After all, this is life.
Or should I say this is me. This is my life.
I know . . .
I own this and I claim it. Good or bad, faults or flaws.
This is me.
I have been here for decades now. oftentimes, I see that I look back and lie where I shouldn’t.
I look back too often.
Though looking back is not all too bad.
At least, it’s not bad when I look back without contempt or anger. Or if I look back, I can look back with the regard for love or my regard for beauty. I can look back with a calm and settled heart and hold my sanity. Or otherwise, in the cognizant patch of my thoughts, I am fine to look back and relive the softer times.
It is not accurate to say that life is either all good or bad. It is not true to say that nothing was good or that everything went wrong. Going further, it would be accurate to say that great things came from bad times.
No, really. This is true.
I remember a morning that was not too long ago. I woke up for the first time in my temporary home. I was living in a scattered basement, stored with old things like Christmas decorations and furniture that dates back to 1973.
I remember the dampness and the hot nights, laying on a make-shift bed. I was alone in the dark sweatiness of my midnight insomnia.
I was heartbroken, angry, betrayed and lovesick. Yet, where would I be now if it weren’t for this moment? Who would I be if it were not for the trials and tribulations of life?
I am like the tide which comes in and out and pauses between mid-breaths.
Understand?
This is when the tide goes slack. And for the moment, I am no more overrun by the tasks than I was yesterday. But today is not yesterday. This is now. And, of course, I wonder the age-old question, “where do we go from here?”
What is love if love is loveless and gone?
Currently, the sky is gray. The clouds give a feel which is lugubrious and sad, mournful and quiet. It is morning, as usual. But when else would this be?
When else do I reach out to you with hope in my heart?
When else is my heart humbled and the resentment is free from my tongue?
This is why I come here.
(Still)
No one is perfect. No one is so mighty or moral.
And yes, to each is their own and to all, I know that we all have a story.
We all have our own agenda.
I can see the difference between crazy and crazy.
One side is ill-regarded and wild. This side is unpredictable, unsafe, and unwanted.
The other side of crazy is wild too, but free and unstoppable. This is amazing and insatiable, like the heart of a young boy about to touch a girl for the very first time.
A virgin about to become virgin free.
I know that feeling of crazy.
I have gone both ways. I have been crazy in the desperate sense, outraged and mad, like a person in need of a rubber room and straight jacket.
I have lost myself to the hysterics and the awful blindness that leads to our insane moments. This is when I assume that all is worse, and the worst part is a mountain and impending like the dooms of Hell.
Do I go crazy?
I go crazy no more or less than any other sane man in this world.
I have been here before, hurt and weeping without control.
I have been lost to an idea that the sky is falling and although the world is around me, I would be the only one who suffers the impact.
Have I ever gone crazy?
Yes, of course.
I have gone crazy in the wild and desirable sense. Yes, I can be wild.
I am wild as all hell, daring the lines and refusing to stop, pause, or give way, or retreat.
I have gone wild and been wild enough to make love on rooftops.
I have danced in the heat of lights and music. I have been wild and enamored enough to realize that this is the moment. And yes, there is no taboo, no limits, nothing is off the menu, and I am free to touch, taste, lick, kiss and suck on every piece of her from head to toe
I have been crazy enough to look and think as if I am an animal, hungry like an unstoppable predator. And yes, I have seen her, watching her like the safest prey, legs crossed, toenails painted and shining, and her open-toed shoe is dangling from the tip of her toe, bouncing up and down, as if to release a sign of sexual permission.
Am I crazy?
I am
Am I in love?
Can I feel love?
I am, I have been and I can feel this.
All of this.
After all, this is life and life is always changing and the tension is always mounting.
I am building and one day, hopefully soon, I will find my way back to where I am supposed to be.
To her.
The wonder is: what will I do this time if lightning strikes again?
How will I master the concept of live and let live?
How will I let go of what held me back before?
How will I know when to go and let go?
To hell with this, I say.
To hell with the past.
To hell with my mad and crazy riddles that pour through my head.
I swear these ideas pour through my head like a nighttime rain that pours through the gutters of sleepy houses.
To hell with the hypocrite and the lies they told.
Was I so honest?
No . . .
Were they?
No—
Everyone has an itch in their mind that cannot be scratched.
Who is the Pot? Or the Kettle?
I am not fit to call either one black.
They both are . . .
Like people in glass houses who threw stones and wonder where the draft comes from, I am here in the moment of realization that people are people.
I am in no position to judge.
Nor is anyone in a fair position to judge me.
People are people.
But somewhere, I know my real person is out there, better than ever and waiting for me.
I know there is love out there for me…
Waiting
Somewhere~
The Written Addiction 