Maps of Home

i feel like shit. i do. i feel like my visions are so far away from the cursed, heavy-with-violence, cruel reality that they/i/they have built. i feel like dying.

but i will not actively try to, no, because i will not give up before i am able to say i have tried everything, every single thing, to live in a way that would make my (non-colonized, anti-colonial) ancestors proud.

i edited a couple of maps. of the Mediterranean sea, and the lands around. sometimes, to see the world is different, you have to literally reorient; the sun rises in the East, sets in the West, Eurasia is where i am from, and Africa is my top-of-the-map/s.

if i die or am killed before i am able to return to Greece, please, burn my corpse to condense it, and spread half of my ashes in Crete, where my family belongs, and give the other half of my ashes to - i swear, this must exist - a collective of farmers or artists in Libya. i must return the honor of having been born. i must reciprocate the honor of life.