Today is the day that I put an end to this.
I am done with the lunatics in my head and done with all else that distracts me from who I am or who I choose to be.

There are nights when I have dreams and I am faced with the younger version of myself.
I see this clearly.
I see the way I was and how I behaved. or I might see a place that I used to go to.
Sometimes I see the places where I used to hide.
And I wonder . . .
I wonder what life might have been if I decided to go on my own instead of trying to be someone else.
And then I wonder about who I am now and who was I meant to be.
Is this it?

When you escape the fact that no one is coming to save your life, and when you realize that your freedom can only be claimed by you, then you have no other choice but to save your own life.
You have to do this without exception.
And, if you are broken, then you are already broken. The only thing you can do is either get back up and start to repair yourself, or remain on the ground, lay still and become dust, or stay broken and be left behind.

Your last role in the toxic playground amazes me. This is not to say that you are toxic or that you and I are toxic together.
No, I have no place or position to point fingers at anyone and nor do I have the right to judge or condemn.
Let me say this, when it comes to playing the game of life at this level, and when we talk about being toxic or toxic people, it seems to me that our choices came from a place that caused us to either do or accept the unacceptable things.

The sun came up from the east as usual this morning. I dreamt about the horizon and how the underbelly held the colors of sunrise.
I love these moments. They are limited by number, but beautiful nonetheless.

I love the early mornings when the heavens above are laced with scattered clouds, all powdery and stretched out like the feathers of an Angel’s wings
These things are beautiful—the soft pastel colors of morning in the sky, a gentle breeze that feels kind when the wind blows against my face, and the view we see of our Loving Mother, Mother Earth.
I love it this way—a good, quiet morning.
Perfect.

These notes to myself from my prison cell have helped. But I am still lost and my defense has yet to get off the ground.
I have appealed to the process is killing me
(slowly)
I hate this real fiction business.
But it is what it is.

The wind was howling sometime around midnight last night. Then everything turned quiet.
There was an odd, yet somber tension to the moment. I suppose this is because this morning is called Christmas Eve on the other side of Purgatory.
No one spoke last night. No one set any notes down the tier to the different prison cells. Not even the demons or the guards made a peep last night.
Even the hounds were quiet.
I suppose that even here, there is a presence known to this day. Even here, there is a promise or the light of hope, which can lead us all to the beacon of truth.

 And when there is nowhere left to turn, or when you have nothing else, not even hope, all you can do is stand to the best of your ability, even if you can’t take the pain, and face the world.
When all are gone, or when all have abandoned hope, and when there is no one left to help you, all you can do is dig deep and face what comes.
That is all.

It is morning, again.
Another night went by and another gurney took away another inmate, gurgling their last breaths, bleeding from an apparent mauling by the guards and in return, all that was left was the bloodshed inside of an empty prison cell, which we all assume will be filled again before breakfast ends and the day begins.

There was something in the air. I can say that.
I knew something was about to happen.
I would have no other way to describe it other than I could feel something coming, like a sense of impending news, crucial and hard, and yet there was an understanding—like a strange calmness that this is life and these are the rules of our engagement.

I was told about another death last night. The news hit home.
However, this is par for the course, and these are the rules of the game.
No one knows the hour or the day is what I was told.
And life?

I wat this more than before. Then again. I am not sure who I was before.
That is of course, if there was such a thing as before.
But there always is. Isn’t there?
There is always a time before now; and now is the time.
Now is the time when my eyes are opened enough that I can see what I have endured, what I have missed, and what I have squandered.
I am not so different from the Prodigal Son; only, I have yet to return and I have yet to be forgiven by my Father.

I want more. I want more than before but to be clear; I’ve always wanted this, even before I found myself here, which is where I am, and waiting for the prosecution to rest their case

It is no different to assume a loss than it is to lose in the physical sense. Either way, the mind sees what the mind sees; whereas my time has been confined to this small place and yet, there is a great big world outside and around me.
The receptors in the mind do not know the difference between fantasy and reality, whereas I can dream and picture myself or imagine my losses, and whether my thoughts are reality or fiction, the results of my emotions are the same.

