Skip to main content

The Prophet

By

Within the corridors of my mind, structural apartheid and nuanced radicalism converge, giving birth to an insatiable yearning for the flesh. You cannot escape my gaze; I have become an indomitable force, capable of seizing your thoughts and channeling divine energy.


What I wrote years ago is now unfolding before me, as every writer is, in essence, their own prophet. Yet, the extent of my understanding of myself is but a fraction of what remains hidden in the shadows. The pursuit of impeccable taste and discernment often transforms me into a caricature of narcissism and anarchy.


Bound by social constraints, I am but a frustrated child, starved for nourishment, while my silence reverberates, urging me to contemplate the temporal and spatial dimensions of the Holy Cross.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Dead and Buried

By
We all leave something behind—not by accident, but for a reason we don’t fully understand. As though some cosmic law silently demands it of us. And we obey, unknowingly, yet unfailingly. We, fragile creatures, live not just to exist, but to leave traces of that existence—marks etched in time, invisible perhaps, but undeniably real. We come into this world incomplete, having left a piece of ourselves elsewhere. When we first take the shape of a foetus in the womb, something essential is set aside. And when we die, we don’t simply vanish; we begin a journey back—to retrieve what was once ours, what we unknowingly surrendered. But even in that act of return, we leave more behind. Our lives are full of quiet departures. A moment. A glance. A word. Our love lingers. Our memories settle into the corners of rooms. Our shadows remain stretched across places we’ve passed through. Our presence clings to people in subtle, haunting ways. Sometimes we leave behind dreams never fulfilled, words nev...
Post a Comment
Read more

Unknowing

By
I choose the heart of darkness — not in despair, but in reverence — to immerse myself in its monstrous chaos, the womb from which all beginnings bleed into existence. I do not flee the shadows; I invite them. I slow the light, restrain it, keep it from intruding too close—because some truths are born only where light hesitates.  I sense what is coming. The slow unravelling of the world. A moment when day and night lose their boundaries and collapse into a single breath. When direction dissolves and humanity forgets where it stands. Time loosens its grip. Space forgets its shape.  In that hour, man will begin to speak languages he has never learned, utter sounds older than memory itself. He will see beyond the limits of his eyes, hear frequencies never meant for human ears. Perception will stretch, fracture, expand—until meaning itself trembles.  And in that unsettling clarity, where fear and wonder merge, the truth will no longer hide. It will rise—not in light, but in t...
Post a Comment
Read more

Wake me up...

By
Wake me up when December bells. until then, let me sleep in thy... 
Post a Comment
Read more