Uncle Dez Be Trippin’!


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Love my Cowboys. Love me some Dez Bryant.


Title (optional)


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I haven’t posted in a while.  I started this blog years ago thinking it was going to be a valuable news source as well as my ideological parking lot for all my followers to read and be enlightened; and I don’t mean “followers” in the twitter or instagram sense, I meant more in the “minions” sense.  There were things happening in the world that the world was so incredibly misinformed about and I had to assume my position as minister of information to the people. Wait, I mean, Minister of Information to the People. I was a very important person once.  On top of the Minister of Information to the People position, I had the alternate, perhaps more important duty of being the By Any Means Necessaryist.  I knew what had to happen and how to make it happen – by any means necessary – you know, like Malcolm and Denzel and them.  Turns out my methodology was not simply vital, but also a bit too much to publish. When I recognized just how important I was I realized the need to “go underground.” So I limited my online presence.  Deactivated the Facebook. Stopped posting my plans for baptizing the world with fire on public spaces.  I was becoming very serious about things for a while.

Then it stopped.  I stopped. Everything stopped.

I wasn’t so important. I was actually quite regular.

Then that stopped.

I was irregular, only not in the sense I wanted to be.

Then that stopped, too.

Oh wait, wait…yeah. This is what ‘bipolar’ is.  Good old ‘let the meds flow BP-II.’

It all matters so much. it all doesn’t matter so much at all. it doesn’t matter at all. Nothing matters. It matters that it doesn’t matter. Does it matter that it doesn’t really matter? What matters? What’s the matter?

Matter. Matter matters?

So – in the spirit of matter that matters but nothing that really matters really matters I give you my latest post.

Because it doesn’t really matter.


admittedly taken without permission

Artist: Darren Coffield
Source: Darcoff.com
Title: “Bipolar”

Assata Shakur – Letter to My People


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Today the FBI added Assata Shakur to its “Most Wanted Terrorists” list. This was an absurd action – as Assata is no terrorist, but a legendary role model from a time that seems too long ago when people weren’t so complacent to their being systemically oppressed. The FBI statement is below.

The following is the text from a radio address she gave from a prison cell on July 4, 1973.

“Letter to My People”

Black brothers, Black sisters, I want you to know that I love you and I hope that somewhere in your hearts you have love for me. My name is Assata Shakur (slave name joanne chesimard), and I am a revolutionary. A Black revolutionary. By that I mean I have declared war on all forces that have raped women, castrated our men, and kept our babies empty-bellied.

I have declared war on the rich who prosper on our poverty, the politicians who lie to us with smiling faces, and all the mindless, heartless robots who protect them and their property.

I am a Black revolutionary, and, as such, I am a victim of all the wrath, hatred, and slander that amerika is capable of. Like all other Black revolutionaries, amerika is trying to lynch me.

I am a Black revolutionary woman, and because of this I have been charged with and accused of every alleged crime in which a woman was believed to have participated. The alleged crimes in which only men were supposedly involved, I have been accused of planning. They have plastered pictures alleged to be me in post offices, airports, hotels, police cars, subways, banks, television, and newspapers. They have offered over fifty thousand dollars in rewards for my capture and they have issued orders to shoot on sight and shoot to kill.

I am a Black revolutionary, and, by definition, that makes me part of the Black Liberation Army. The pigs have used their newspapers and TVs to paint the Black Liberation Army as vicious, brutal, and mad-dog criminals. They have called us gangsters and gun molls and have compared us to such characters as john dillinger and ma barker. It should be clear, it must be clear to anyone who can think, see, or hear, that we are the victims. The victims and not the criminals.

It should also be clear to us by now who the real criminals are. Nixon and his crime partners have murdered hundreds of Third World brothers and sisters in Vietnam, Cambodia, Mozambique, Angola, and South Africa. As was proved by Watergate, the top law enforcement officials in this country are a lying bunch of criminals. The president, two attorney generals, the head of the fbi, the head of the cia, and half the white house staff have been implicated in the Watergate crimes.

They call us murderers, but we did not murder over two hundred fifty unarmed Black men, women and children, or wound thousands of others in riots they provoked during the sixties. The rulers of this country have always considered their property more important than our lives. They call us murderers, but we were not responsible for twenty-eight brother inmates and nine hostages murdered at attica. They call us murderers, but we did not murder and wound over thirty unarmed Black Students at Jackson State—or Southern State, either.

