Coming back from war with the parasite from paradise was like waking up inside a new body.
Same skin —
but different wiring.
I was thinner.
Scarred.
But clear.
The illusions had burned off.
The noise had dissolved.
There was no audience.
No applause.
Just breath.
And the blueprint.
So I started building again.
Not the kind of building I used to do — not noise and momentum and trying to prove I exist.
This time, it was different.
Measured. Intentional. Rooted.
I started with the basics:
Fitness.
Clean eating.
Breath control.
Sleep discipline.
Nothing sexy. Nothing spiritual.
Just structure — the kind that turns chaos into peace.
Then came the revenue.
I found ways to work again.
To create. To sell.
To build systems that didn’t need to cost me my soul.
Every cent I earned became a seed.
Then came the land.
We found a property.
Green. Quiet.
A jungle feel — but safe.
Open sky. Good vibes.
And beneath it, like some strange metaphor carved into stone…
a bomb shelter.
That’s where I built my studio.
Soundproofed walls.
Cables and herbs.
Crystals and bass traps.
This wasn’t just a space — it was a sanctum.
Where I could make music again.
Not to chase clout.
But to express truth.
To transmit.
Everything I had lived through —
Sudan, Cambodia, Ghana, Peru, Costa Rica —
was now memory inside melody.
Rhythm encoded with reality.
Pain woven into production.
I wasn’t trying to be “someone” anymore.
I’d already watched that version of me get eaten alive —
by parasites, by poverty, by pressure.
What I was building now wasn’t for them.
It was for me.
And for the few who were truly ready to hear it.
I set up the cannabis farm next.
Medicine. Nature. Work with your hands.
Grow something real.
The lifestyle became simple, sacred, and strong.
I trained.
I wrote.
I played with my kids.
I made beats underground while the sun burned above.
And for the first time in a long time…
I felt at ease.
Not because nothing could hurt me —
but because I was no longer afraid of being broken.
I had already been shattered.
And I had rebuilt myself from bone.
This wasn’t survival anymore.
This was strategy.
This was sovereignty.
And something inside me whispered:
Now… you’re ready.
Chapter 10: The Parasite from Paradise
It started as an itch. Just a small red bump on my leg — easy to ignore in the jungle. Mosquito? Spider? Didn’t think much of it. Until it didn’t go away. Until it started growing. Then another appeared. And another. Then the skin began to open. Literally — peeling [...]| Play | Cover | Release Label |
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