Stream of Consciousness
The soulless face the world sees often hides a turbulent, ambiguous, daunting, sometimes beautiful, sometimes a madhouse world within.
She, like many a woman beautiful in all the right places, with hair as dark as clotted blood, born of two races, belonged to nowhere. She knew from quiet earlier on that in a world so big, with fringes, mountains, and hills, you could never truly know what misfortune is.
You learn that everything is so intertwined that one could mistake one for many: escape for failure, escape for happiness, escape for freedom, escape for bondage. Things all around you seem singular, but they aren’t even a double. They aren’t twice a double.
You could never know if the world stopped to observe its wreck, its great frenzy. It is hard to say.
But beyond her many thinking, she found a man who fancied her, not in the manner of love, of course. You could never love such a woman. But most days… nights… she drove him to savagery. And she was contented enough that she wanted to die.
Because you don't get this lucky twice, not when you learn things before you're ever taught, not when your mother never looked at you, not when the Eden at the back of your house was watered by hatred, and mostly not when you're greatly misunderstood.
She wanted to die because she knew, and it is very bad to know.
She was haunted. They asked how one could discern such, but you simply get it by a single glance at their eyes. Bulging eyes were always more evidence of being haunted than of madness.
She was haunted by nothing and everything, and she could never get out, for this house was her own self. Born of two races, your body fails to forget its first cry.
She didn’t want to be misunderstood, for that would mean she were alone. Nor understood, for she feared she would become undesirable. Nor thought of, but loved, that she had imagined long before the first screw had gone off, and still imagine.
The hourglass proves a better friend, but too distant, too cold, like the world one lives in.
The lit candles, the ceremony, and that red dress, such an important detail. The overgrown bushes, and silent, too silent streets. The dead frail child. The white negros and black Englishes. Days that don’t remember their yesterday, for things die out quickly.
It’s unfair, and unfair to say it’s unfair. The earth is such an uninhabitable place, and I cannot think nor speak of what I’ve seen, what I know, and I'm not quite sure I truly know.
I weep quietly and tremendously to the dark cloak that lies over us all, waiting to drown us, before we bite the rock, while we bite the rock.
And by morning, I’ll awake to smile at this condensing world.
— Myra
The soulless face the world sees often hides a turbulent, ambiguous, daunting, sometimes beautiful, sometimes a madhouse world within.
She, like many a woman beautiful in all the right places, with hair as dark as clotted blood, born of two races, belonged to nowhere. She knew from quiet earlier on that in a world so big, with fringes, mountains, and hills, you could never truly know what misfortune is.
You learn that everything is so intertwined that one could mistake one for many: escape for failure, escape for happiness, escape for freedom, escape for bondage. Things all around you seem singular, but they aren’t even a double. They aren’t twice a double.
You could never know if the world stopped to observe its wreck, its great frenzy. It is hard to say.
But beyond her many thinking, she found a man who fancied her, not in the manner of love, of course. You could never love such a woman. But most days… nights… she drove him to savagery. And she was contented enough that she wanted to die.
Because you don't get this lucky twice, not when you learn things before you're ever taught, not when your mother never looked at you, not when the Eden at the back of your house was watered by hatred, and mostly not when you're greatly misunderstood.
She wanted to die because she knew, and it is very bad to know.
She was haunted. They asked how one could discern such, but you simply get it by a single glance at their eyes. Bulging eyes were always more evidence of being haunted than of madness.
She was haunted by nothing and everything, and she could never get out, for this house was her own self. Born of two races, your body fails to forget its first cry.
She didn’t want to be misunderstood, for that would mean she were alone. Nor understood, for she feared she would become undesirable. Nor thought of, but loved, that she had imagined long before the first screw had gone off, and still imagine.
The hourglass proves a better friend, but too distant, too cold, like the world one lives in.
The lit candles, the ceremony, and that red dress, such an important detail. The overgrown bushes, and silent, too silent streets. The dead frail child. The white negros and black Englishes. Days that don’t remember their yesterday, for things die out quickly.
It’s unfair, and unfair to say it’s unfair. The earth is such an uninhabitable place, and I cannot think nor speak of what I’ve seen, what I know, and I'm not quite sure I truly know.
