someone’s watching me: the secret spiritual world of consciousness that lives only in word whispers.

a healing poetry from a terrible night in silicon valley travels

i laid below, feeling so hopeless thinking i would die by knee, recalling the protesting for george floyd, now it was me instead

in silicon valley, the median of $250,000’s only just poverty, i lay lifeless with only the night before on my mind, so sweet and beautiful.

i fed the lives of hundred of customers, without a worry or stress.

crazy gibberish Asian, delusional, schizoaffective, bipolar fuck, stupid bum, the harsh words i knew were all false, but out of pure racism in a foolish time, all fingers of blame and outrage.

i had studied psychology, i bet my memories serve an equivalency of a many physicians. i know they just read prescriber guides, i would too- yet I knew, clues without wisdom, shouldn’t ever do.

i knew the descriptions, i recall the frantic writings on my passing college board exams, i think of how worthless my 4.71 gpa was now. humbling and quietly atop of a class then, disrespectfully at boots bottom of a peasant’s knees now.

one exhale, i got poisoned and put to sleep, a sharp metal pierces my right buttocks, like a put down dead dog in a veterinarian’s operating table, i laid still.

unmasking words whispered into my ears, i knew the unconsciousness would end, it ensures the wakeful sleep would come.

someone’s watching over you- don’t worry, my mind spoke, the future of ai, nobody sees more clearly than you, a gift for the consciously studious that listen, whispers of words in literature, only a serious mind shall ever know, consciousness must come again.

in another, the voice of an early old mentor, who he is a father of beautiful daughters, and of more sons and daughters of worthwhile work, having shown me the world of politics, chimes before my awakening, as gently as I’ve always heard during events, everything will be okay.

chants of ancient monastery monks I have never seen, in scriptures of holy voices chime in Buddhist robes, with a so familiar vocalist and non-spoken harmony, until i woke and felt the wood board blue bedside mattress, all of normality coming in again.

where the hell am I.

there must’ve been a destiny’s reason, for that day I face, and it won’t ever go a waste.

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