The rain fell hard last night. I could hear the raindrops hit the rooftop which kept me awake for a while. And so, I laid back and looked up at the ceiling.
I thought about the hours and the days and even the minutes I spent elsewhere, looking at life with all too much confidence that nothing is threatened because tomorrow would always be there, —until it wasn’t.
This is how things go when we are young.
We never seem to think that age is real until it creeps up on us.
Age is something that happens to old people.
And one day, we turn around to realize that decades have escaped without leaving a sign and much of our dreams have all gone deferred.

“Are you back again?”
I suppose so.
“Did they give you anything yet?
I’m not sure. But the voices are louder this time.
“What about the smell?
Of the people you mean?
“That’s when you know it’s real.”

I don’t think I know if anything is real
(anymore)

I heard the cages banging last night. There was a threat of prisoners looking to riot, which is nothing more than another day here, alive, and living with the beasts.

In all fairness, I have to admit to the truth. And the truth is I am afraid. The truth is I am afraid of everyone. And I’ve always been afraid.
I was afraid to care.
I’ve been afraid to be the fool or afraid to be hurt and I have always been afraid to be weak or soft and used.

I was thinking about the way we speak with each other. I was thinking about the words we use and their value to us.
Or more to the point, I was about how we invest in the words we say or hear.
Then I started to think about our selective hearing. Or maybe it would be better for me to tick to the plan and explain about my own selective hearing.

I was thinking about the most important and meaningful three words in our English language
I was thinking about words like, I love you.
Or how about the words, I need you

Or what does it mean to you when someone says, “You mean the world to me!”
What does any of these words mean when someone says these things and yet, we struggle to feel them or believe their words are true.

There was snow over the weekend in Purgatory. There wasn’t much. But there was enough to coat the ground and keep the nighttime from being as dark.
Alone above, the moon took on the bluish hint and the holiday lights made the season feel more festive for a while.
These things are bitter sweet for me.

I don’t mind the snow. I don’t mind the cold.
No, really.
I don’t mind these things at all.

I have these dreams, which are not dreams at all. They are more like pictures and memories of times, long ago, or back when I was old enough to understand but to young to know that I had the right to question the life in front of me.
I am sick now, late in some regards, and older, achy, and unforgivably defiant against the ideas that yes, “this is it!” and this is as good as it gets.

No. I refuse this.
I know there has to be more.

There are memories I have. I swear.
I was young once. Wild too, and I was crazy in the best ways possible.
I was eager and afraid.
And I remember.
I remember the ideas and the thoughts and the cravings which came over me like a wave as it falls across the shore.

I remember some of my drives, long ago.
I remember driving over the 59^th Street Bridge.
The Big City. And there she was.
New York, New York.
She is bright like a dream and complete with every urge or desire.
She is complete with every idea or every kink or fetish.

And hey, don’t judge.
Or don’t knock it, until you try it.
You never know.

There comes a time when silence is best.
Just be quiet. Be still.
Let your eyes close and let your breathing slow down.
Relax.
And when there’s nothing else, then there’s nothing left to lose.
So, sit still. Be calm.
Close your eyes and fade.

The truth of the matter is that no one knows. No one cares. No one is paying attention and yet, we assume that everyone sees the same thing that we see.
Not true.
The fact is that everyone has their own life. Everyone has their own motivation, their own agenda, and everyone sees from their own perspective.

It is all too often that we take on more than we need, and I say this with the ideas of people, places, and things.
I have talked about the deception of our perception and the inaccuracies of emotion and assumption.
This is a link to my greatest downfall.

The meds from last night hit me hard.
My grogginess was amazing to me.
Literally.
I could hardly understand my whereabouts, yet I am where I am because I was where I was.
This is for sure.

The handcuffs are figurative but tight. Then again, so is the reality of fiction and so are the details of today’s courtroom proceedings.
Here we we go, I suppose.
Such is life under the watchful eyes of those who study the inmates in our private Alcatraz.
But ah, the benefits of the accusers and how they try to lead me with their advantages.

And so, I have to ask . . .
What have you seen that made you change the way you see the world?
What happened?
What changed? Or what snapped?
What broke and never went back into place?

It has always been hard for me to believe in the terms of God, or God the Father. It has always been too curious for me to look around and see the hurt or the destruction of our everyday life.
How could there be something all-knowing, and all-great, yet here we are, living on this rock, which is third from the sun.