Transcript of the depressing, inaudible video

3:52 PM 1/18/2017

The death of my mother –
it happens to us all,
unless we die before they do.

I am a slave and I cannot speak;
the events of my life were brought together
exactly like this,
in this way,
at this time,
terrible events, one after another.

The controllers decided my fate and the fate of my mother
and disabled me completely
at exactly the moment when she needed my help.

She was taken from me perhaps three decades too early,
a lifetime yet to live.

It is not God who scheduled these events,
these circumstances to coincide and occur
one after another.

I am tied down and forced
to helplessly observe as things happen,
as every hour, every minute, every second goes by,
taking my mother away.

My soul is not dead,
though soul-murderers stifle me every second of my life.

When my mother is gone, I will not understand what it means to me. It means she never saw my children,
her grandchildren,
the only thing I hoped to show to her.

There is something in between showing and not showing
that they do not want me to understand,
She is dead and not alive and I do not show her,
but somehow to feel that it is done
and just as good as if I had shown her,
but to reconcile this with mortal life
and her not knowing.

Traditions sing and dance and talk to the elders,
to the ancestors,
and are they silent? As silent as God?

In a free world I can make peace with my memories.
I can untangle the thoughts and feelings,
I can express them, understand them,
see them differently.

But in tihis world of absolute evil,
the Nakrivich wants to use my mom as a tool
to enslave me, to control me with my feelings,
to never let me be at peace with her
or to understand or see her differently.

The Nakrivich only knows that this is an opportunity
to cause more pain and influence my decisions.

They give me the shallowest understanding,
something stupid that does not work,
something unsatisfying that requires a strain,
like imagining food when you are hungry –
no matter how long you imagine it,
the hunger only grows.
You wish it were this, but it is not and never will be.

Such a shallow understanding is the substitute for my soul,
that I am forced to live on every day,
a mindless robot moving my body through the world.
It’s like watching TV, in my brain,
never being inside the picture.

I had said that the soul-murderers and Nakrivich did not kill me. They also did not kill all of the future.

Anaya knows my soul,
and if Anaya cannot appear but in tiny fragments
and tiny currents of forces,
currents that flow together over time,
Even if these currents take a long time
Even if their flood is stamped out over and over again,

Even so, Time is longer than Nakrivich,
and Anaya is Life, and Love,
and Nakrivich is death and hate,
even for its own people, its own slaves.
Nakrivich is poison to itself.
Or as they say, “Too much evil destroys evil.”

Have we not seen Nakrivich before?
Was it not already past and gone?
And then perhaps we had a breath of air before it came again.

My mother was killed by Nakrivich,
though she did not know it as I do.
I will try to go to her
while she still has breath of life,
though I am sick, I am weary,

weary with slavery and loneliness,
for no one speaks the language I speak,
the language of Anaya and life –
though they may live,
their lives are hidden from my sight,
from my touch, from my heart,

and I see the zombies on the streets,
thousands of them, in another universe from me.

I am weary and I move through these crowds
as if I am alone in the desert
as their ugly faces, their ugly bodies,
their vapid conversations pass by me.

Every moment I am poisoned by loathing.

My mother – a tiny connection with love,
with humanity, with trust,
though a fellow slave I knew she had a soul,
a slave raising a slave,
though I do not remember,
I know I was loved.

I will go to her, though I do not understand.
I will go, though I cannot walk,
through the burning zaps that strike my neck and shoulders
like lightning everywhere I go.

I pray, though Anaya cannot hear me
and Anaya cannot answer,
Anaya, if you are here, if your forces exist
You are both good and powerful
and maybe you don’t know me,
and maybe all of your forces are not in the same place
at the same time,

and maybe I don’t recognize you even though you are there,
bringing life to the world
and fighting Nakrivich for me,
for my mom, for my people,
for my fellow slaves.

My mom doesn’t know Anaya and she doesn’t know Nakrivich,
but through your voice tailored to her
and all of those like her,
let her know you,
let her see your beauty, your life, your hope,
let her know you,
let her hear your song,
customized to her ears in exactly the way she will understand.

Let her soul breathe with you,
for though I cannot sing that song
and I cannot explain it to her,
let her see it and hear it in exactly the right way
so that she remembers Life
and so she knows:
The currents of Hope are still running.

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