Malik Isaac

I'm like diogenes ...but black and from the suburbs.

My dream job—if I wasn’t broke—beyond the MMA, beyond the philosophy, beyond the screenwriting and novels… would have been to become a general in the U.S. military, or to join the CIA.

Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to do so.

So I figured:
If I can’t wage war for the body of the nation,
I’ll wage war for its soul, its mind, its psyche—through art, film, and media.

What else does a soldier fight for—die for—but a home to come back to?

And there is no home more sacred, more entitled to sovereignty, than one’s own mind.

It is one thing to take a man’s arm, his leg, his property.
It is another matter altogether to rob a man of his spirit—
the only thing in this world he can truly claim as his own.

That, to me, is a cardinal sin.

Once the Lord leaves someone… there ain’t no fight left in them.

And it is the will of every organism—conscious or not—to assert its boundaries.

And a nation… lives.

I was going through acute psychosis at the tail end of high school.which is the resonant i cant Join the military or the CIA

It lasted about four years.

I thought I was smart before,
but man, I found out real quick shit wasn't sweet.
There are forces beyond what we can concretely see.

I spoke to the devil.
He broke down every false assumption I had about myself, people, the world.

Every day was a battle.
Just hours and hours of debating everything to its necessary and final conclusion.
And if I was wrong, I didn’t get to sleep at night.

Waking up to screams—
the feeling of being touched by invisible hands.

But there are a few things that stuck with me.

I think if I were to be a man of any temperament,
it would be like the voice that spoke to me
one day when I was skipping class in college
(when my mind wasn’t being besieged).

He asked me why I traded my potential for fleeting soft comfort.

I told him:
I just don’t have it in me anymore.
There’s no hope, nothing to aspire towards—
just endless cycles of waking consciousness
interrupted by voids and the occasional dream.
How could I love a world that doesn’t love itself—
and, as a consequence, me?

He said he understood.
He remained silent for a moment.
Then he told me:

You have lost your heart, that much is clear.
But you must find a cause—not of yourself, but for another, or for others.
Then you will find the former in the latter.
You will have found yourself.

I asked him who he was.
He said: Alexander.

I was like there's no way

he laughed and said ,yes.. I am who you think I am