Lights smear into speed.
She presses against me on the subway — warm, charged.
We don’t speak. Just the hum of two bodies in contact.
Look at your phone and you miss it. Kill the screen and it runs through you.
The spark is quiet, like circuits in the walls.
Invisible, yet strong enough to burn the house down.
The feed floods back. Static drowns the charge.
Are you alive to the current or already a dead wire?
You can project every image of who you wish to be and still be left with nothing but the receipt.
The darkness folds over the day, and I lie on my back typing, wondering where the conversations are—those that refuse to remain trapped inside the mind.
Few are willing to touch the honesty demanded of a man under the gaze of eternity. Not the rehearsed honesty that performs for the crowd, but the kind that burns inward, that asks tends to a question without deflection, without retreat into the shelter of former beliefs.
Someday there will be another who steps into that furnace. One person who sharpens as fiercely as they are sharpened. That is the only blade worth touching: the one that exposes what has been hidden, and dares two to take a swing at life.
The world grows dull when it reduces itself to games, virtuous or not. I long for a challenge that costs more than money or hours.
Let the price be belief.
Let the veils be torn.
Let every surplus of self be caught and ripped away by something spinning and sharp.
If these words startle, let them. I was never meant to play the game as it is, but I will find one to play.
Your biggest problems aren’t what you can’t see. They’re what you refuse to look at:
⚡️ Energy wasted on distractions
💰 Money leaking silently
⏰ Time surrendered to low-value habits
Every day you ignore it, the leaks grow.
There are two people inside you.
One who sees.
One who refuses.
And every time you look away, the second one wins.
Which one is running your life today?
✍️
nostr:naddr1qqw9g6r994rxcat9de3hjtt0vck5c6tkd9hxwtt5vy6rzatrqyt8wumn8ghj7un9d3shjtnswf5k6ctv9ehx2aqzyzfqze0smtayh4nh0595k3m8mkcszjfwe60zprff20ngj0qynncmkqcyqqq823c065pse
Honest Question: Who writes better here?
nostr:naddr1qqk526t8dp68jt2dd9kx2uedv9hz6jr0w4ez6nnpddjkgttfdckhg6r994fxz6tw943nv7rxva6sz9nhwden5te0wfjkccte9ec8y6tdv9kzumn9wspzpyspvhcd47jt6emh6z6tganamvgpfyhva83q35548e5f8szfeudmqvzqqqr4guhpw48n
Who is reading the reads?
nostr:naddr1qq24g6r994gh26t9wsk4wctjvskkxmfkv4j8vqgkwaehxw309aex2mrp0yh8qunfd4skctnwv46qygyjq9jlpkh6f0t8wlgtfdrk0hd3q9yjan57yzxjj5lx3y7qf883hvpsgqqqw4rs6c6hnq
Who writes on nostr?
nostr:naddr1qqd5xmr0wdjhytt5dukhg6r994fk7atjvdjj67fj0geng7spzemhxue69uhhyetvv9ujuurjd9kkzmpwdejhgq3qjgqktux6lf9avamapd95we7akyq5jtkwncsg622nu6yncpyu7xasxpqqqp65w9wn4kv
🃏
nostr:naddr1qqw9g6r994yx7atnv5k5zmrhv9uhxt2hd9h8xttkwannq6mnqyt8wumn8ghj7un9d3shjtnswf5k6ctv9ehx2aqzyzfqze0smtayh4nh0595k3m8mkcszjfwe60zprff20ngj0qynncmkqcyqqq823c5ve55g
🔮
nostr:naddr1qqn9jmm4wgk4x7tdwp6x7mtn94tkjmrv94qhyunfwejj63nfwfehgtfjd3hx6afsqy08wumn8ghj7en9v4j8xtnwdaehgu3wvfskuep0d3skuee0v4hqygyjq9jlpkh6f0t8wlgtfdrk0hd3q9yjan57yzxjj5lx3y7qf883hvpsgqqqw4rstpcm56
👊🏼
nostr:naddr1qqj4g6r994tkzunywfhkyefd2a5hg6r0w46z6argv5k4wmm4dejz67r5vf6xwdspzemhxue69uhhyetvv9ujuurjd9kkzmpwdejhgq3qjgqktux6lf9avamapd95we7akyq5jtkwncsg622nu6yncpyu7xasxpqqqp65wrt8quu
💡
nostr:naddr1qqty27rsdaeh2un994xxjanfdenj6utkvgcrxeqpzemhxue69uhhyetvv9ujuurjd9kkzmpwdejhgq3qjgqktux6lf9avamapd95we7akyq5jtkwncsg622nu6yncpyu7xasxpqqqp65wgjzrkh
⚠️
nostr:naddr1qqt4qet5w35kueedw35x2t2zv4shytt5dymkxvp3qxdhwumn8ghj7mn0wvhxcmmv9ujnyvrhwden5te0dehhxarj9ekxzmny9ujnyvp9xgcxzanpw3shyffjxpmhxue69uhkummnw3ezuamfdejj7ffjxqjnyvrpweshgctjy5erqamnwvaz7tmsw4e8qmr9wfjkccte9e3k7mf0y5erqamnwvaz7tmjv4kxz7fwv3sk6atn9e5k7te9xgc8wumn8ghj7un9d3shjtnndehhyapwwdhkx6tpdshsygyjq9jlpkh6f0t8wlgtfdrk0hd3q9yjan57yzxjj5lx3y7qf883hvpsgqqqw4rs5kmjdk
✅
nostr:naddr1qq0yzt2nwp5hy6t5942xsct594tk7m3dwsk5g6t9956xg7tnvd5qz9nhwden5te0wfjkccte9ec8y6tdv9kzumn9wspzpyspvhcd47jt6emh6z6tganamvgpfyhva83q35548e5f8szfeudmqvzqqqr4guhs8tcf
If you’re itching to level up, I’ll be over here setting things on fire. You’ve been warned.
nostr:naddr1qqf4w6re948x7apdff6k6updvd3rjet2dsq3vamnwvaz7tmjv4kxz7fwwpexjmtpdshxuet5qgsfyqt97rd05j7kwa7skj68vlwmzq2f9m8fugyd99f7dzfuqjw0rwcrqsqqqa28e0ja4n
If who you were survives who you’re becoming, you’re still stalling.
I’ve tried to write perfect things when honest ones would’ve done. They strangle me as I write. The voice dies. The breath stops. When I write to succeed, I know it’s trash. Every pause leans toward applause. Yet no one’s watching.
“I’d rather be broken open in the forest than intact and dead among the living.”
The hand obsessed with outcome isn’t creating—it’s curating.
It combs the surface, shaping echoes of someone else’s desire.
But deep inside, something wild waits—and you skip it because you know:
it demands what cannot be outsourced.
You move like the pulsing fingertip of Michelangelo.
Like the shunting blood through DaVinci’s dissected veins.