They call us murderers, but we did not murder Martin Luther King Jr., Emmett Till, Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, George Jackson, Nat Turner, James Chaney, and countless others. We did not murder, by shooting in the back, sixteen-year-old Rita Lloyd, eleven-year-old Rickie Bodden, or ten-year-old Clifford Glover. They call us murderers, but we do not control or enforce a system of racism and oppression that systematically murders Black and Third World people. Although Black people supposedly comprise about fifteen percent of the amerikkan population, tat least sixty percent of murder victims are Black. For every pig that is killed in the so-called line of duty, there are at least fifty Black people murdered by police.

Black life expectancy is much lower than white and they do their best to kill us before we are even born. We are burned alive in fire-trap tenements. Our brothers and sisters OD daily from heroin and methadone. Our babies die from lead poisoning. Millions of Black people have died as result of indecent medical care. This is murder. But they have got the gall to call us murderers.

They call us kidnappers, yet Brother Clark Squire (who is accused, along with me, of murdering a new jersey state trooper) was kidnapped on April 2, 1969, from our Black community and held on one million dollars’ ransom in the New York Panther 21 conspiracy case. He was acquitted on May 13, 1971, along with all the others, of 156 counts of conspiracy by a jury that took less than two hours to deliberate. Brother Squire was innocent. Yet he was kidnapped from his community and family. Over two years of his life was stolen, but they call us kidnappers. We did not kidnap the thousands of Brothers and Sisters held captive in amerika’s concentration camps. Ninety percent of the prison population in this country are Black and Third World people who can afford neither bail nor lawyers.

They call us thieves and bandits. They say we steal. But it was not we who stole millions of Black people from the continent of Africa. We were robbed of our language, of our Gods, of our culture, of our human dignity, of our labor, and of our lives. They call us thieves, yet it is not we how rip off billions of dollars every year through tax evasions, illegal price fixing, embezzlement, consumer fraud, bribes, kickbacks, and swindles. They call us bandits, yet every time most Black people pick up our paychecks we are being robbed. Every time we walk into a store in our neighborhood we are being held up. And every time we pay our rent the landlord sticks a gun into our ribs.

They call us thieves, but we did not rob and murder millions of Indians by ripping off their homeland, then call ourselves pioneers. They call us bandits, but it is not we who are robbing Africa, Asia, and Latin America of their natural resources and freedom while they people who live there are sick and starving. The rules of this country and their flunkies have committed some of the most brutal, vicious crimes in history. They are the bandits. They are the murderers. And they should be treated as such. These maniacs are not fit to judge me, Clark, or any other Black person on trial in amerika. Black people should and, inevitably, must determine our destinies.

Every revolution in history has been accomplished by actions, although words are necessary. We must create shields that protect us and spears that penetrate our enemies. Black people must learn how to struggle by struggling. We must learn by our mistakes.

I want to apologize to you, my Black brothers and sisters, for being on the new jersey turnpike. I should have known better. The turnpike is a checkpoint where Black people are stopped, searched, harassed, and assaulted. Revolutionaries must never be too much in a hurry or make careless decisions. He who runs when the sun is sleeping will stumble many times.

Every time a Black Freedom Fighter is murdered or captured, the pigs try to create the impression that they have quashed the movement, destroyed our forces, and put down the Black Revolution. The pigs also try to give the impression that five or ten guerrillas are responsible for every revolutionary action carried out in amerika. That is nonsense. That is absurd. Black revolutionaries do not drop from the moon. We are created by our conditions. Shaped by our oppression. We are being manufactured in droves in the ghetto streets, places like attica, san quentin, bedford hills, leavenworth, and sing sing. They are turning out thousands of us. Many jobless Black veterans and welfare mothers are joining our ranks. Brothers and sisters from all walks of life, who are tired of suffering passively, make up the BLA.

There is, and always will be, until every Black man, woman, and child is free, a Black Liberation Army. The main function of the Black Liberation Army at this time is to create good examples, to struggle for Black freedom, and to prepare our future. We must defend ourselves and let no one disrespect us. We must gain our liberation by any means necessary.

It is our duty to fight for our freedom.
It is our duty to win.
We must love each other and support each other.
We have nothing to lose but our chains:

In the spirit of:

Ronald Carter
William Christmas
Mark Clark
Mark Essex
Frank “Heavy” Fields
Woodie Changa Olugbala Green
Fred Hampton
Lil’ Bobby Hutton
George Jackson
Jonathon Jackson
James McClain
Harold Russell
Zayd Malik Shakur
Anthony Kumu Olugbala White

We must fight on.

