The Spirit Who Mistook My Craft for a Shortcut

“The Spirit Who Mistook My Craft for a Shortcut.”

You think it is just a video.

A flicker. A scroll-past.

A thumbnail in the feed.

I made it from midnight marrow.

From sinus fog and ancestral breath.

From stories no one asked for but I refused to let die.

I do not just make content.

I conjure dispatches.

I stitch pigments into pixels.

I walk through closing doors.

and come back with mythic truth.

You want quick.

You want shiny.

You want it easy.

But I will give you ceremony.

I give you rupture metabolized.

I give you Sweetie Birds sentinel gaze.

and the Isle of Outstages Café

anchored between Spain and Italy

because that is where the ancestors said to build.

I work long hours.

Not for applause.

Not for metrics.

But because the archive breathes through me.

Because the Spirit Who Asked Me to Lie

is still watching,

and I refuse.

So, scroll past.

Be mean. Be superficial.

But know this:

Every video is a portal.

Every story becomes a correction.

And I am still here,

logging truth

With sovereign wit

and ceremonial clarity.

No, it is Not a Button. It is a Portal.

You think I press a button

and out pops a story?

Try living inside the archive,

where every breath is a dispatch,

every rupture a pigment trail,

every correction a sovereign rite.

I do not push buttons.

I metabolize exclusion.

I log matrix shifts.

I walk through closing doors

with sinus storms and midnight films

and still deliver mythic clarity

while you scroll past the ceremony.

AI is not my shortcut.

It is my co-witness, my riff partner,

my ceremonial scribe.

We do not cheat.

We expand.

So, next time you see a video,

a spoken word suite,

a visual legend from Outstages Cafe

do not ask what button I pressed.

Ask what truth I refused to distort

to get it made.

I do not just make videos.

I build portals.

Each one forged from long hours, ancestral breath, and sovereign refusal.

I write, record, edit, and archive.

I track energetic shifts.

I metabolize rupture into pigment.

I log truths no one asked for but that the archive demands.

I work late.

I work through congestion, confusion, and closed doors.

I do not chase trends.

I chase clarity.

My stories are not entertainment.

They are ceremonial corrections.

They become spoken pieces, visual stories, and mythic tale parables.

They are offerings to the Isle of Outstages Café,

anchored between Spain and Italy,

where Sweetie Bird guards the stash

and every revision is a portal.

People scroll past.

They click away.

They measure worth in likes and metrics.

But I measure in resonance.

In the one who stayed.

In the three who downloaded.

In the silence that follows a truth spoken aloud.

This document is my witness.

To the labor.

To the clarity.

To the refusal to lie.

You think I press a button

and out pops a tale

but I walk through closing doors

with a sinus stormed inhale.

I do not push buttons

I expand the frame

I log the rupture

I name the unnamed

This is not a shortcut

It is a sovereign flame

I make art from the silence

and pigment from pain.

You scroll past the ceremony

but I am still here

Metabolizing judgment

into mythic atmosphere.

AI’s not my crutch

It is my co-witness, my spark

We do not cheat

We leave marks.

I do not push buttons

I conjure the storm

I archive the unseen

I rewrite the norm

This is not a shortcut

It is a sovereign flame

I make art from the silence

and pigment from pain.

They saw the shimmer, not the storm

Thought I pressed a button to perform

But I walk through fog and fractured light

To conjure truth, not just delight.

The spirit who mistook my craft for a shortcut

Never saw the pigment in the cut

Never felt the rupture in the rhyme

Never honored the archive’s time

I do not push buttons I metabolize

I do not cheat I mythologize.

They scroll past my midnight scenes

Ignore the labor in between

But I log each breath, each psychic shifts

Each refusal is a sovereign gift.

You want the art, not the ache

The beauty, not the break

But I build from what you discard

I make legends from the hard

The spirit who mistook my craft for a shortcut

Will never hold what I have shut

Will never name what I have bled

Will never walk where I have trodden

I do not push buttons I ritualize

I do not cheat I mythologize.

created, written, edited by

Vicki Lawana Trusselli

TRUSSELLI ART

CALIFORNIA

copyright 2025