I weep quietly and tremendously to the dark cloak that lies over us all, waiting to drown us, before we bite the rock, while we bite the rock.
And by morning, I’ll awake to smile at this condensing world.
— Myra
Forwarded from KosmicKritika
I won't just stand here watching you fall
and if I'm not capable of holding you,
to steady the ground beneath your feet
then I'll take the fall with you,
plunge to the depths
you're willing to go
and embrace the gravity of risks.
I can't let you go where I won't be,
I won't allow this distance—
where you're whispering to yourself
and they can't reach me,
only silence I know nothing to do with,
letting you survive on your own, helplessly.
If anything, I'll reside in your calm
as well as your chaos,
shoulder the tangled mess of your head
until you softly slip to slumber,
from your nightmares, to your dreams
and everything in between, I'll stay,
as long as you need me.
#love
#poetry
and if I'm not capable of holding you,
to steady the ground beneath your feet
then I'll take the fall with you,
plunge to the depths
you're willing to go
and embrace the gravity of risks.
I can't let you go where I won't be,
I won't allow this distance—
where you're whispering to yourself
and they can't reach me,
only silence I know nothing to do with,
letting you survive on your own, helplessly.
If anything, I'll reside in your calm
as well as your chaos,
shoulder the tangled mess of your head
until you softly slip to slumber,
from your nightmares, to your dreams
and everything in between, I'll stay,
as long as you need me.
#love
#poetry
Give me the cunning of kings,
and the fever of those who kneel.
the knowledge sealed in holy chambers,
and a heart that has not learned restraint.
Grant me the scattered beauty of the earth,
and the abyssal bleakness of space.
the lucid gaze of one who watches,
and the dreamer’s reckless grace.
Offer me the dampness of a saint,
and the brutality of a tyrant.
the damnation of a sword,
and the endurance of a swordsmith.
When my heart takes the throne,
let my body stand witness.
when my body seizes power,
let my heart keep the ledger.
Let me know the cost of things
without paying in blood.
Let me live fully
without being reduced by living.
— Miracle Ididi (Myra)
and the fever of those who kneel.
the knowledge sealed in holy chambers,
and a heart that has not learned restraint.
Grant me the scattered beauty of the earth,
and the abyssal bleakness of space.
the lucid gaze of one who watches,
and the dreamer’s reckless grace.
Offer me the dampness of a saint,
and the brutality of a tyrant.
the damnation of a sword,
and the endurance of a swordsmith.
When my heart takes the throne,
let my body stand witness.
when my body seizes power,
let my heart keep the ledger.
Let me know the cost of things
without paying in blood.
Let me live fully
without being reduced by living.
— Miracle Ididi (Myra)
Forwarded from Pixels & Poetry
The Tool That Does Not Exist
I carried the premonition in my teeth for several days, a quiet, gnawing instinct telling me to reach out to you. I failed, of course. Then you stepped off the fourth-tallest bridge in the country—the exact steel construct where Vin Diesel jumped a Corvette into the void in the movie XXX. You left us behind in the sudden quiet, and we swallowed those distinct, hollow maybe if I had only done this echoes that people are said to get after a traumatic incident.
Later that night, in the immediate aftermath, you slipped into the theater of my sleep. It was a perfectly nonsensical dream: your hands dark with grease, teaching me how to take tires off a car. You handed me a tool that does not exist, insisting we had to use it because it was important. They can be recycled, you told me, which is also important. But the lucid reality of your disappearance snapped the illusion in half. I realized I was dreaming, and panic set in. I knew you had left us. I knew I had failed you. I knew we weren’t recycling car tires, using this magical tool that doesn't exist, because that’s crazy. I woke up crying so violently into the dark that my girlfriend at the time had to wrap her arms around my shoulders just to hold me together.
I remember forcing myself out to that bridge for the first time afterwards. Me and heights don't mix well, and I was entirely incapacitated by the dizzying altitude, the sheer drop freezing the blood in my legs so badly I couldn't cross much farther than fifteen feet from the dirt. But, out of the thin air, a flicker of ridiculous grace: a butterfly, fluttering a staggering seven hundred feet above the gorge. It hovered, unprobable and fragile, and gently guided my wobbling feet across the span.
