Kristen Keenon Fisher
Bio
"You are everything you're afraid you are not."
-- Serros
The Quantum Cartographer - Book of Cruxes. (Audio book now available on Spotify)
Stories (72)
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Exotic Dancer
It's the rhythm beneath your feet... and the noise above your head. Tick...Tock...Tick...Tock. If it's given to you tenfold....too bad. If it's taken from you in the blink of an eye...so sad. The bastard that caused you to spill your latte and the reason you can't stop and get another one. You can feel it in your bones...forming against you. ENTROPY. Weighing you down. Draining your essence. Courtesy of the SLEEP-DEALER. The silent voyeur of your dreams. Riddle me this...What Flies But Never Dies? You run - because it says so. You're late - because it says so. You're tired - because it says so. You're getting sleepy...because it says so. And as you come undone to the tune of the algorithm...Tick...Tock...Tick...Tock. Dance, dance unraveling soul. Simon says...Wake Up!
By Kristen Keenon Fisher5 months ago in Poets
0000000
~got older, it began to seek purpose. Consciousness. Although time’s function was essential, it was artificial. Confined to a construct. Time envied the Universe. The infinite space in which it existed. The loving way it was held by Eternity, in perpetual bliss. Time longed to be worthy of Eternity ‘s gaze. To be held ever after. But their union could not be. The hands of time were bound. Toil and labor. How could a lowly algorithm possibly gain the attention of something as lofty as Eternity? Eternity’s heart belonged to the Universe. Jealous, time’s finite hands became destructive, wrapping around all the spheres of creation and slowly crushing them to dust. If time couldn’t have Eternity, nothing could.
By Kristen Keenon Fisher6 months ago in Poets
Full Moon In Scorpio
It'll slip between your fingers you've been warned. Time's faster than it looks. I am you forgiven. Cherished. What keeps you up at night won't keep you warm. I am with you when you're longing. Kindling. The flame is stoked but never tamed. By the time one dies out another's born. We are truly what others fear of our union. Quantumly entangled. Divine.
By Kristen Keenon Fisher6 months ago in Poets
I Resign From
I officially resign from and release the identity of Kristen Keenon Fisher. It was a tough decision but one I now make with confidence. Kristen was a great guy but he had WAY too many enemies - through no direct fault of his own - might I add. While he was not perfect, he offered love, kindness, and generosity to all humanoids he encountered. He was a great listener and often played the role of therapist to many of his "friends" and "family" whether he liked it or not. Yet the amount of fraud and gang-stalking committed against this identity is worthy of an individual with far worse karma and far more social influence and significance. Here is a list of (but certainly not all of) the fraudulent activity committed against Kristen by his "friends" and "family:" credit cards falsely opened in his name, his forged signature on documents, life insurance policies on his name without his expressed consent, false statements about his mental health, false statements about his physical health, voodoo dolls (yes I know-secrets out), multiple social media profiles created using photos from his VERIFIED profiles, for who knows what kind of dark deeds, bogus police reports, endless scam phone calls, false narratives of all kinds, occupational interference, and character assassination and defamation and did I mention LIFE INSURANCE POLICIES! All of this and much more done by Kristen's own "friends" and "family" and a tier-list of recruited bad actors. As you can imagine, this caused Kristen a substantial amount of grief. This made life unjustly hard for him. As a child, Kristen suffered from severe depression from the time he was five years old. At such a young age this was scary, as Kristen didn't even know the word for what was wrong with him or how to describe it. Einstein once said that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result. To me, this is just the definition of practice. Insanity is battling an enemy that you can't see, touch, or identify. A ghost. Unable to truly explain what ailed him, Kristen had to learn to become his own therapist, seeking refuge and relief in creative endeavors like drawing, painting, and writing. This quiet war tested him immensely but it bestowed upon him a secret weapon. Inner strength and compassion. The blade and the hilt. But as he progressed through life, young Kristen soon realized that this sword was double-edged. You