This blog post gives me an opportunity to introduce you to Cyrus Hazim, an iDENTIFY “TLT” Tomorrow’s Leaders Today as well as one of my precious sons. Since 13 years old (all of his teen years), Cyrus has participated in all of Elev8Life educational foundation’s programs. He has recently returned from 6 months abroad with YWAM (Youth With a Mission) just in time for the long-awaited release of his first published literary work!
My mom/mentor heart couldn’t be more proud.
Please enjoy the following excerpts from CABOSSÉ WORLD‘a King Has Been Born; THE TRILOGY VOLUME ONE
Taken from the book section Cyrus refers to as LIBRARY I THE BIRTH OF A KING…
read this book — read these pages like
they are jewelry to be worn at your wedding,
like treasures to behold. read them delicately,
for in these pages lie gardens, gardens of flowers,
gardens of pain. may these sacred pages show you my
soul, my years of fear and loathing
and to my joyous years upon.
i give to you, Cabossé World The Trilogy
Volume One ‘a King Has Been Born
cabossé the word
to truly grasp the complexity of the creative genius displayed in the following pages, you must first learn the purest meaning of the word cabossé. phonetically pronounced |ka-bū-say|, cabossé translates from the late french meaning battered, in english. though in other contexts, based on how the word is used, cabossé may also translate as the word scarred. in every mention of the word cabossé, i am using its contextual translation meaning scarred.
fibrous connective tissue is the biological terminology for the pale pigmented skin that our scars are made of. in human biology an unharmed new epidermis will grow roughly every thirty days. this process our skin undertakes disposes of any superficial dead skin cells, replacing them continuously throughout our lifetimes.
when our bodies are ripped open and wounded, flesh broken, skin torn apart, thousands of triggered pain receptors transmit the agony to our brains. as our damaged flesh begins to heal from our wounds, our skin develops scabs to cover up those wounds. after such physical traumas have been endured, blood lost, and the pain afflicting our bodies has left us, a scar begins to form. ivory colored and pale, some appear as dents in our skin, some are long, and some are skinny with tiny ridges, like small mountain ranges rising from the surface of our healing wounds.
these tiny mountains, these ridges, are made from the fibrous connective tissue i mentioned above. fibrous connective tissue is the only area of our skin that does not participate in the rejuvenation process every thirty-odd days. in fact, they never rejuvenate at all. we usually consider our scars as healed wounds, but as scars, it is permanent fibrous connective tissue that has formed instead of new skin cells, and thus, our skin has not completely healed. why would i write this lengthy explanation of unharmed skin, fibrous connective tissues and the formation of our scars?
“i was once a collection of untended wounds, picked open scabs, flowers unkempt. i once was a starving silver soldier, petals inside an abandoned garden. this is the story of those flowers, an unattended wound. this is my story, the story of cyrus hazim, and the resilience inside his soul.”
cyrus isaac hazim — untold;
when i was ten years old i endured an experience, so dark, so evil, it would go on to change my adolescent years forever, incredulously troubled. though still a small child, my heart inside had become frightfully cold.
at ten years old i saw a demon, a moment that would keep the reel inside my memory stuck on repeat, poisoning my consciousness for nearly eight years.
by the age of fourteen i had become manically depressed and suicidal. as a means to escape the constant perils of my reoccurring memory, “my demon” stuck on repeat, i began drinking alcohol and experimenting with drugs. by sixteen i had encountered this demon three times, experimented with anti-depressants, chronically smoking weed two to four times a day and had blacked-out more times than i could remember.
i can remember crying so often that every week by thursday morning my face was merely just twisted contortions of skin, while crying, without a single tear left for me to shed.
it was april 30, 2018. i walked alone in the streets, NW 34 Avenue and Gardens Drive to be exact. with a bottle in my hand, i shattered the glass all over the street, cursing at God, for the life i was in, cursing at God, screaming and crying, for this earthly existence i so truly despised. was i possessed? maybe i was bipolar or schizophrenic; i must have been completely psychotic?
none of these were true. i had given up. at sixteen years old i had lost my entire soul. i had lost all happiness. and with a piece from my shattered bottle, lifting jagged glass against the veins inside my wrist, choosing from the many veins, positioning glass on only vitals.
i dug that glass, scraping deeper than i had ever gone, having cut many times before, at that very last moment, that very last second i readjusted the jagged piece cutting two inches upwards, away from my veins, cutting only flesh and skin.
now a scar rests upon the back of my wrist, a wound aimed for my veins, glass projecting towards my last breath. now a wound rests behind my left thumb, as a vigilantly gifted present, Yahweh’s constant reminder of my miraculous second chance.
i have seen demons, something i am not proud of. many years i spent wasted, countless hours of affliction on my body, spirit and soul. i used to think my brain was wicked, a genius cursed by satan. four years of torture and depression; raged outcomes; darkened spirits; relapse upon relapse; crying, cursing, and drinking; cutting into my own body; demonic obsessions causing my misery and wondering through deserts that almost led to my death.
four years of suffering, fours years of wounds and wrestling. now, here i lay resting, Yahweh’s peace has found shelter deep inside my bones. Yahweh healed me from my tribulations, and He has strengthened my very core.
once a wicked damaged kingdom.
cabossé, now my sacred new scarred world.
waged wars of peace and poison,
thank Yahweh peace has won.
i am cyrus isaac hazim
and welcome to my world.
a complexly outlaid planet
so elegantly explained;
the world of cabossé;
i’ll plant 999 blue daisies.
i’ll grow a garden around the world, planting fields of blue green petals surrounding this dark earth;
turning these bloody forests yellow, into a lovely place may my world become.
i will live to see the blue venus. to place on my head, a mighty king’s crown.
the scarred world of cabossé is not that of one, but of three, individually displayed worlds. three independently thriving worlds; three trinities of their own, intertwined, interlaced, in-bread atmospheres, gardens and locations-of-consciousness, coming together.
three trinities homogenizing, causing an overarching trinity, making them one unified body, creating one sacred planet.
i call this sacred unification The King’s Tricinity, phonetically pronounced |tri-sin-i-tē|.
Connect with the author…
Instagram: @CabosseWorld and @CyrusHazim