                (Assata Shakur – July 4, 1973 – excerpted from Assata: An Autobiography)



G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.

G-d forgives sick people.








It’s official – I’m manic again. Symptoms include but are not limited to:

-Mind won’t stop.
-Vivid imagination.
-Constant fb posts.
-Handwritten letters to a beautiful woman I would pledge my life to in a second.
-Mischievous grinning.
-Remembered how to heal the world. No, like I really know how – no joking.
-Google Drive filling up with elaborate plans to change the whole earth for the better.
-Revisiting, restructuring, re-prioritzing the list of targets I’ve compiled over the years to fix EVERYTHING
-Purposely leaving statements like the above ambiguous and therefore entirely open to interpretation.
-Publicly called my father the n-word on fb.
-Long list of symptoms of mania on fb.
-Singing Luther Vandross songs joyously in public at 5am.
-Thinks medication stifles me, keeping me from perfection.
-Slides carelessly between 1st and 3rd person like…

-Thinks he’s amazing

Like really… I am amazing.

Lost and Anonymously Found: Life


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Being able to place principles before personalities has afforded me opportunities to anonymously walk prison inmates caught up in an environment where race trumps all – religion , sexuality, geography, and all other ways we identify ourselves, to the door to a whole new way of life, a fresh mindset, a new, truer self, and closer to what they either identify as or, if they continue, will eventually identify as the god of their understanding. I’ve sponsored men over the years who have shared the most hateful, evil ideas and most treacherous deeds exacted upon members of the various cultures in which I am a member of. I’ve been told of the cancers of NIGGERS, JIGABOOS, SPICS, WETBACKS, RED NIGGERS, SAVAGES, SLAVES, MONKEYS, MOOSE-LIMS, TERRORISTS, PORCH MONKEYS, HORSE THIEVES, etc.  Through it ALL, I have always stayed on message and have seen dead men live as a result. Under ANY OTHER CIRCUMSTANCE this could hardly be possible, considering the ways we chose, then lost the control to choose to live our lives. Most of the men I’ve sponsored over the years, walked through the steps toward a new spirit would not so much as shake my hand, let alone tell me their most intimate secrets or fears were they to ever see my face, my politics, my religion – generally just how I get down.  Through this fellowship, through G-d, we identify only as addicts.  I thank Allah tremendously for this simplicity.

I’ve received letters from brothers who have paroled to states from NY, to Kentucky, Texas, to California sharing their gratitude, pictures of their kids being referred to as my nieces and nephews, and offers of compensation. I usually laugh as I read them, but also beam with gratitude myself. My answer, always: You cannot repay me for something that was never mine. You cannot pay me for something that was freely given to me. G-d gave you life, I just showed you where you left it; and the only form of payment possible is to show someone who is lost where their life is.

Working the steps with inmates is the way I choose to provide service to the fellowship which found me and led me to life and to G-d.

Red Tails glory…and then


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I just returned from the Grand Lake Theater in Oakland, Ca.  It was made clearer to me earlier today that support for the new release, “Red Tails” is not only needed, but necessary.  Initially I was not buying George Lucas’s sense of self-importance.  After learning more about the controversy surrounding the production and release of this film, I was successfully coerced into believing my patronage was crucial.

Overall, an entertaining flick.  Although, I was expecting a bit more.  I’m waiting for the Facebook/Twitter updates to roll in over the course of the weekend testifying to its greatness and its importance.  Oh, hold on, incoming…

Years ago I was informed (via Facebook status updates) of how “Avatar” was quite certainly the greatest movie ever made and of its social significance (I was not impressed until I just happened to see it playing recently on TNT or something and decided to watch it for its aesthetic quality).

As I mentioned, I enjoyed the movie.  The dogfight scenes were spectacular and the acting was, um…aight.  Throughout the movie, several people were clapping.  I admittedly clapped twice, once during something something and once at the end.  Just after clapping, however, something else occurred.  While I could hear several people openly crying during the film, I myself did not find a moment in which such a thing was necessary.  That is, until the movie was finished and the credits started to roll.  Now, I didn’t begin weeping or anything, but I was overcome with a recognizable sadness I have experienced from time to time.  Many were clapping and weeping at the heroics and the few sad moments.  Not I.  What caused my eyes to well up momentarily was imaging what those, then proud Black men would be returning to.  Those that know our history know full well the heroics of the Tuskegee Airmen were only lauded on the battlefields on the other side to the Earth.

