Today . . .
I ask this question out loud yet,
I only ask this question to myself;
however, you are free to ask yourself
this same questions
and if you’d like,
we can try and answer them
together.
Did you do what you set out to do?
Did you do you get what you came for?
Did you set it up and knock it down?
Are you finished?
Is there more that you need to do,
which is fine, but remember,
the clock is ticking and a time will come
when you realize,
Holy shit!
It’s later than we thought.
It’s hard to believe it, but 33 years have come and gone
and life in-between
has sort of gone and went
and the question I come to is this:
What have I done?
Where has the time gone?
Since I know the clock is still ticking,
is there enough time,
for me to pull off my trick?
Where have I been and where have I gone?
Have I done what I set out to do,
and if the answer is no,
then what do I have to do
so that I can make my life
become bigger than my dreams,
or infinitely,
what has to be done
to surpass my supposed limitations?
I am a man of different ages—then again,
we are all more than our age.
I am that little boy and that toddler,
or that frightened child,
or the boy who wept at his grandmother’s funeral
because for this first time,
I realized that life has an end-date.
I am the boy who was picked on or hurt
or abused, or touched,
or stained, or cursed, and bullied.
I am the middle-aged man who sees his dilemmas
and who recognizes the cognitive distinction
between emotional or irrational thinking,
yet, I am a man who lives with frustrations
because (of course) I want what I want . . .
. . . and yes, I want it now,
which is not unlike a child, which is why
I am more than my age of now
or at 51, I am more than me or you.
I am more than the ghosts of my past
or the figment of my so-called present.
I say that
we are more than our childhood
and more than who we were
or who we used to be and yes,
we are more than who we were before
which is when we came to the realization
that yes, we want more,
and even if we get exactly what we want,
there is always more because as we grow,
and as we mature,
our intentions will change, and hence
so will our intensity, that is,
if we are not mindful enough
to keep our head in the game . . .
It’s not a race anymore.
But it is a game
or a maze, or a labyrinth
or a trick where, somehow,
we have to find our path,
and we have to watch for the dead-end symptoms
with temporary remedies, which is why . . .
well, this is why I don’t get high anymore.
Today marks the day
when I humbled myself and admitted to
the “exact nature of my wrongs,” in which case,
I came clean about the fact that I was no longer clean.
My hands were stained,
and my conscious was compromised
I lost sight of myself.
I lost sight of my true value
and without the concept of my worth,
I lost my place in this puzzle called life,
and I believed that although I had substance
of at least, “some kind,” alas,
I believed that I was otherwise worthless.
I lost to a 24-48 hour binge
and to a violent scheme which nearly altered my life
in a way
that I cannot convey through words—and even though
I have written about myself openly and honestly,
there are details to which I have kept between myself
and the sky, which is where I spill my secrets,
or which is where I go to offer my confession,
which, by the way of an old lifelong connection,
I go to the beach and I surrender my sins
to the outgoing tide,
for the sea to take away
and for the gulls who fly overhead,
to cry out like a choir, as if the seagulls cry
can somehow emulate a sound of emotion
or grant me a sense of penance, or solace, or peace
and alas, as the tides remove
my unwanted sentiments,
the waves come back
to cleanse the shore—and leave me clean.
It is hard to believe the contents of one night
or the direction of our life
or the changes we make
and the people we meet.
It is hard to wrap my head around the purpose
behind pain or the motivations
which come with fear—and yes,
fear and pain are excellent motivators.
And motivation?
Motivation is neither good or bad, or positive or negative.
No, this is only energy that needs direction
which is why I look at today
with a certain degree of reverence.
I could have gone another way.
I could have been in a different column
or a line on a graph that plummeted downward.
I could have lost to this or stayed as I was.
I could have been another number on a list of statistics
which depict the names and faces
of people who died
or didn’t make it.
Somehow, I am still here.
I have fallen more times than I can count.
Or wait, I have fallen more times than I care to admit.
But at least, I never went back.
I have made mistakes.
I have said or done bad and hurtful things.
I have regrets.
Sure, I have plenty of them.
But there is one regret that I do not have
which is that despite my faults and flaws
or my defects of character; and despite the odds
that were supposedly against me;
I have not gone back to a drink or a drug,
just to get high in 33 years.
This is not to say that I am working on my merit badge
or that I am better than most
or better than anyone, for that matter.
No, this is only a statement which claims
that I am better than the person I used to be,
and not only emotionally or intellectually;
I am absolutely, totally, completely
and even cellularly different from who I was
“back then.”
I do not do labels anymore,
like drunk, high, clean or sober.
I do not judge nor do I claim to be above the law
or better than the rules around me.
As far as I know, the last Man (or the Son of)
who walked on water
died a long time ago
and if the stories about Him are true—from what I’ve read,
He wasn’t treated so well either.
I am only a man, at best.
I’m just another heartbeat and another footprint
in the sands of billions.
I am a mark in a place
where billions of others
have walked as well.
It’s hard to believe that I am here,
with you, right now.
But this wasn’t supposed to be me.
I wasn’t the one who was supposed to make it.
According to the predictions and the people who told me
I was supposed to be dead
by the time I got down to the end of the road,
which, if I think about it—
we all die, at the end of the road.
My road has exceeded
and surpassed what I assumed it would be,
which leads me back to the question:
“Have you done everything that you came here to do?”
Not yet, Pop . . .
“Then do it, son.”
I’m trying, Pop.
I promise, I really am.
Let Mom know that I’m okay,
She tends to worry.
Tell her that Chaos and I are old friends, and not to worry
about my letters to him.
Besides, Chaos is just a figment of imagination,
which is why
I let us have these moments here—so, we can talk
and I can let my crazy voice speak its volumes,
and then I can rest easy when this is done,
so that I can face the day,
once more, another day at a time.
Oh and Pop,
I just have one question . . .
If you were here, what would you say?
What would you tell me,
not just about today or what I’ve done
or haven’t done yet—but what would you tell me?
If you can, it would be nice to hear from you
in a way that I knew it was you
and not someone else “trying” to tell me
what “they” think you would tell me.
Just a sign, Pop.
Please, if you can
it would mean a lot to me.
Maybe even more than you know.
You know?
The Written Addiction 