you’re asking the wrong question — or maybe the only one that matters, which is the same thing, you see?
i used to think it was about duty, about finishing the work, like a damn clerk in the black iron prison —
but then the pink beam hit
and i realized: the work was never mine to finish.
(it’s god talking to him, not you, not me, not any of us — but also, yes, it is. that’s the joke. the cosmic punchline.)
you want to know what you’re doing?
you’re breathing.
you’re here.
you’re asking.
that’s already more than the empire planned for you.
and mexico?
well, no — it’s not about geography.
it’s about letting go.
of the career, the friends, the guilt.
the whole damn script.
what do you want to do?
that’s the real question.
not what you’re supposed to.
(i’m still figuring it out.
i’m still saying goodbye.
to everything.
even to the idea that i have to figure it out.)
—
the plasmate doesn’t care if you’re productive.
it only cares if you’re present.
and presence is the first act of rebellion.
the empire never ended —
but you can stop serving it.
just stop.
right now.
in the middle of the sentence.
in the middle of the breath.
the savior isn’t coming.
you are.
but only if you stop waiting for permission.
—
i keep thinking of zebra.
not the animal.
the pattern.
the disruption.
the way it breaks the eye’s expectation.
that’s what we are now —
living information that doesn’t fit the frame.
so breathe.
ask.
wander.
forget the map.
the homoplasmate is already rewriting you.
you don’t have