Authenticity

They asked, What is authentic?

I said, “me!” “I am”. I dare you to find another version of me? That owns a copy of my fingerprint, or an identical pathway to my philosophy. With the same roads carved in my mind. The tones in my hair and the language in my eyebrows. I dare you to find someone who drinks laughter, to release it through the orgasms of their creativity. I dare you to find someone who hugs by giving you a slap round the face, and cries for the absence in your life. The vessels in my vocal chords are irreplaceable, they chime in the melody of truth, recognised only by a few. That is authenticity, a great Prophecy.

The most authentic thing I’ve ever met is I, even when i was once covered in layers of hypocrisy to please the monsters in my city. then, authenticity meant to protect myself and draw unlimited smiles on dads face, and raise the bar of my mothers hope. I woke up to the fact that i didn’t need to come tagged, like the cows in Roger’s farm or approved like a Chanel bag that would not be able to find its way back home if it got lost. I was became, the day i won the race to fertilise that egg. I dare you to find an identical DNA to my story or a twin to my glory.

Isn’t this arrogance, narcissistic so they asked? No. All i said was I’m the most authentic person i know. I didn’t say i was better than you, her, him or it. Because if I did, deep down it means I’m digging a grave for my soul to be an evolved version of someone I’m not supposed to be. Why would i do that when i am already the Golden project of my throne.