Just Mirrors Because You Dont Want This Smoke

 They made a game out of my "delay"...but I walk my own path. Why else would they need to "keep up"?.

“Pop the Balloon”—a phrase that once symbolized joy, surprise, and celebration—became the mockery of my womb, my wisdom, and my waiting. It was never just about babies or love. It was about the illusion of readiness, of opportunity, of choice. But beneath the balloons and theatrics was something darker: a ritual of removal...while trapping to blackmail and silence.

As the crowd watching Dorothy float away in a hot air balloon, feeling reunited with purpose, restored in timing and "home" - instead, I was left on the ground, while the towns people pop, mock and drop it, to blow me into the direction of homelessness because other celebrities who were competing for my legacy "worked hard", despite being homeless, watching a proxy float off with my storylines without even opening the door to communication. 

Mental Health professionals chose to mock that “We’re not in Kansas anymore,” laughing. No—I wasn’t. They were trafficking me through several states, to see where I fit in based on their needs, using judgements put on me. They were hoping that I was no longer in my rightful spiritual or ancestral timeline. I had been symbolically and physically evicted as a humiliation ritual...for the next reset to repeat history (for those unaware).

And then came the question: “Where’s your baby?” Not as concern—but as performance points. Not as empathy—but as mockery through others who they forced covid tests on, to than blame injuries on the home. They collectively knew. They knew the balloon had already been popped. They needed me under the belief that my timeline had already been hijacked. And in the wings stood someone else—prepared, protected, and platformed—ready to step into a role that was once mine.

Just like Sophia Stewart. The "mother of The Matrix", erased. Her vision, mined. Her name, minimized. She, too, birthed the blueprint—and watched as others were crowned with it. And then there were the red shoes, from the characters who help keep the carbon tax down.

Not Dorothy’s shimmering slippers of "return", but Hans Christian Andersen’s cursed shoes—where the dance never ends. A forced performance with no contact, a never-ending spin to distract from the truth. Dance around subjects. Every step choreographed by unseen hands. Every move watched. Every delay blamed on me. They called it “free will.” But the steps were prewritten to "follow" and adhere to, without question...so that I'd miss my own "timeline" that they were competing with or that I appear as a mimic. 

Sue Stewart once laughed, mocking me in a meeting that I hosted in 2020 saying, ‘If you lost your shoe after midnight, it’s probably because you were drunk.’ But that’s how they frame it, right? Not a transformation through "healing" and solitude. Not a spell broken. Just shame. They throw your slipper in the trash and call it your fault it didn’t fit or that I didn't dance - either hard enough or danced too hard on.

The room laughed. But I didn’t. Because that wasn’t just a jab—it was a message. A symbolic slap dressed up as sarcasm. Midnight has always marked a transition point in myth, memory, and magic. Cinderella left the ball, not because she was drunk, but because the illusion was timed to expire.

They made sure I danced just long enough to miss cues they prepared for—to miss family opportunities, love, money, independence - my moment. And when I stopped dancing, they called me bitter. When I looked for my baby, they pointed to the proxy. And when I asked for justice, they said, “You should’ve known the dance.” But I didn’t pop. I paused. And now I speak—into the silence they tried to fill with noise. Into the absence they tried to brand as failure. Into the void they created by scripting my delay and stealing my dawn.

Because I was never unready. I was interrupted...so they tried to program my nerves into "Girl, Interrupted"...while layering the walls with cushion so I'd be comfortable there. And me? I was already past the curfew they tried to trap me in. The shoe didn’t disappear—I was stepping out of systems that tried to claim it.