This morning I seek refuge in beats and verse and the pretence that I’m somewhere else. I stagger from my house (straight out the fuckin’ dungeons of rap), sprint for the bus (I ran like a cheetah with thoughts of an assassin), sit slumped on my seat (be havin dreams that I’m a gangster – drinkin Moets, holdin Tecs) as I lurch and jerk towards work.
I’m not here. I’m on New York streets, sewin’ up the blocks to sell rocks, winnin’ gunfights with mega cops.
I’m not living with the consequences of a decision I made when I was 18, working the next 6 years for pay dwarfed by that of my peers. I’m livin’ like Capone, with drug scripts sewn, or the legal luxury life, rings flooded with stones, homes.
Escapism is easy on four hours’ sleep. I sit in my bus seat, dead to the world but alive inside. Inhale deep like the words of my breath: I never sleep, cause sleep is the cousin of death.