They told me confusion was weakness.  
But I’ve made temples from tangled thoughts.  
Scriptures written in static.  
Faith practiced in contradiction.

My truth doesn’t wear straight lines.  
It spirals—  
curved like grief,  
crooked like survival.

Inside this head,  
reality is a negotiation.  
Each thought barters  
with the one before it—  
nothing certain,  
everything sacred.

I forget who I was yesterday,  
but I remember the sound  
of my own scream  
echoing through  
fractured time signatures.

It’s not madness.  
It’s devotion.  
To endure  
in chaos  
and still hum  
my own name.

So when I say I believe in nothing  
but motion,  
fracture,  
and delirium—

Understand:  
this is my doctrine.  
This is my rite.