Reflections

Unsecured, Uncontained, Unprotected

Reflections on my earliest experiences with published writing

Some of my earliest experiences with writing come from my contributions to the SCP Foundation project. As a teenager, I became fascinated with this online-based, community-driven horror writing project, detailing the activities of a secretive supra-governmental organisation designed to contain and secure world-ending creatures, objects and phenomena. Inspired to be a part of the project, I penned two contributions which still stand today, SCP-2389 and SCP-3228. These are some of the earliest pieces of writing that I have ever had published in any format.

As the idea of super-governmental entities acting, with paranormal interests, to conceal things from the general population seems to come increasingly closer to fact than fiction, I was inspired to re-visit my experience with the SCP Foundation. This included looking at what I had saved in my “sandbox” area on the website where I had my work-in-progress pieces. I was surprised to find a poem that I have only a vague recollection of creating, written from the perspective of one of the foundation’s “test subjects”.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedCorridors. Red lights. Left turns and rights.
Another door in sight as the sirens
wail in fright, trapped in this place forever,
crying. Dying. The sound muffles my
mumbling, stumbling through this endeavour.

I have no name.
Just a number.

I don't know, don't know where or who or what.
A void fills my mind, keeps me blind and
All I can find in my thoughts is grey walls
and concrete on repeat. Where am I?
Heart beats like a butterfly. Who am I?

It would be a lie to say
that I wasn't scared.

There! What's that? Oh, just
another body, once somebody, another one
dead. He's done. Take the gun and run.
He's fucked. He's screwed, shit I'm fucked
I'm gonna die alone and unknown with no friends, no family, no name.

Just a number.

Corridors, red lights, left turns and rights,
I feel like I've been here before. Where am I?
Is this where I started? Or another dead end?
Every way is the same, grey and grey,
concrete on repeat, following my feet.

Is this how it ends?

The door to the office is distorted,
disfigured, destroyed, and the bodies inside
have suffered the same fate.
Spools of limbs in pools of blood,
in the place where salvation came too late.

I didn't ask for any death,
but I am powerless now.

Light breaks in where the metal is bent,
Rays of hope from heaven, sent
to guide me from this roaring hell,
this empty cell. Memories of my former self
would help but they've been swallowed whole
by snakes and eels, torn seals, and the last of
my past traded for a chance at freedom.
Now look at me - I may have escaped but I'm still alone,
nothing more than just skin and bone.
Institutes, orange suits - all I've known
means nothing now. Maybe one day I can answer
that question of identity, find serenity, but for now

I have no name.
Just a number.

Judging by the timestamp, this piece is around 8 years old, which would time perfectly with some of my poetry experiences towards the end of school. While I wouldn’t seriously focus on poetry until my experiences with studying dentistry led me to reconsidering how I was showing up in the world, it’s clear I saw the value of poetry to give voice to my inner realm.

Given I am now focused on sharing and working directly with others in poetic fashion, the community element of the SCP project is something I’m thinking a lot about as I write this piece. The conventions and themes of the writing were community-driven, with vibrant community-led writing rooms for feedback, and voting systems to allow the best pieces to rise to the top in a true free-marketplace of literary ideas backed by an organically-forming community. If that isn’t a demonstration of voluntaryism and anarchism at its finest, then I’m not sure what is.

I believe part of everyone’s mission in life is to transmute the experiences they have within this world, passing on the insight they receive for the benefit of future generations. The details and the context will differ greatly from one being to another, but the overarching purpose is the same. We were not born to bottle-up our inner turmoil or expressions of joy. We were not born to be lone wolves - at least, not for our entire lives. We were born to be in communion with other souls within this matrix we call Planet Earth. We were born to exchange.

The SCP project has taught me the power of sharing my written creations with the world. Poetry has taught me the power of sharing my soul with the world.

It’s for this reason that I’m honoured to be hosting the upcoming Non-Conformist Series from Anarchapulco later this week to highlight others who are using their chosen creative mediums to shift false narratives and create a more free world around us. We’ll have talks from Bob Moran, Andrew Treglia, Brother Ali and many others - and I’ll also be contributing a talk of my own on the power of poetry in giving voice to our innate sovereignty. Check out the button below to find out more - and if you’re all-in, you can use the code MASTERYOURWORD for a nice 10% discount.