In that space, a relief washed over me – one of those unexplainable introspections where some form of God, spirit, or a unified tissue of existence was real. I knew in the most ancient part of my soul that all I had to do was make contact, and I would find my answer. To this day, whenever a random butterfly stutters its way over to me just so, I feel that exact calling. I am instantly reminded of you and that moment suspended on the bridge. Even today, trapped in my own head and stressed out by the static of living, I was visited by a butterfly. I watched its lofty flight patterns, thought of you, and knew that everything is going to be okay.
ፕᏒıᎮᎮყ
I carried the premonition in my teeth for several days, a quiet, gnawing instinct telling me to reach out to you. I failed, of course. Then you stepped off the fourth-tallest bridge in the country—the exact steel construct where Vin Diesel jumped a Corvette into the void in the movie XXX. You left us behind in the sudden quiet, and we swallowed those distinct, hollow maybe if I had only done this echoes that people are said to get after a traumatic incident.
Later that night, in the immediate aftermath, you slipped into the theater of my sleep. It was a perfectly nonsensical dream: your hands dark with grease, teaching me how to take tires off a car. You handed me a tool that does not exist, insisting we had to use it because it was important. They can be recycled, you told me, which is also important. But the lucid reality of your disappearance snapped the illusion in half. I realized I was dreaming, and panic set in. I knew you had left us. I knew I had failed you. I knew we weren’t recycling car tires, using this magical tool that doesn't exist, because that’s crazy. I woke up crying so violently into the dark that my girlfriend at the time had to wrap her arms around my shoulders just to hold me together.
I remember forcing myself out to that bridge for the first time afterwards. Me and heights don't mix well, and I was entirely incapacitated by the dizzying altitude, the sheer drop freezing the blood in my legs so badly I couldn't cross much farther than fifteen feet from the dirt. But, out of the thin air, a flicker of ridiculous grace: a butterfly, fluttering a staggering seven hundred feet above the gorge. It hovered, unprobable and fragile, and gently guided my wobbling feet across the span.
In that space, a relief washed over me – one of those unexplainable introspections where some form of God, spirit, or a unified tissue of existence was real. I knew in the most ancient part of my soul that all I had to do was make contact, and I would find my answer. To this day, whenever a random butterfly stutters its way over to me just so, I feel that exact calling. I am instantly reminded of you and that moment suspended on the bridge. Even today, trapped in my own head and stressed out by the static of living, I was visited by a butterfly. I watched its lofty flight patterns, thought of you, and knew that everything is going to be okay.
ፕᏒıᎮᎮყ
Tuesday, April. 20th
What brings me peace this time is that my return to solitude carries no bitterness. No disappointment, no wounds, no grievance against the world. I have simply found, remembered rather, that I am not myself without it.
And I've had this rotten character for sometime, which I boasted about, found pleasure in my ability to turn it on: how the best chance anyone who has hurt me has to redeeming themselves is to apologize when I'm still angry or sad, but when they don't, and I plead with them to stop, stop doing those things, and they keep at it, something in me quietly closes, and never opens up again. And how much I've always hated repetitions. I'd appreciate a change of routine, a change of place, a change of outcome. For some reasons, repetition sickened me. The only thing, as it stands, that hasn't bored me in life is art.
Thus it comes to a point where I do a reset. I stop being mad, as well as stop communicating what is wrong, or being sad. I delve into indifference. I love them still, smile, care, but one understands the underline emptiness in all of this. In the way I say "it's okay, I'm not mad anymore, we just can't go back to how we were." I'm too far gone that even the greatest apologies cannot bring down my already raised face, raised spirit. And for a while, too long a while, I prided myself on the ability to kill the killer: my ability to go against my heart, my body, to sever any attachment that distorts my undistorted self.
