance. Just a clean, empty compliance.
Shit, compliance. My mouth agreed. My body stayed silent.
Fucking silent.
That silence was terrifying — because it meant I could be used without objection.
Shit, objection. From then on, everything became mechanical.
Fucking mechanical. Touch landed without depth. Emotions arrived without a place to settle.
Shit, settle.
I lived above myself, steering a body that felt more like equipment than home.
Fucking equipment. Still functional. Still praised. Still moving forward.
Shit, moving forward. Just hollowed out in places no one checks.
CUT.
When the body stops participating, it doesn’t announce loss.
Fucking announce loss. It becomes efficient.
Shit, efficient. Predictable. Easy to manage.
Fucking manage.
And the most brutal part is this:
Shit, brutal part. By the time you realize what’s gone,
Fucking gone. You’ve already proven — over and over —
Shit, over and over. That you were willing to live without it.
Fucking without it.