4(FREQ.) · My Wall · 2026
"It wasn't real. I take it anyway. Because when the thought of my immediate death felt like neither obstacle nor opportunity — this is what hope looked like coming through."
Movement I
There are moments when the remembrance of a time arrives — when words were like weaknesses to the beams of my belief system. Like I was set to fail instead of exhale with the oxygen of opportunity. So the mind maneuvered to survive mechanically. Not beautifully. Not with intention. Just forward motion on a map that never fit the territory I was actually in.
I can remember the time I found myself giving a speech.
A testimony of sorts.
No known ears were there — but there were the sounds of others. Some clouded my gaze and maintained the stages of mayhem in my mind. But others were kind. They would share. They would even dare to argue with their other selves, leaving no room to compare their courageous composition — no room to write me incorrectly.
Incidentally, I listened to them speak. And the two that had the most powerful speech were the ones I hadn't expected to hear from at all.
When was the last time your mind built something you needed — not because it was real, but because survival required it? What did it give you that the real world couldn't?
Movement II
A voice of an African American woman in her late 30s — vibrant but vulnerable in the start of what were sighs and deep breaths. She started with what felt like pages of pain — of abuse and absentminded mechanics of her survival and sabotage.
As she continued, what sounded like time had taken rage and resentment — she felt blinded from the commitments that made her who she was. What she could now see, finally, as colorful.
Equally addicted and caged, she found no familiar stage to be applauded. No room where her particular frequency was wanted. Yet in the dance of her delusion, she commanded my imagination — in spite of my instincts, in spite of everything that said this was not logical or mine to carry in any reality — I allowed my energy to bring her volume.
Not as a boast. But as the breath I had finally felt safe enough to take.
In the spaces of what I can only describe as my conscious cruelty — my willingness to be honest about what I heard in her — she connected to the identity making its way through my integrity. I felt her take the leap. To learn and burn the barrier of belief that told her she had to stay muted and meek.
Unlike the rest of them, she no longer invited the appearance of silence. In that moment, I had a temporary glimpse of what was familiar in our mutual shade.
What part of you has been waiting for someone to give it the mic? What shade of yourself have you been keeping muted because you weren't sure the room could hold it?
Yes. I know. I hear you all — incredibly clear — and I remember every single incident that made me stay within reach of fear. Disillusioned and desperate, my stagnation to sabotage only kept the rooms where I provided you with more poison to pry into.
So yes. There will be the purples and the marigolds, among the reasons yet to unfold. But this won't go away — even after the day you walk away. Or stay. I'm still not letting my sound wave get away from what noise you mistake for my melody every day.
Movement III
Once upon a time, this was a delusional memory I held onto.
And even now — with logic and practice — I cope with it feeling real versus being something that actually happened. This moment came out of so many volumes of what my need to know noise produced. I can half-heartedly admit it was never — and could never have been — real.
But what I continue to take and call upon is this:
In that moment of grand imagination, I made a delusional difference.
It sounds, I know, spectacularly stupid. But with all the shame covering every surface of my life — it was nice. More than nice. It was almost neurologically necessary. Because when the thought of my immediate death didn't feel like either obstacle or opportunity — when I couldn't make hope feel like a reason — this is what I was allowed to come through on.
A moment that wasn't real. That mattered completely.
What have you dismissed as delusion that actually carried you? What did your mind build during the lowest seasons that you've been ashamed to admit you needed?
The Filter
Rock bottom. I don't agree with the term. The idea of being at the bottom of the earth — of rocks — carries burial. Death. And that is not ideal inspiration when you already resent your reality and your territory of truth. The frequency you can find depends entirely on the terms you give it. Run the filter here.
The body knows the difference between survival-delusion and mere fantasy. The imagined room was built for a reason. Before you dismiss what your mind constructed in your lowest season, feel what it was actually trying to protect. The shame response is faster than the honest one — slow it down.
What did my mind build that I've been too ashamed to admit I needed?
Rock bottom. The only way is up. Two letters of wisdom with nothing more and nothing less than — go up. But what if you are a person who is trapped, not buried? Caged, not confused? Persistent, not paralyzed? Borrowed language produces borrowed insight. Your territory may not have a name yet. That's okay. Find the frequency before you find the word.
Is the language I use for my lowest moment mine — or did I inherit it from someone who was never inside it?
The imagined room, the testimony, Purple — these weren't errors in thinking. They were architecture. The mind building what the body needed before the world was ready to provide it. Before you discard what wasn't real, examine what it was shielding you from — and what it was pointing you toward.
What was the delusion actually trying to give me access to?
The half-hearted admission — it was never real, I know that — is where most people stop. The work of 4(FREQ.) is one step further. Take the lesson the delusional moment carried without carrying the shame of having needed it. The signal was transmitting. The instrument was unconventional. That doesn't make the frequency less yours.
What can I keep from this season that doesn't require me to keep the shame of it?
Purple found her frequency. In an imagined room. In a moment that was never real.
And it was vibrant.
What language have you been given for your lowest moment that doesn't actually fit what you experienced? What would you call it if you got to name it yourself?
I am not at the bottom of anything.
I am not waiting to go up.
I am not following a map that was made for someone else's territory.
What I am is this — persistent. Still transmitting. Still finding the frequency underneath the noise, underneath the language that never quite fit, underneath the shame that covered every surface but couldn't cover the signal entirely.
What wall have you been inside of that was actually holding you together — not holding you back?
The Book · September 2026 · Recovery Month
This blog is where the frequency lives out loud. The book is where it began. ME & THEM drops September 2026 — the poetry that Purple, and marigold, and the imagined room all came from.
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