I wouldn't say no one can hurt me, in all honesty, it is that no one can hurt me for long, because I'm unable to hold any grudge, as I see this too as harm to myself than to the world. So I let it go, as fast, even when I'm unable, I let it go. Somewhere along the line, I took "forgive and forget" to forgive, forget, and forget they matter. How could I? For all the wrong I've done, how could I never give a second chance, when I exist as a testament of a second chance happening?
In my meditation last night, after my spirit fell into the benign of solitude, (I am starting to believe that solitude is a place),I saw this character for what it truly was, cruelty dressed in the most saintly garment, and I don't want to wear this no more. I do not want to pride myself over what is not worth priding over. I do not want to live by such vacant reason, such beastly beauty.
In solitude, I'm able to turn myself over the sun and smote away every shadow that has settled on my soul, In solitude I see clearly into the world and into myself, In solitude, I'm not a performer, rather, I am both the pulley and the pull, the process, never finished, continuously refining over time, until the sky kisses my skin, until the earth purges me out.
~a note in peace with myself
— Myra
What brings me peace this time is that my return to solitude carries no bitterness. No disappointment, no wounds, no grievance against the world. I have simply found, remembered rather, that I am not myself without it.
And I've had this rotten character for sometime, which I boasted about, found pleasure in my ability to turn it on: how the best chance anyone who has hurt me has to redeeming themselves is to apologize when I'm still angry or sad, but when they don't, and I plead with them to stop, stop doing those things, and they keep at it, something in me quietly closes, and never opens up again. And how much I've always hated repetitions. I'd appreciate a change of routine, a change of place, a change of outcome. For some reasons, repetition sickened me. The only thing, as it stands, that hasn't bored me in life is art.
Thus it comes to a point where I do a reset. I stop being mad, as well as stop communicating what is wrong, or being sad. I delve into indifference. I love them still, smile, care, but one understands the underline emptiness in all of this. In the way I say "it's okay, I'm not mad anymore, we just can't go back to how we were." I'm too far gone that even the greatest apologies cannot bring down my already raised face, raised spirit. And for a while, too long a while, I prided myself on the ability to kill the killer: my ability to go against my heart, my body, to sever any attachment that distorts my undistorted self.
I wouldn't say no one can hurt me, in all honesty, it is that no one can hurt me for long, because I'm unable to hold any grudge, as I see this too as harm to myself than to the world. So I let it go, as fast, even when I'm unable, I let it go. Somewhere along the line, I took "forgive and forget" to forgive, forget, and forget they matter. How could I? For all the wrong I've done, how could I never give a second chance, when I exist as a testament of a second chance happening?
In my meditation last night, after my spirit fell into the benign of solitude, (I am starting to believe that solitude is a place),I saw this character for what it truly was, cruelty dressed in the most saintly garment, and I don't want to wear this no more. I do not want to pride myself over what is not worth priding over. I do not want to live by such vacant reason, such beastly beauty.
In solitude, I'm able to turn myself over the sun and smote away every shadow that has settled on my soul, In solitude I see clearly into the world and into myself, In solitude, I'm not a performer, rather, I am both the pulley and the pull, the process, never finished, continuously refining over time, until the sky kisses my skin, until the earth purges me out.
~a note in peace with myself
— Myra
Petitio Principii
If life were served on a plate
and tasted with the tongue,
would you retreat at the first touch?
Would you spit it out with vigour,
summon the town crier
to warn that none should drink of it?
Would that small taste burn your tongue,
crawl to your belly,
and leave something in you hollow?
Or would it be heavenly incomprehensible?
Would you taste the wind, sand, rust,
and everything dissolving slowly on your tongue?
Above all, would it be good?
Would you glimpse your whole life in it
and choose to live it still?
If life could be served and tasted
on the tongue,
would it make us understand ourselves?
Would life even have a single taste,
or a set of different flavors served in different bowls?
And because no one has tasted yours,
they tell you it's not real,
that it's not okay you feel that way,
or look that way,
or think that way?
Will they load up the gun,
Hold it over your head,
until you sound like them,
until the blood from your skull
is smeared through the kitchen wall?
Would you scoop these brain cells,
serve them to your children,
and tell them it's all the world offers?
Or, in realization of different flavors,
would we call it kindness
when we allow another a taste of ours?
