Home: Living Outside the Consensus

Living

There’s a misunderstanding, I think.
That I’m a nihilist. Or some kind of mad genius anarchist contrarian anti-everything type-nigga.
I’m probably pieces of that, but not the whole thing. Damn.

I don’t write a public diary because I hate the world.
I write because I see it.
And I don’t have anywhere else to put what I see.
And I’m paying for the shit, so…?

I’m not trying to dodge anything. I’m just hard to pin down.
Trust me, I’ve tried.
There are too many boxes, and I don’t fit neatly into any of them, so people assume I must be avoiding something.
But this is just what my motion looks like.

I’m not living any particular way.
I’m not pure. Not righteous. Damn sure not sinless.
I like wine. I like nerdy things. I like silence. I like knowing things I can’t say in public.
I’m not running from life. I’m just not performing it the way most people seem to.

Where I live (mentally, spiritually, emotionally, metaphorically, etc.)— it’s a kind of in-between.
It isn’t reality. It isn’t my mind. It isn’t The Upside Down.

It’s the split-second act of going between them. Permanently.
It’s a real zone. A space I feel every day.
It’s where the tension persists, right before we fall for the Lie again.

That’s my home.
The friction. The pause. The pressure.
The moment right before the world turns the lights off in your head and says: don’t think too hard.

I don’t think I’m a good conscience. I’m not here to tell people what’s good or moral or right.
I don’t trust my understanding of any of that.
Because my nature is, most certainly, not good.

But I do feel things. I feel what is.
And I feel what isn’t there, but it’s taking up space.
Space it took from what is.
The Lie.

I feel the spaces where something used to be—where presence should live but doesn’t.
And I don’t want to fill that space with distractions or rituals of fake belonging.
I just want to name it. To hold it for what it is.

I want to touch the thing you all agreed not to touch.

That’s why your consensus can never accept me.
Because I’m not trying to be accepted by it.

I simply moved.
But you still believe the Lie that says I was exiled.
That I’m being punished.

I am being punished.
That’s why I’m writing this.
To publicly state my existence.

I’m not a follower.
But I’m scared of leadership, too.
Not because I can’t do it. But because there’s nobody left to fight with. No soldiers. Just more brands and performances and scared people keeping the system running.

So I stay here. In motion.
Not to be mysterious.
Not to be edgy.
But because it’s the only honest place I’ve ever found.

Boundaries

Let me be clear about something.
This isn’t some performative “I’m different” speech so someone can pull me back in.

I don’t want back in.

This is not about loneliness.
This is not about wanting to be seen.
This is not some edgy loner fantasy or sadboy exile poem.

This is a boundary.

Because I never joined your precious consensus.
And I’m glad. Because now I see what it costs.

So don’t get it twisted.

You’re allowed to visit my home. We can still be cool. We can laugh, eat, and exist in parallel.
You just can’t bring the consensus with you.
Take those filthy shoes off before you step into my home.

I don’t know what Lie you stepped in today.

Don’t try to recruit me when it gets cold out there.
Don’t say “we could really use someone like you right now” when your world starts to crack.

I’m not hosting whatever reckoning you agreed to let the Lie cook up for you.
I’m not running a shelter for people who spent years ignoring the fire until it reached their bed.
I’m not your safe house, your redemption arc, or your late-night epiphany call.

This place—this exile from my manufactured and given identity—is mine.
It’s where I found myself alive the whole time.

And you’re not invited over here just because the party ended over there.

When I said leave me here, I meant it.
Not “leave me alone.”
Not “I hope someone notices I’m gone.”
Just… don’t assume I want what you want.

And when you finally find yourself out here, too?
When your consensus spits you out?
It’ll be the first and only time you’ll understand me.

You’ll try to remember what I said.
You’ll say “you were right.”
And I’ll nod.
Because I’m an asshole that doesn’t care.

So, don’t ask to stay at my home.
The one “we” agreed would become my hell.
The one I would look at and come crawling back.

Fair enough.

Inevitability

What will soon be considered irony: I have no immigration policy.
The truth doesn’t need one.
You either move or you don’t.

And if you don’t, you’ll never make it past the border of the hell you (or is it… we) made for me.

You should be much more concerned with the home they (or is it… we) are building for you.