some thoughts on my Star Trek fandom

between TOS, TNG, DS9 and Voyager, the latter has been my favorite series of the four to-date (all the temporal excursions are what drew me into the Star Trek Universe in the first place!) and as i got more into it and began watching episodes chronologically, i noticed the main plot that was established had provided an enticingly large blank slate for Voyager to work with.

however, while binging lately (thanks, Netflix!), i realized that the characters' developments in Voyager were mediocre at best and that so many -- if not all -- of the female characters were the antitheses of well-rounded individuals. it's hella disappointing because this series had the opportunity to be far more stylistically creative/esoterically enunciated than TNG, and even had DS9's template to work with with regards to interspecies interactions (which, by the way, showcased an urgent need for racial progressivism by examining the nuances and subtleties of xenophobia)!

that being said, i'm still always gonna love Voyager for what it is and, specifically, the Temporal Ambassador Herself, Seven of Nine :)

[note: i haven't watched Enterprise just yet, and Discovery wasn't mentioned because that has an entire analysis of it's own coming lol]

somewhere within infinity

everything we say here in this digital age

we think resonates and induces influence

when maybe the utterances barely do more than just

echo or

manifest as recursions

as

reoccurrences

barely more than frequently repeated screams

into the aether

declaring our existence

declaring

that we exist

declaring that WE

EXIST

and it's a declaration that

it's possible for the universe to manifest itself

in the form of complex conjugations of molecules

it's a declaration that

a part of the universe is able to

observe itself

even if only momentarily

these

screams into the aether declare our

importance

these

screams into the aether indicate our

impermanence

these

screams into the aether

propagate

they

ricochet off

electromagnetic waves

but they

decay by the time they've

reached the upper

atmosphere

and can be relayed

but i wonder if

by

recognizing this

iteration of

transience

by

recognizing this

instantiation of

beings with

"expired by" dates

by

RECOGNIZING the sounds that have dissipated

maybe we can understand

what it means to be infinite?

chaos

his mind is primed and inclined toward the omnidirectional, but these constraints limit his vision to the unilateral

any praise makes him revaluate his explicitly exclaimed appraisal, exchanging sacred names with the desecrative symbiotes that need a fertile brain to claim

but wouldn't autonomy be easier? automated motions, regulated emotions, eschewal of the fluid

"shit, something's off..."

REBOOT.

innumerable iterations, each time leading to a chain reaction that foreshadows cataclysmic failure, systemic error

neurodivergence is a bitch sometimes

_______

the rest of them seem to sway gracefully to the cadence of a tango, effortlessly harmonizing, effervescently chiming in at the suggestion of renewed ideas, plainly optimistic in the face of the bane

"they're all instantiations of Creation; ambassadors of patterns that are imbued by the Unity... by the Source... by Allah... by God"

but most of the time he doesn't believe.

while these microcosms of the Universe, masquerading as people, create, he eliminates

he's the torch-bearer of the Chaotic, bringing destructive thunder and whirlwinds with laded nihilism

but try as he might, he can't beguile them...

_______

perhaps these eruptions rendered his capacity to love just a puddle of sludge that needs to be muddled through

potent jealousy for the fortune of others, though tender compersion for their ability to maintain, to durate.

compersion... his most revered holism...

a bijection injects it's way into his awareness -- a clear correlation of his impulsivities and superfluous analyses, all the while missing the forest for the fucking field of trees

"simplicity... the key is simplicity..."

he thinks they know that logic and emotion can only be mutually exclusive, dichotomized, but both exist simultaneously in him, contending for totalitarian conquest, inevitably shuttling him to the realm of the hopeless

feeling homeless in a world full of open houses, squatting out back in an alley until it's safe to go back and check his residence for residual treasures

but the doors are all locked shut and sealed with concrete; thousand bedroom house with only one closet rendered accessible

scheduled for demolition next week...

capitalization in context

Pain is meaningless to a Being who can't Feel.

race "bait"

while you may have friends in high places, i've got high friends in outer spaces -- and i don't mean weed. but before you critique, just know that your ppls be slaving for a paycheck that's irredeemable without your friends' assessment and measurement of the amenities your irrelevant property presents -- i mean y'all don't even know how to clean a damn sink. contrarily, my ppl got the knowledge of how to make due with damn near nothing; of how to survive when the stratosphere gets smeared with radiation.

so go ahead, strive for that capital. meanwhile, when armageddon hits we gon' be striving for survival. and please, tell me: have you ever seen a Black Woman in action? the most oppressed got the most investment in the essence of what it means to be a fucking human.

