When I was younger —
well, it looks like there was literally a fuckton of people stalking me.
I wanted this to be a chill, non-descript life
but it never even was remotely
that kind of story.
All the times these assholes and their fuckery
got way too close, not to victory
but to another one of their painful, damning
violations of my mind, heart, soul and body—
all the times they couldn’t even come anywhere near
moving destiny
a fucking picometer—
it does make you wonder
what the fuck it is about being the Dragon that literally inspires
these people to try wackier
and wackier ways to control the leader
of the Kristang. For goodness’ sake,
if you really wanted some mad, corrupted saviour-healer—
you’ve had 11,500 years!
Couldn’t you just make another one, you know,
appear?
Like you keep implicitly claiming you did with me.
I repeat, for the one hundred thousand quadrillionth time—
I did not want this archetype anywhere near
me. Immortality, honestly,
is an absolutely terrifying concept. I fear
infinity. What will I do
after I read all the books in the world,
and understand the morphology of every single word,
and ask Janet for every detail of just how long the Bad Good Place has endured:
nope.
It goes on, and on, and on, as I feared,
and even I would run out of tears, and joy, and hope, and good gay Kristang sexy cheer.
But whatever the fuck this magnaarchetype is,
I know my duty to it,
and to my species, and to my planet.
I may not like it,
but I know by just existing,
I make some people, to put it lightly in colloquial Singapore English,
frightened like shit.
And I guess
that more than makes up for it
all, even if the fucking insane truth within the whole situation
is that individuation really tends to end up delaying, at the very least,
Death’s call;
if that’s true,
and I am constantly being renewed—
then really,
good luck and as my students taught me, LFG:
bong fortuna to those who keep wanting to see me fall.