[Intro] Duisburg — industrial soot on my tongue, steel in my spine, and even if the slipped disc says, “stay quiet,” I won’t decline. I know the difference between a pause and surrender in my chest, and I don’t rule it out — that’s my absolution, that’s the test. Truth don’t wear a dress. It comes naked. And it comes mad. I called it out. It stood beside me, and proved what I had. [Verse 1] They turned human beings into numbers — credit score, digits, risk class, pushed to the back where the silence slumbers. No account, no code, no discount, no slot that I can fit, but I refuse to stretch my worth into a label on a list. Two point three nine five stamped back on the paper in bold, like my back didn’t crack on March twenty-second outta nowhere, outta cold. Like pain was just a clerical mistake, a booking error in the system, like flesh and nerve got an IBAN, some account number to twist them. I don’t fill out the forms out of laziness, I do it out of fear, fear I’ll become an object again, not a subject they can hear. Family court, guardianship papers, father, thinker, witness in the frame, then file number, statutes, expert questions — trying to shrink my name. Forty-five percent activity lost, that’s what the numbers say, but no statistic knows the second my child looks at me and I stay. Still here. Not gone. Not broken by the page. A father in the room, even while I’m trapped inside the cage. [Hook] From dust, a spark. From pain, a song. I’m not a code you delete when I don’t make profit strong. I am — and I stay — human. Not your number, not your scale. Truth don’t wear a dress, and I won’t dress it up for sale. [Verse 2] Whoever holds the language holds reality by the throat, that case came because my words didn’t fit the power boat. They called it false testimony — even “alleged” is a choice, a rhetorical cage with bars made out of legal voice. I told the truth — not a version, not a tactic, not a play, no strategic silence, no polished narrative to sway. And the system punished me — not for the lie, but for the strain, for the stubbornness of honesty, for a truth that wouldn’t tame. ADHD in a file drawer: deficit, hyper, disorder on the tag, never: systems thinker, quantum reader, emergent signal in the drag. Language tailors suits for bodies that don’t fit the mold, and when you don’t fit, they medicate, forget you, leave you cold. Museums as mausoleums — we praise the ghosts behind the glass, laws as cage bars in the mind, while thinking doesn’t get to pass. A dress of lies is easy when everybody wears it hand in hand, I rip it off and stand naked in the truth they can’t withstand. [Bridge] I saw quanta in the chaos, consciousness inside the stone, systems intertwined where the lies fall apart on their own. Not a control freak — just humility at the core, I don’t rule out the unknown; that keeps me from the floor. The observer changes the field it tries to measure, the self that knows masking is exhaustion, not some treasure. Not a deficit — a signal in the noise, emergent truth in a system that never gave us a voice. Holobiont: ninety-nine percent of me is shared, I’m never alone, even when the room feels aired. Ventral-vagal — when safety arrives, the mask can burn, and in dignified losing, a real beginning can return. [Verse 3] Masking — metabolic energy burned around the edges, I played, mirrored, filtered, till silence became my pledge. The body keeps score even when the mind looks away, and sooner or later the back breaks what the soul won’t say. The accident was a wake-up call — not fate, not divine wrath, just a system that kept me sleeping for twenty years on the wrong path. But now I’m awake: a chem tech reading reactions in the air, knowing emergence rises where perfection fails to stay square. I’m the error in the system — and that ain’t a defect, I’m the crack in the concrete where the first green comes next. I sleep with myself — that’s my ethical compass, my measure, not applause, not likes, not the system that forgot I was treasure. Philanthropy ain’t a donation dropped into a jar, it’s the act that moves the whole through every single scar. Highest metacognitive truth: don’t hoard, don’t flee, know what you are — and pass that knowing on cleanly. From dust comes a spark. From pain comes a song. From Duisburg comes a voice that won’t wear a mask for long. [Final hook] From dust, a spark. From pain, a song. I’m not a code you delete when I don’t make profit strong. I am — and I stay — human. No account, no discount. Truth don’t wear a dress, and my back carries the account.