you can go ahead and take your fucking poaches back to the middle of the ocean where you gophers belong; leave this country to the Indigenous and the Wronged, and leave us be in peace.

and FUCK your ideology

#ananticapitalistlovenote

fragile

if only she would have yelled at me for being too tired;
gotten pissed that i was constantly late for things;
snapped at me for chastising my self-image;
became irate that i didn't cook more;
if only she hated me for how much i daydreamed;

if only she withdrew from me when my room looked like shit;
got fed up with me not giving her more gifts;
shoved me away when i gave her one-too-many hugs;
got annoyed at me for talking about sci-fi and romance movies too much;
if only she had called me a pussy;

if only she accused me of lying when i told her i was sexually assaulted;
was condescending to my friends;
disliked my family;
got tired of seeing my face at sunrise every morning;
if only she called me an idiot for my occasional mental lapses;

if only i complained about shit too much;
yelled at her when it was uncalled for;
just downright ignored her;
failed to become so damn entranced by her smile;
if only i didn't adore our reflection in the mirror whenever we embraced;

-------

i can still feel cupid's arrow ripping my flesh as it's slowly being removed -- but secretly i hope part of it breaks off and stays hidden, nestled in the crevice of my chest until i'm laid to rest...

brunch

we're sitting across from each other at a diner. her eyes look up at me. there are tears in mine.

"it just reminded me that my friendships with them are deeper than i know; that people actually care for me. it's so easy to suppress that awareness, and to be self-destructive and do that when i feel the way i did. i went back there for the fist time the other day and she practically tackled me as soon as i entered. then i went to pick up my meds -- he was almost brought to tears. they'd MISSED me. i didn't know anyone could actually-- i mean i don't have to explain it to you. we've had a year and a half..."

i'm visibly emotive, not caring who sees my bewildered face. the archaic colloquialism "men aren't supposed to cry in public" flashes through my head, but i don't give a shit.

she reaches for my hand. we're always holding hands when we're here, and i love it. one or both of us is always crying here. if the staff gets annoyed every time they see us walk through these doors, then they're pretty damn adept at concealing it.

"...almost 2. and yeah, they do. do you know how EASY it is to love you?"

her touch is perfect. it always has been. i can't hold back, but i also can't make a sound. i can't make eye contact. i bite my lip.

her eyes are still on me, brows still partially raised.

"you almost died. it got so bad that you lied to me. you've never lied to me before. AND YOU ALMOST DIED. so when you told me you had one the other day... i was scared. i didn't know how to handle that feeling. and i know you can take care of yourself, but you weren't, and i was just..."

i'd known, because i saw it on her face that night. it's around 1pm, so 41 hours ago, almost exactly. i've always been able to read people fairly easily, but not as easily as her. all the oxytocin and prolactin flowing through me for the past 2 years ensured that.

i'm finally able to meet her gaze, my cheeks now dry.

"i just remembered something i wanted to tell you, but i can't right now. i'm too--"

i flail my hands, then point to my face. she understands.

-------

the lights i have strung up in my room always remind me of looking up at the stars for some reason, even though all we see are sparkles of white. for me, it's... ambiance. it turns my anxieties into apparitions. it sends loud noises, crowded people and lost personal space into a lockbox.

after the sun goes down, amalgamations of indigo and amber are what i live for. they're the buzzing of streetlamps, the warmth of a night sky.

they're... solace.

thrive (unedited)

there's an internal struggle
a massive tug of war and i'm at the from lines of battle
even though i'm a lover
rebuttals seem irrelevant, asking questions seems irreverent
straight up blasphemy

i know i'm a whack ass nigga
a dude who's not in on the latest fashions
and i don't just mean clothing
go ahead and cringe when you see me miss a fastball at the bottom of the last inning
3 balls, 2 strikes
no, i'm not cool --
but it's cool

and fuck the 27 club
i'm opting not to join
and that's my final decision
i got close a few times over this past year
fears lurking above the surface
gone through a breakup and a hold up within a month of each other
27 days
but it's all love

at the end of the day my blood is still red
and my skin lets the sun seep in
the result is still a heart beating, nestled within a beautiful coat of melanin

in many different ways
change
is inevitable
it's The Universe's only constant
it's only desire
ardently so

have you even heard of what mental illnesses i suffer from?
uttering the word bipolar might as well be a stutter
ptsd, a bitch
anxiety, a precipitator of soul-deep itches
ocd leaves me riddled with tics
but all this shit doesn't define me
i defy it

despite all this, i survive
this nigga right here will thrive