The sadness I experienced was the knowledge of the hardships these men, these men who believed they were risking their lives and dying in the name of freedom, would face when returning home.  After all the heroics, the successful missions, the camaraderie shared with their brothers-at-arms, even the respect and gratitude gained from their white, fellow countrymen, these heroes would return to a home in which they would be forced to surrender the well earned title “American Hero” for the lesser, more popular title in America – Niggers.  Yes…after all the lives lost, the fighting for dignity across the world, these men, their children, their children’s children, and their children’s children’s children would still have to fight, still have to burn down cities, still have to riot – still have to play the same old game they and their ancestors had been playing since the early 1700s.

A friend offered the following via text after I expressed my sadness:

Aren’t things getting better though?  If only slowly?

I’m truly sorry for sounding like such a pessimist, however things have been “getting better…if only slowly” for far, far too long.  All deliberate speed is pacifying us.  Smothering us into an illusion of progress.  My heart hurts for the Tuskegee Airmen.  Truly, it does.  You shouldn’t have had to return home to this:

Harlem 1935
Los Angeles 1943 (Zoot Suit Uprising)
Detroit 1943
Harlem 1943
Peeksill, NY 1949
Little Rock 1957
Harlem 1964
Rochester, NY 1964
Philadelphia 1964
Watts 1965
Chicago 1966
Cleveland 1966
Benton Harbor, MI 1966
Atlanta, 1966
Newark 1967
Plainfield, NJ 1967
Detroit 1967
Cairo, IL 1967
Tampa 1967
Buffalo, NY 1967
Washington D.C. 1968
Baltimore 1968
Chicago 1968
Kansas City, MO 1968
Louisville, KY 1968
Camden, NJ 1971
Attica State Prison 1971
Tampa 1987, 89, 1992
Los Angeles 1992
Benton Harbor, MI 2003
Oakland, CA 2010, 2011…

These men didn’t deserve this.


It is So Possible

On Thursday, November 10th, I and nearly a hundred others witnessed the violent murder of Kayode Ola Foster in broad daylight near the Occupy Oakland site.  After the murder, I and another brother I’d met at the camp weeks earlier, also a witness to the murder, sat down on the steps of Oscar Grant Plaza for nearly two hours without saying so much as a word.  Just watching as medics attempted to revive the victim, the swarming vulture-like media frenzy, and police sweeping the crime scene.  This is not a post about that murder, or about Occupy Oakland.  I knew the brother and I were thinking the same things, and there was no real need for dialogue.  As I got up to leave, though, I told him simply “We have a big problem… you have my email, hit me up.”

Yesterday, he finally emailed me.  This is an email correspondence of the conversation we never had that night.

It’s all good ___________. You know, sitting there on the steps after the brother, Kayode Ola Foster was murdered, I kind of think we had the same things going on in our minds. Here we have this movement, Occupy, which, if 100% successful, could overturn whole systems. But that wasn’t what was occupying my mind as much as the bigger issue we have, and must address. It doesn’t get easier, no matter how many times we’ve personally witnessed it, no matter how many of our friends died just like the brother did that night… it’s the same, over and over again. Us killing us. We have a real problem, not just here in Oakland, but everywhere.  As a kid I can remember Chicago’s South Side, and East St. Louis. It was always the same thing.

I was heartbroken that night. The commodifying of the brother as he was coming to terms with his own demise… cameras all around, jousting for the money shot. The desensitization of our people to violence, as most of them walked around, looking on as though there goes another one. All this while we have real, actual enemies. All this time we look at each other as enemies, fighting wars that don’t even really exist, for territories that don’t belong to us, spaces we do not reap the benefits of. It’s all a cartoon.

I sat there thinking, how do we convince our people who the real enemies are. How do we infuse them with a truer knowledge of self? What do we look like as a united, proud people? Who could stop us from claiming what is rightfully our own? Our bodies, our spaces, our pride…

We have a real problem. No movement will succeed until we address it. Any movement that goes on without the unification of us, the unification of the people will only stand to create another marginalized class of people; and again it will be us. As I sat there heartbroken, I thought, if I only had a bigger platform, a larger voice, a larger team. I thought about then that Huey and Bobby probably sat back one day and thought the same thing.

