The Weight of Small Minds

Alabama is a land of ghosts wearing skin.
Not the kind you see in mirrors, but the kind that haunt ambition, curiosity, and desire. Everywhere, Christianity wears a mask of piety while drowning in delusion. Racism lingers, unchallenged, like a shadow everyone pretends is part of the decor. Culture? Scene? Vision? All trapped in amber, stuck in time.

The air tastes of low expectation. Dreams are treated like sins. To reach higher is to invite scorn, suspicion, whispered judgments behind fake smiles. Transparency is absent. Conversations about sex, spirit, identity, or the deeper currents of life are met with discomfort, with avoidance. To be alive is to be anomalous.

Here, apathy is law, ambition is a threat. Pride is taken not in creation, but in settling. People wear stillness as armor and call it comfort. I cannot—will not—shrink myself to fit this stagnation.

I left for a reason. And each day I remember why. The spirit demands expansion, alignment, movement. It will not dwell in hollow spaces, and neither will I.