Would one say yours is bitter,
another say yours is good,
and someone else say it's just the right amount of both?
If then, would we praise the one who cooked,
would we acknowledge the one who served?
Or conclude that it all materialized
from thin air?
— Myra
If life were served on a plate
and tasted with the tongue,
would you retreat at the first touch?
Would you spit it out with vigour,
summon the town crier
to warn that none should drink of it?
Would that small taste burn your tongue,
crawl to your belly,
and leave something in you hollow?
Or would it be heavenly incomprehensible?
Would you taste the wind, sand, rust,
and everything dissolving slowly on your tongue?
Above all, would it be good?
Would you glimpse your whole life in it
and choose to live it still?
If life could be served and tasted
on the tongue,
would it make us understand ourselves?
Would life even have a single taste,
or a set of different flavors served in different bowls?
And because no one has tasted yours,
they tell you it's not real,
that it's not okay you feel that way,
or look that way,
or think that way?
Will they load up the gun,
Hold it over your head,
until you sound like them,
until the blood from your skull
is smeared through the kitchen wall?
Would you scoop these brain cells,
serve them to your children,
and tell them it's all the world offers?
Or, in realization of different flavors,
would we call it kindness
when we allow another a taste of ours?
Would one say yours is bitter,
another say yours is good,
and someone else say it's just the right amount of both?
If then, would we praise the one who cooked,
would we acknowledge the one who served?
Or conclude that it all materialized
from thin air?
— Myra
Dear Unthinkable Times
Dear Unthinkable Times,
Too many days, I wonder what
trajectory or shape you'd take.
I do not mean to awaken you
from a dream you've not yet had,
nor from a journey you've not yet walked.
I've gambled with sleep
to live in the delusions of when
you'll possess me,
baptize me, and mollify me into you.
See, I've made bets with worlds
that paired through my retina.
The other day, I had slept with you,
tugged between my collarbones.
I seek him for him, and seek him
that you may soonest come,
so I can clearly see him for him.
Reality has become bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,
but I'm no Cinderella searching
for a prince and glassy shoe.
I am searching for me,
but this magic wand is a broken piece.
It will not manifest me to me,
and I'm yet to reckon with giving it up,
with giving you up.
If I awake before I sleep,
may it not be I turtled out of being.
If I rise before I fall,
may I not remember only the fall.
If I fall and never rise,
may I be awakened by a God.
If I rise and only rise,
may life not be a tasteless fate.
— Myra
Dear Unthinkable Times,
Too many days, I wonder what
trajectory or shape you'd take.
I do not mean to awaken you
from a dream you've not yet had,
nor from a journey you've not yet walked.
I've gambled with sleep
to live in the delusions of when
you'll possess me,
baptize me, and mollify me into you.
See, I've made bets with worlds
that paired through my retina.
The other day, I had slept with you,
tugged between my collarbones.
I seek him for him, and seek him
that you may soonest come,
so I can clearly see him for him.
Reality has become bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,
but I'm no Cinderella searching
for a prince and glassy shoe.
I am searching for me,
but this magic wand is a broken piece.
It will not manifest me to me,
and I'm yet to reckon with giving it up,
with giving you up.
If I awake before I sleep,
may it not be I turtled out of being.
If I rise before I fall,
may I not remember only the fall.
If I fall and never rise,
may I be awakened by a God.
If I rise and only rise,
may life not be a tasteless fate.
— Myra
May It Not Be Us-2.pdf
128.2 KB
This was formally published on Brittle Paper —https://brittlepaper.com/2026/09/may-it-not-be-us-miracle-ididi-fiction/
The Path to Inner Light
I suppose, is taking
up a lamp
over the favourable
and unfavourable
histories of your life,
reading it over again
this time, without tussling,
without mourning,
caressing the rough
edges,
take what you must
and with the same lamp
burn up the chaff.
— Myra
I suppose, is taking
up a lamp
over the favourable
and unfavourable
histories of your life,
reading it over again
this time, without tussling,
without mourning,
caressing the rough
edges,
take what you must
and with the same lamp
burn up the chaff.
— Myra