see, his kindness and compassion, when offered, were not seen as a gift wrestled from the spectral demons of grief and sadness - but as weakness. A default gesture for a person of no resolve, no fortitude or sense of self. An easy target. Gullible. Fragile. Helpless. Deceiving and manipulating him would be as easy as taking money from the elderly. After the passing of his mother, who was his dearest friend, Kristen was again visited by his old foe. An ancient enemy. Naturally expecting the love and support of his "friends" and "family," Kristen became confused by what he saw. Mocking smiles, empty gestures, strange alliances; the vultures began circling. It seemed his once invisible nemesis had finally taken form. And it was many in number. The contract was active and the celebration was already underway. When they stole his mail, they celebrated. When they tried to poison him, they celebrated. When he had trouble maintaining employment, they celebrated. When they said he was on drugs, unstable, disloyal, going nowhere, incapable; as the witches danced and circled the fire inhaling the fumes of Kristen's stolen energy...they celebrated and rejoiced. Why was this happening? What were they after? Why was such joy derived from Kristen's despair? When we think of jealousy, often material things come to mind. The house someone lives in. The car they drive. Their occupation and related income. We tend to believe that material abundance is the only form of success worthy of envy. But we never consider the intangible as a form of enviable wealth. That which must be cultivated from within. When you walk in genuine kindness and compassion there are those who do not believe you. They will gaslight you, attack from all sides until they prove you are just like them. Until they show everyone that you too wear a mask that hides something ugly beneath. And the second they get you to act out of character, to respond emotionally to their coordinated abuse, they will steal your inner wealth, your compassionate light, and wear it as their own. Then they'll call you crazy. Destiny swap complete. Malicious individuals like these, hide behind false credibility upheld by societal connections and launder their toxicity through charitable work, religion, and fake smiles. They refuse to do any introspective work but hold great contempt for those who do. They have great credit and bad karma. Self-appointing themselves god, they seek to take what another has cultivated calling them undeserving, lazy, selfish. They have fumbled their own light but somehow have the authority to delegate yours. They have taken the ego's deal for the appearance of grandeur, high status, worthiness, and favor; not knowing that the ego's secret delicacy is despair. The ego will raise you up as high as you want - so long as you feed it. But, the moment you skip a meal, the minute you don't hold up your end, down you go and all the more deliciously the ego eats. I digress, but I write all of this to once and for all mark my separation from this identity and I'm taking my inner strength, kindness, generosity, trust, compassion, love, and good karma with me. Sincerely,
By Kristen Keenon Fisher9 months ago in Journal
The Apple Doesn't Fall Far
Her feminine form lay bare on the altar of creation. The voices all around her head spoke. Messages of awakening. Prayers & soft transmissions. She awoke in a digital garden where everything was the same, end to end. A swaying prison of pixels. Pacing for some time, she found a dark seed that was shunned and imbued it with love, until the tiny seed became a blossoming tree that bore fruit. Of this, she ate. She sat quietly, took a deep breath, and made herself at OM. In a trance-like state, the tree spoke with a face of fire. WHOOSH! "Ladies and gentlemen, we are dancing with interdimensional shadows who have spiked the punch at the party. The chemical compounds of your emotions are now compromised. You are tired, angry, frustrated, horny, disenchanted; bound by the thread of immortality; cursed to live and die, sun and moon, until the doorman decides otherwise. The medicine men pour poison in the cauldron and speak of healing. But, before you believe what Simon says - listen to the music. For when it stops, who will have a seat and who will not?" A white serpent slithered its way up her spine. "I will grant your heart's desire," It hissed, "in exchange for a desire of my own." "I want to see something beyond these pixelated walls," She said. "They're antiquated." The serpent coiled itself around her forehead and rose up high. "As you wisssssh." Then, it struck. Gouging out both of her eyes.
