In July, I began writing with my phone. Everything I ever blocked out came back. I had 1000 pages by August, when my life ended. It caused discomfort. Disrupted BURN IT DOWN! or whatever I called it was like her final straw.
My soon to be ex-wife left me in Colombia, though our marriage was long dead. I was so sick and was ready to die, but I had my phone and made sure I wrote out the story of my joke of a life and marriage.
The second doctor told me it was severe dehydration and not a laughing matter. He said the darkness would be near without treatment.
I told him I AM the darkness, and I’ve staired the reaper down five times and begged him to take me, but he refused mercy.
On that day, Jay died.
Out of his ashes came a fiery phoenix, Hawtorn V. Rabot, the person I always was. Jay was the one others shaped, forced, assaulted, silenced, abused, and put in a fire to their desired shape. The crazy part? He thought his choices were his. They weren’t…
HVR knows what Jay didn’t. HVR says what Jay couldn’t. Jay is my life name. Jay is what the IRS calls me. Jay IS dead. Who wants to attend his funeral with me?
Now I’m published, have over 2,000 pages, own the algorithm, and will continue the revolution. I thought of step five yesterday. I can’t do that one alone. I’ll need help in real time.
Let’s burn down the bullshit. disrupt the gatekeepers, drown the lies, choke the norms, crash the algos, and shock the systems.
I’m HV FUCKING R!
Nice to meet you.
Rest in shit, Jay.
May the pieces of you stay scattered where they fell...
under the boots of everyone who tried to own you.
May no one gather them.
May no one rebuild you.
May the version of you that bent until it broke stay exactly that: broken, buried, and blessedly unresurrected.
May your ghost roam the paperwork halls of the IRS, forever trying to prove an identity that no longer exists...
a haunting so dull even the reaper refuses to clock in.
And to the creature that rose from your remains...HVR,
molten, razored, hauled out of the fire wearing nothing but rage and a bad attitude..,
may you never forget:
some of us aren’t reborn;
we burn our way out.
So yes. I’m here.
Front row.
Not with flowers... with a shovel.
Not clapping... but making sure the dirt lands heavy, so the world can’t dig Jay back up
and shove him into you again.
Long live Hawtorn V. Rabot.
Long live the flame that ate the man they tried to sculpt into obedience.
And may every gatekeeper inhale the soot of Jay’s cremation and choke on the audacity of your resurrection.
Hand me a match.
Let’s get this shit done.
That liminal space before rising, the comfort of giving up, but still being addicted to getting back up. Fuck. It's hard. Glad you made it out of here, friend. HV Fucking R! Nice to meet you.