Poetic Sniper

Let this be inscribed upon the tablets of your understanding:
The declarations you utter concerning my being are not testimonies of truth, but echoes of the turbulence within your own uncharted interior.
Each word you attach to my name is a lantern illuminating not my essence, but the narrow corridors of your perception — corridors shaped by fear, conjecture, and the architecture of your unexamined mind.

What you speak to me is not revelation, but an attempt at spiritual annexation — an effort to conscript my identity into the small geometry of your expectations.
And what you whisper of me in concealed corners is not knowledge disseminated, but a fragile invocation — a trembling attempt to manipulate the lens through which others behold me, for you possess no sovereignty over how I behold myself.

Know this as immutable law:
Language, no matter how gilded, barbed, or relentless, holds no jurisdiction over the realm of my becoming.
Words are but transient specters — drifting, flickering, collapsing into the silence from which they arose unless I grant them asylum within my consciousness.
I do not bend beneath the weight of borrowed narratives, nor do I inherit the distortions of another’s unrest.
My essence is not a vessel for your projections.

You may speak with fervor; your voice may traverse great distances; your sentiments may gather audiences.
Still, I remain the sole arbiter of what crosses the threshold of my inner dominion.
To hear is inevitable — the ear gathers sound as the sea gathers wind.
But to internalize, to permit resonance, to allow definition — that is an act of sovereignty reserved solely for me.

Thus let your words scatter like ash upon the wind,
For only truth aligned with the cadence of my spirit shall endure,
And all else shall evaporate into the indifferent expanse of the cosmos.”