• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 09
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we navigate this plain wearing blinders,
our sight limited to a road
and its immediate minutia
the debris, puddles, and dust swirling.

the diversions commanding our attention,
thwart what we thought could once be our
destination, and the incessant journey shows itself
to be inescapable, a storm too great to sleep through.

sooner or later we bow to the war, armour up,
the dream was always an orchid but without time or
gardeners it becomes memory,

who was i before i was made to fight.
what was i taught, where did time go,
when will i, why did i...

morrison invokes the word Distraction
to address the true nature function of racism,
a system to keep us from working, loving, being
effortlessly. and we spend lifetimes and generations

dismantling the myths the fabrications,
the history whitewashed, the music appropriated,
the television the films and its white casts,
unpicking empires mapping how magic escapes our ownership,
lands onto the cupped hands of another
to exploit.



an endless miseducation coloured north america
europe, latin america, africa, asia and oceania.

each new discovery shifting the ground beneath our feet, the foundations in which realities become,
shaken to their core. who are we, letting
go of all that we know

building perception from scratch, exercising the radical empathy the west preaches so feverishly.