And then, as I dealt with all the heartbreak, I thought to myself, just before my boy came up and I prepared to leave… it is so possible. We just gotta get to it. The following Friday I consulted with an imam from East Oakland I have come to like and trust a lot. I told him I felt I could really have some sort of effect on remedying our situation. Not as a hero, but as a soldier.

I kind of feel you have the same ideas. I don’t mean to sound all dramatic. I’ve just got a lot of this in me right now. Sorry for the long email too. I’ve been getting with some other people with similar concerns and ideas. I think we need a collaborated effort, a team – from the street “thug” / lumpen to the PhD – and everyone in between. But it’s possible, brother.


#OccupyOakland – By Any Means Necessary

Most may disagree, but in an occupation, in a revolution whose sole purpose is to destroy the capitalist system that exploits only to further imperialistic goals – of which the majority of us do not reap the benefits of – violence may indeed by necessary.  This is not about the so-called “Black Bloc” sabotaging our movement.  The Oakland Commune is a community of ideas, tactics, and goals.  The disagreements make us who we are.  Last Tuesday night we decided to take Oscar Grant Plaza back by any means necessary.  You all know how our collective conscious was met.  Violently.  The very next day, however, what did we do?  We took back our site and have rebuilt and are stronger than we were before.

I suggest a special polling committee.  We create a rubric, then take to the streets and engage local businesses.  Collectively, at our GA we determine measures that must be met in order to do business in our neighborhoods.  These must be businesses that support the communities they profit from.  Those that meet the specified, agreed upon measure we not only leave alone, but we do everything in our power to promote them and help them to flourish.

The others, the usurpers, we “scarlet letter” them.  Red “X’s” perhaps?  These, the vampire businesses will be greenlit for eviction and we will decide on best tactics to oust them from our communities – by any means necessary.  Whether this means making it impossible for them to receive patronage, or by any other means.  These evictions will not only be collectively agreed upon (however observed) but deemed necessary.  This will either force these pirates out of Oakland, or coerce them into contributing to our communities.

Short story
The Black Panther Party for Self-Defense, the closest model of what we are doing right now used to go into a Safeway with a grocery list.  Nothing extravagant – oatmeal, milk, juice, diapers, cleaning supplies, etc. to help fund the programs they’d established.  They had every right to make these demands as these large entities made it impossible for local businesses to compete, thereby taking all of the local residents’ hard earned dollars and stuffing the coffers of some Safeway executive with no investment in the communities of Oakland whatsoever.  They were pirates, vampires and the Panthers were going to take from them what they’d been taking from the communities.  The Panthers would give the store a day to either make the donations, or they would mob so deep in there and take the supplies off the shelves themselves and walk right out.

This is not a carnival, people.  Not some festival of flowers and puppies.  This is a real, working, breathing revolution.  We are going to change everything that exists as it presently exists.  There is no other way.  Big Daddy Kane taught me long ago, “Ain’t no Half-Steppin.”

Requiem to a Dream – Perhaps…

      .هذه هي التشتت تافه من شخص قد يكون أو لا يكون معين بالكامل. لقد اخترت الكتابة باللغة العربية بحيث لا يمكن تحديد كلماتي بسرعة أقراني. الانتظار، في الواقع، فإن معظم زملائي يعرفون العربية. طيب ، ولغة جديدة

