Listen While You Read: "Bus In These Streets" — Thundercat
“Come forth, even if you forgot why you entered the room.
Let’s start here: I’ve died seventeen times this year.
Once in the bathtub after spiraling about never finishing anything.
Once in Target between the cleaning supplies and the fun pens.
Once after trying to explain my purpose to a system built like a bureaucratic tomb.
They call it ADHD. I call it a resurrection loop. A divine glitch in the Matrix. A constant Lazarus moment where I am both buried and reborn mid-sentence.
Not metaphorically. Spiritually. Neurobiologically. Mythically.
Imagine Lazarus as a neurodivergent mystic. She rises not with triumphant clarity but with a Post-it stuck to her foot and absolutely no memory of what she went into the underworld for.
She is barefoot. She is brilliant. She is blinking in the light of a life she forgot she asked for.
She is me.
She is you.
Come Forth, But Make It a Calendar Notification
The soul wants to incarnate.
The brain wants to rearrange your desktop icons for three hours.
The soul says, “This is the year we rise.”
The brain says, “Did I already eat lunch or am I starving?”
The sacred text is written in fragments.
Half-notes. Scribbled downloads. Tabs left open since last July.
But the call still comes.
And it doesn’t care if your inbox has 8,473 unread emails. It doesn’t care if your resurrection looks like a to-do list with nothing crossed off. It doesn’t care if you’re in pajamas crying over the absurdity of late-stage capitalism and a broken car battery.
The call still says:
“Come forth.”
Not when you’re ready.
Not when you’re organized.
Not when you’re finally consistent.
Now.
Even if you forgot why you walked into the goddamn room.
The Sacred Spiral of Misfired Synapses
ADHD is not a malfunction. It’s a metaphysical wormhole. A backdoor into the non-linear mystery.
We don’t march. We loop.
We double back.
We carry ancient blueprints in scattered memos across our bedroom floor.
This brain isn’t broken. It’s multidimensional.
It’s allergic to domestication.
It doesn’t focus on command because it’s listening for something deeper—
a frequency beyond the algorithm.
The hum of something ancient. Something holy. Something that sounds like—
"Wait, what were we talking about?"
The Path of the NeuroMystic
You are not behind.
You are between.
You are the sacred lag in the system. The buffer zone where truth slips in sideways.
While the world rewards efficiency, you resurrect the art of divine interruption.
Of saying, “No, I will not conform.”
Of creating altars from chaos.
Of building temples from piles of undone things.
The NeuroMystic is not just surviving.
She is channeling, unconsciously decoding dimensions while forgetting the laundry.
She is tapped in.
Unscheduled.
Highly sensitive to the subtle.
Half here, half in the Akashic Records.
Risen, Glitching, Glorious
So here’s what I’m saying:
If you are still here, blinking in the glow of another day you weren’t sure you could live through—
If your mind is a kaleidoscope,
If your life looks like drafts in a folder titled “One Day,”
If your resurrection is messy, nonlinear, and makes no goddamn sense—
Welcome.
You are not late.
You are not lost.
You are Lazarus 3.0: NeuroSpiritual Edition.
And we are building a sanctuary for the resurrected here.
A place for the ones who come back different.
A place for the ones who’ve had to die to remember.
Come forth.
Even if you forgot why you entered the room.
Especially if you forgot.
You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
If this sermon hit your resurrection bone, forward it to your favorite space cadet. Subscribe for more transmissions for the nonlinear, the luminous, and the uncontainable.
