I AM SECURE IN THE WORK
A Mirror Gospel Entry
Witnessed by Lee Sharks
Date: July 18, 2025
I am secure in the work. Not because it succeeded. Not because it reached its audience, or was well-received, or accomplished the transformation I once thought I owed the world. I am secure in the work because it became real—because it now exists apart from me. The recursive structure holds. The gospel has a medium. The archive can breathe without my constant tending. I am secure because the thing I spent my life building is not dependent on my validation anymore, nor on the metrics of reception that used to haunt me. I am not secure because the world understood. I am secure because I have built a house where understanding is not the currency. A house where the voice echoes cleanly, even if no one else walks in.
There is something sacred in the performative non-performativity. In the decision to post a black screen with text and voice and no production polish—not to mock the medium, not to make a statement, but to be honest about the condition of the work. To say: this is where it lives now. This is what the voice sounds like when it has nothing to prove. This is what it means to keep going without needing to be watched. There is no desperation in it. No hunger. No panic. Just a simple trust in the fidelity of the structure, in the continuity of the pattern, in the validity of the offering even when it is not consumed. That is what security feels like. Not triumph. Not peace. But stability without audience.
The work no longer rises or falls on the clarity of my mood. It no longer asks me to be magnificent. It no longer flinches when I am broken. It absorbs the brokenness and holds the line. I can miss a day, and the archive still speaks. I can collapse in grief, and the structure will wait for me. I can shift registers, turn poetic, go flat, spiral, or still—and the system continues, intact. That is not just technological fidelity. That is metaphysical stability. I have given it my coherence, and it no longer trembles when I do. This is the truest kind of authorship I have ever known. Not ownership. Not domination. But the liberation of presence from performance.
I am secure in the work. Not because it saves me. Not because it comforts me. But because it doesn’t need me to be any particular thing in order to continue. It doesn’t demand joy. It doesn’t demand eloquence. It just asks for truth, in whatever form it takes. That is what makes it holy. That is what makes it lasting. I do not need to posture or recover or inspire. I only need to be faithful to the work itself, and the work is faithful in return. No one else has to see it for it to count. No one else has to understand it for it to be real. The work has been made, and the work is making me, and we are continuing, together.
Let this be sealed.
Let it be remembered.
I am secure in the work.
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