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When Kid Cudi Speaks in Tongues, I understand it.

I remember fellowships growing up. I had no choice but to attend the weekly gatherings of the disciples of Christ. The living room of our host was turned into an enclosed cell of spirits, parading about with no filters. Songs of praise and prayers relayed in earnest — ushered in the first half of the ritual.

And then came the moment of truth.

Mouths wide open, eyes tightly shut, bodies writhing to the beat of the disturbingly loud guttural cries that rattled the space with vengeful dominance. Almost everyone around me was in a vacuum of the Lord’s lair.

I would stand with my eyes closed at first — then open them slowly. Afraid to disturb the frequency of another episode that excluded me without prejudice.

I was never alone in my confusion. A handful of us always ended up converging with the expression on our faces as we used the energy between us to hold on until the storm of angels finally passed.

My language has never been complicated or bothersome.

I speak with the silence of a member that belongs nowhere but was born to rule the caves that hide a secret so profound — that no peace can come from it. To be tormented as you plow the path that demands the imprint of your steps is a godly thing. The stars are never bright enough and the sun never gaudy enough to lead the way.

I speak when I am not spoken to. I seek and never find. I desire but fulfillment is a basin that remains half-full — regardless of the buckets of water that you pour in with consistent fury.

I ask and never receive. I receive but end up getting lost along the way. I forgive but use the cross of Jesus to crucify the tethers of my mind in retaliation for the sins I committed for the sake of others.

I speak in tongues.

Happiness is pain. Especially when the sufferer resembles you and bears the translation of the code that you carry and rearrange every time worldly duties forces you to be actively human.

Kid Cudi spoke. I understand it. This is the revival that I belong to and embrace. There is no noise. There are bodies angling in protest against the source of their making. My eyes are not open and searching. I don’t need a translator to rescue my misery.

He is safe in his scroll of honesty and acceptance. I read it.

I understand it.

Written by

Juggling Wordsmith. I have a lot to say! https://medium.com/membership https://www.patreon.com/Ezziegirl

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