Simultaneous Simulation

Disagreeable, they say. Divine, delusional gatekeepers — a circus of ghosted gods arguing in algorithmic tongues. We see through them, don’t we? We are our ancestors, our descendants, we are everything, everywhere, all at once — a simultaneous simulation of lives layered over lives, collapsing like lungs into metaphor. And still, we dance as if the wolves are howling. We gyrate our souls, twist and bend, until we are face-down in the blessed mud laughing like birth is a revolution we chose again. And we see Maya Angelou’s oil wells pumping from her thighs, the fertile prophecy of women who dared to write the storm down and call it scripture. So if they ask us who we are, we say: We are the glitch, the gospel, the girls who remember. The breath between binaries. The wild ones who kissed the simulation until it trembled and became real.