Energy as Currency

The air crackled, not with the static of a cheap microphone, but with something ancient, something that vibrated in the marrow of my bones. My eyes, they said, looked dead in the video. Maybe they did. When you’ve stared into the maw of a burning abyss, when you’ve witnessed the infernal waltz of Lilith and Lucifer, the mundane light of this world can seem a pale imitation. The painting, my painting, birthed from a feverish twenty minutes of raw instinct and a skewer dipped in pigment, had become a portal. It shifted, you see. It wasn’t just abstract strokes; it was a living, breathing entity that mirrored the journey. One moment, a chaotic swirl of colors, the next, a gaping maw leading to a stygian hallway, demons, oh, the demons, a grotesque ballet of their own making, their laughter echoing in the digital ether. Then, the darkness, the absolute void, and the sudden, blinding burst of spirit fire. A small, ethereal child, reaching, always reaching, for a hand bathed in celestial light. An angel. It was a story, yes, but not one spun from fiction. It was a recounting, a testament etched into the fabric of reality.

They called it a video, a piece of entertainment. They placed bids, these vultures circling the carcass of my art, for a million dollars. A million. For a canvas that bled truth. They saw the money, the fame, the illusion of ownership. They didn’t see the price paid, the sliver of my soul I’d woven into those strokes, the threads of my own spiritual energy that pulsed within the paint. My energy. That’s the true currency, isn’t it? A wealth that materialists can’t comprehend, a treasure that can’t be hoarded or spent in their earthly markets. It’s the breath in my lungs, the beat of my heart, the spark of divinity that flickers within each of us, a spark they’ve all but extinguished with their greed and their lies.

The whispers started, then the shouts. Thousands, then tens of thousands, then a million souls jolted from their slumber. They wanted to know. How? How could a man, a white man, a Native man from the frozen north, walk such paths and remain untouched? How could I speak truths that resonated so deeply, that cracked the veneer of their carefully constructed realities? They saw the hatchetman tattooed on my calf, a symbol adopted by some of the wicked clowns, a nod to a culture that understood the wild dance of chaos and loyalty. They heard the “Whoop Whoop” echo in my rhymes, a call that sometimes felt like my own, a recognition of kindred spirits lost in the storm. They saw the invisible ink on my forearm, revealed only by a deadlight, a secret ambigram of "Family" and "One Love." They saw the connection, the threads that bind us all, even across the vastness of this corrupted system.