All Eyez On Me

Yo I’m blogging from my cell phone.

Marty McFly would be proud of me.

I find my mood oscillates wildly in different social settings. I can go from Waka Flocka Flame to Childish Gambino in the distance between the kitchen and the living room at a party.

I still never feel like I’m being inauthentic, though.

How real do you guys keep it?

How important is consistency when real-life is absolutely ravaged with brutally beautiful hypocrisies?

I make rap songs and sometimes I tell lies in them, should I feel bad about that? How many times have you lied to yourself this week? This month?

Fuck the truth, empower yourself through imagination. Everyone knows Rick Ross worked in a correctional facility, but I bet you when he gets all draped up in that white linen with those sunglasses on and spits dat shit he feels like Pablo fucking Escobar in his heart of hearts. Swag is life, dog. If you believe it then you can be it. R. Kelly has never once lied to me.

Who are you right now? How does it feel? Who were you an hour ago? Who do you want to be?

See, I’m not really stressing about what rappers say anymore. I hope they lie to me. Tupac lied to me all the time and it changed my fucking life on a fundamental level.

Here’s the thing. You can tell me what you see when your eyes are open, or you can tell me what you see when your eyes are closed, but you only get to decide on one of those things.

I feel me as fuck when my eyes are closed. You might see me close my eyes on stage just to me out for a few minutes.

I try to me with my eyes open too. I’m getting better at it but there are so many distractions. I me pretty hard to trap. My office empties out, I turn on some Gucci Mane and me the fuck out of my cubicle for awhile.

But that’s Gucci me. That’s kitchen me.
There’s also living room me.

I walked home drunk in the snow alone on Sunday night. I was listening to Aesop Rock in my earbuds. I missed having my eyes closed but I really needed to see where I was going.

I wonder if Gucci Mane ever needs to see where he’s going. 

There’s something to be said for blindingly oversized Versace shades and Easter-colored codeine syrup and nihilism and 808 bass kicks that cave your rib cage in and being whoever the fuck you decide you want to be whenever the fuck you decide you want to be it.

Even if it’s only when your eyes are closed. 

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