Epiphanies in Motion

Why should I change my way
to fit your dumbass box?

Why should I go counselling to “calm down”
my restless mind —
which yes, produces about 30 existential crises,
each with its own soap-opera season,
all playing at once,
and someone else has the remote…

Well then…
why doesn’t your dumbass system help me
by telling me how to get that remote back?

But you ain’t got the neurodivergence-madness-induced
pattern recognition
or the unboxed creativity
to even capture the concept
of what the fuck I mean
by this metaphorical remote.

You see, the paradox is this:
THIS right here, is my remote.

Because my overwhelmingly stimulated mind
is so fucking unboxed
that metaphors are the only way
I can process anything
and everything.

And no, I cannot think linearly like you —
but quite frankly,
I don’t want to.

My mind ain’t dimwit fluff.
I have the analytical precision of a structural engineer
and the poetic justice
of an ancient Thiruvallavar reborn.

With a street-culture rawness from ends
that helps me articulate my “emotional dysregulations”
in ways your “normal” people
actually relate to.

My “impulsivity”
Or the 0-100 extremisms 
Are my weapon.
A tiny 
unpredictable paradox,
like a Trojan Horse
you never see coming.

My hyperactivity blesses me with so much Shakti
that the only way to release it
is to surrender to the fireworks inside of me,
and let my somatic movements
express everything
my mind can no longer contain.

Because I am allowed to open myself up and sink into the endless horizon that I am. Because I already chose the red pill the second I was born, far outside the illusion of your fabricated little matrix.

So yeah —I got my remote back. Or better yet, realised my remote was always me but it was unbeknownst to me, and like Neo I had to claim this self belief the hard way and maybe that’s exactly the core of this remote concept that you lot convince us we never had and pathologise us for.

I realised…
what if the restlessness inside me
was never restlessness at all?

What if it was just a part of me
waiting to be acknowledged?
Accepted?
Felt?
TRULY felt.
Witnessed.
Made safe to be seen
for the movement-art that I am.

My restlessness turns into street-poetry bars
and multidimensional dance styles
mashed into a one-take freestyle
packed with cosmic chaos and the overwhelming urge of:

I MUST RELEASE THIS NOWWWWWWW.

My ADHD was never a fucking disability.
It is my ART ATTACK.