আমি ব্যক্তিগতভাবে শুধু এক অন্য ব্যক্তি যিনি সম্ভবত এই ও, ভাল, সে পড়া না পড়তে অবগত. তাই, বাঙ্গালী হয় নতুন ভাষা. আমার সমগ্র জীবন, আমি এক জিনিস উপর বসবাস করেছি … এক জিনিস দৃঢ়বদ্ধ হয়েছে. আমি বিশ্বের পছন্দ করি না. আমি শুধু এটা না. আমার প্রথম স্মৃতি একটি অবমাননাকর পিতা এবং চরম দারিদ্র্যের হয়. আমি জোর গলায় বলেছেন, তিন বছর বয়সে এটি বিশ্বাস করি বা না, এটা সব পরিবর্তন. আমার প্রাথমিক প্রেরণা ছিল আমার পরিবার, আমার ছোট্ট ভাই, দুই বয়স্ক বোন, এবং আমার মা – আমি ভালো জন্য তাদের জীবন পরিবর্তন চালু ছিল. তারপর সাত বছর বয়সে 1985 সালে, আমার শৈশবের হিরো, মাইকেল জ্যাকসন, সহযোগীতামূলক “আমরা বিশ্বের” অ্যালবাম উপর শিল্পী একটি নম্বর দিয়ে. মার্কিন আফ্রিকা সহযোগীতা জন্য একটি সম্পূর্ণ নতুন দুর্ভোগ থেকে আমার চোখ খোলা. আমি দেখেছি যারা ​​অন্নহীন ছিল একটি জনসংখ্যা,, ঠিক যেমন আমার পরিবার ছিল. মাইকেল জ্যাকসন আমার জন্য একটা অনুপ্রেরণা. তিনি বিশ্ব আরোগ্য চেষ্টা ছিল. সাত বছর বয়সে, আমি সিদ্ধান্ত নিয়েছি আমি এই জন্য আমার জীবন উত্সর্গ করিয়া যাচ্ছে, তৈরি বিশ্বের একটি ভাল জায়গা ছিল. এক অপ্রয়োজনীয় বহন মধ্যে অনুপস্থিত. এই, আমি বিশ্বাস, ছিল না কেবল আমার পেশা, কিন্তু আমার কর্তব্য. যে দিন থেকে, আপনি কেউ কি Aharon আহমদ মরিস না যাওয়া ছিল জিজ্ঞাসা ছিল, তারা আপনাকে বলতে হবে, Aharon সমগ্র পৃথিবীর পরিবর্তন যাচ্ছে – এবং আমি.

এবং আমি.

পর্যন্ত দুই রাত আগে. কিছু অনুঘটকীয় ঘটনা সবচেয়ে বলবে পর দুই রাত আগে, আমার ধারণা হঠাত্ পরিবর্তনের আসল কারণ আমি একটি সাধনা ছিল. একটি নিকট যীশুর আবির্ভাব. এর সবই হয়েছে মিথ্যা. বিশ্ব পরিবর্তন আমার স্বপ্ন শুধুমাত্র হয়েছে একটি মোকাবেলা ব্যবস্থা যেখানে আমি নির্ভর করে এই ভয়ানক স্থানে বাস থেকে. আমি কিছু পরিবর্তন করতে পারেন. একা না – না সহযোগীতা -. মোটেই না সমস্যা খুবই মহান; তাই পুঙ্খানুপুঙ্খভাবে সমাজ জুড়ে পরিপূর্ণ. কোন অভিভূতকারী নেই. আমরা না পরাস্ত হইবে. এই জীবনের কোন ক্ষতিপূরণ থাকবে.

So, jetzt, zumindest jetzt, fühle ich mich der Kampf ist vorbei. Meine Träume, Sehnsüchte, fertig. Gone. Dies schafft ein großes Problem für mich. Ich kann nicht in einer ungerechten Welt, die ich nicht ändern kann leben. Ich kann nicht in einer Welt, in der ich bin hilflos, um Ihre Schmerzen zu lindern leben. Dein Schmerz ist mein Schmerz. Ihre Tränen sind meine Tränen. Wirst du aufhören zu weinen? Höchstwahrscheinlich nicht.

Ich habe zu verschwinden.

In dieser Nacht, der Nacht gab ich auf, ich habe eine Liste aller Leute, die ich irgendwie meine Hingabe zu informieren würde zusammengestellt.

Diese Dame – meine wahre Liebe.
Meine Mutter.
Meine Schwestern.
Mein kleiner Bruder.
Meine Nichten und Neffen.

Das ist meine Liste. Wie kann ich ihnen sagen? Es ist vorbei. Ich habe kapituliert. Ich habe aufgegeben. Ich kann nicht in einer Welt, die auf diese Weise ist zu leben – das war schon immer so gewesen, mit nun Macht, es zu ändern.

私は双極性ですので、私は”おそらく”と言う。私は今、落ち込んでいないよ。それがことだ。私は、新しいインスピレーションで、今日目が覚めた – 自然のサイクルを重いうつ病後。通常は、しかし、私はしばらく落ち込んできたと思いますかとんでもない実現。今回は接続しません。この時間は、私は心の変容状態にもかかわらず、私は私の仮定について、不正なではなかったことに気づいた。私の最新の執着は世界をより良い場所にする方法はありませんが、それがすべて離れて行くようにする方法。


“おそらく、”これはすべて変更されます。 “おそらく、”私はこの年末に触発されます。または”多分”これは本当に夢へのレクイエムです – たぶん。

I’m figuring none of this translates to an actual, decipherable language.  In fact, I’m counting on it.