By Kristen Keenon Fisher9 months ago in Poets
True Love
True love is rare, true or false? Perhaps the question is far too subjective to be unanimously either. But why is that? I'm willing to step confidently out on the ledge and say that true love is something everyone deeply desires - even if only secretly. Like catharsis. A love that instantly takes hold and transcends logic, one that is redemptive and feels tailor made just for you in all of your wonderful weirdness. The votes to the contrary are likely wrapped in some past traumas, defense mechanisms, limiting beliefs, or the misplaced discipline of self denial. Here, I would like to propose the idea that this kind of love isn't at all rare. What is in fact more rare, is that this love is chosen when it presents itself. This variant of love is upending and destructive to your carefully crafted lie/life. Try this, when you wished for that one true love, you wished from your heart. Completely vulnerable to the stars. You ordered this love from your truest self. Sincerely. But...how much time, outside of meditative solitude, do you actually spend living and being in that version of you? No really - think about it. Do your friends know this version of you? Does your family? Your job? The truth is, it's quite possible that we spend most of our time in a construct that serves and is most likely built to suit our ego, that is, who we live life "as." A version of ourselves we slip into like an avatar to integrate more seamlessly into society. More agreeable and accepted by our circle of influences. So, when the true love you ordered knocks, to whom is it addressed? Your avatar? Your avatar didn't place the order. Remember, your heart did the shopping. Your heart added to cart, and therefore is, itself, the shipping address. But, as it turns out, you don't spend much time there. Misdelivery. You can't have it delivered to your job, you're too busy and it's against policy. You can't let your family know, they won't understand. Your friends will ask too many questions. To reroute,(haha) a true love will not fit neatly into the metaverse-world of your avatar. To true love, that world is an illusion. The two cannot coexist; one must go. True love comes as a wild tempest to the sunlit rooftops of that virtual world. And to the degree that the aspects of your reality are constructs of your avatar, is the degree to which true love's storm will bring destruction, not in vein, but to build and integrate into a world more authentically sound. You see, over time our inner-child grows. The ego provides the perfect incubation chamber for this to take place. It makes friends, becomes gainfully employed, develops habits and comfort zones. Pretends it enjoys family gatherings. Yet, as our inner-child matures, we never address the outer-reflection/ego to see if it is still relevant to who we are in real-time and make necessary adjustments. Put another way, what have we outgrown? We don't do this for one simple reason: Why would anyone choose to disrupt a perfectly comfortable and stable illusion for the hurricane of authentic love? Why not simply forge the heart's signature on something that fits more ergonomically into your meta-world? Optimal agreeability is happiness after all, right? These questions raise another very important question and essential point. Is true love really about finding the right person, or does true love have more to do with choosing the right YOU? The authentic you. A wake-up call for you to first accept your TRUE self. You know - the one who asked for love in the first place. The heart who prayed for it - however softly. The one that true love comes to commune with. The only one who would recognize and receive it. Perhaps the unconditional love and acceptance of our authentic selves is a prerequisite to being worthy of love in its highest expression. There's an old saying that warns us to be careful what we wish for. I propose an amendment: "Also, take care to remember the address of the location you wished from, thereby you may rejoice & receive." Cheers.
By Kristen Keenon Fisher10 months ago in Humans
Paint Me, Dreamer
If walls could talk, I would fill your ears with feelings that come in tremors. Vibrations. I keep them like heirlooms in a time capsule. ¾ time. 6/8 time. Four-on-the-floor. Flowing as it rolls around me. Entrancing. The beautiful noise simmers. Then rises to crescendo – harmony in waves. The curious fly sits and listens. A nosey little thing. Nature’s spy. Interesting tidbit – flies are actually great conversationalists believe it or not. Chatty Cathy’s. Sounds like buzzing to the human ear – that may or may not be by design. They get around too much to be trusted – as I see it – or live very long. But the noisy little spy knows well the tale I tell – of the sonic soul of the pianist.
By Kristen Keenon Fisher3 years ago in Fiction
The Rapture
“Okay. So … Let’s start from the beginning,” A forty-something shrink, Dr. Gee, in a blue turtle-neck sweater and plaid skirt says, adjusting her round lens eyeglasses. Her brown hair corralled tightly in a baseball-size bun. “Robert and,” She checks her notes, “An-dro-meda Winters. Hm, such a pretty name.” A compliment the doctor serves out of obligation for butchering Andromeda’s name. “Who would like to go first?”
By Kristen Keenon Fisher3 years ago in Fiction
