I go back to that old idea that helps me decipher between me and myself or the madness of my ideas. Better yet, I go back to the method that helps me salvage myself and keeps me breathing.
So?
Let me leave this here.
Let me leave my words without thinking about them and let me let my thoughts take off from this point.
Let me confess my thoughts which are not so crazy, to say the least, but dreamy if anything. I am hopeful, or like the aspirations of youth, I view my dreams as my spirit that stems from the purity of heart.
I am opening this entry with hopes to make myself clear, or if not clear, at least not misunderstood or muddied like a lake disturbed by the unwanted footprint of dirty souls.
Therefore, I confess.
I am not so far, nor am I any further away from my truth. However, as I find my way and move further down the line, I find myself here on this great conveyor belt called life.
I understand that there is only one truth. Then, of course, there is my truth and your truth and there are the outside or the intruding versions of someone else’s truth — but how can anything be true if the truth is not true to me?
And what is true?
I find myself at a crossroads or an impasse. This is like a standstill or closer to a stalemate which I can’t move and neither can you.
So, now what?
There is no way to advance or retreat.
Yesterday is gone and tomorrow isn’t accepting any appointments at the moment.
There is only the here and “the now,” as in the moment at hand, which is picture perfect in some ways. Other ways are challenging and mad, or crazy like me. I am certifiable in my own ways and perhaps delusional to you, but I am sane enough to understand my own pathology or science.
I am man enough to say when I am wrong
. . .or mistaken.
I have these dreams, which happen when I find myself here. When I say “here,” I mean caught between two worlds and stuck in the frustration of indecision.
This happens to me.
This happens often.
Maybe this happens to all of us, and I am not that specific or unique.
These are the frustrations that happen when you don’t know what to do next.
Step forward, or step back.
Move on or move away.
Go, stay, or wait for the next wave to see what comes next.
I say wait for the next wave as if to describe my challenge as I tread in the turbulent sea.
Let me swim rather than sink.
Let me hope for the natural rescue of The Almighty Mother, also known as Mother Earth, Herself, and let me hope for a wave that’s kind.
Let me hope this one has the ability to take me ashore. If not ashore, then at least let me catch a wave that takes me close to home and keeps me from crashing into the rocks.
See?
I am not so strong.
I am weak, yet it takes strength to admit this.
It takes strength to say that I am uneasy or frightened. And more, it takes strength to admit to my fears of the dark and the unknown.
Am I afraid?
Not at all.
I am petrified.
I am frightened, scared and terrified because I am about to open a new chapter. Thus, I am uneasy about the unknown.
I don’t know what’s next.
I don’t know what tomorrow brings.
Good or bad.
I am here either way.
I often hear people say that we shouldn’t talk like this or be honest about fear. I hear people say that we have to let this go.
I say I have to let this process and move. Otherwise, I can see how this would clog my arteries and give me the figurative heart attack
I have these dreams.
I have a few to be honest.
But I have dreams that come when I find myself like this.
Perhaps the psychology would explain that my dreams are a result of energy and memories that match my fears or emotions.
I have recurring dreams.
They are strange and sometimes haunting. However, I see them as bittersweet. I see these dreams as a reflection of “self” or in other words, I see this as my mind’s eye looking through the window of my previous soul.
I see these dreams as an emotional reflection from my internal mirror; in which case; I see these dreams as a means to provide solace to the unease at heart.
Sometimes, I see these dreams as an otherwise visit. Maybe I could call this an intervention from an internal version of myself.
I say this is a real version of me, tapping my shoulder and asking, “Hey, what the hell are we doing?”
I am usually alone in most of these dreams, yet there is someone with me.
Or is this just me? Is this the company of my true self?
Maybe . . .
Maybe this is none other than an aware or an enlightened version of me who stands by my side and pleads me to go and walk or do what I dream.
I often dream of my fifth-grade classroom.
This takes place at midday and the classroom is empty. The walls look exactly as I remember. The decorations and the different pictures on the walls are the same as they were back when I was 10.
But why?
Why fifth grade?
Why not fourth or sixth or any other grade for that matter?
Maybe this was an age of awareness.
Maybe this was when I learned about the pain of awareness when it comes to betrayal.
Maybe there is a trauma bond that I have or an unresolved tension.
Maybe this is when I realized that I have been touched in an unfair way or by an unwanted hand.
Maybe this is when the wheels of my insecurity gained momentum and I realized that I was obscenely different from you or anybody else.
Maybe this is when I started to believe that I was ugly. Or, maybe this is because two girls showed me there little boobs in the back of the classroom and told me how I could never touch them.
But who knows?
The dream is strange.
I move from the front to the back of the classroom. I glide more than I walk.
The lights are off, and the windows are tilted inward to allow for the outdoor breeze. I can see the breeze moving the papers and decorations that are taped to the wall.
The old blinds are drawn down to about halfway, but the sunlight gives a soft glow and offers an odd “nap time” appeal to the empty classroom.
There is something here for me to see.
I know it.
There is a lesson that I am supposed to learn.
I know.
But what?
There is another dream that I have.
I am up in the mountains by The Farm. I emphasize The Farm for reasons that are important to me.
I used to live here. I changed here and pieces of me died here.
I was reborn here too.
I was set free in this place and the weight of things, like my addiction and crimes, were lifted from my chest.
I dream of the hill that was near the main farmhouse. I dream of the tree that was there. I dream of me and often, I am with someone.
I am with my love. I am with my girl or the girl of my dreams.
Sometimes I am with someone who appears faceless and dreamlike.
A woman though, or so I suppose.
No one talks to me. They just sit with me.
As for the faceless one who accompanies me here . . .
Again, this could be my truest version of self, asking me, “What the hell are we doing?”
My answer: I don’t know.
There is something here for me to see.
I know it.
Maybe I need to look harder.
Or maybe I need to stop looking.
Maybe I need to let go of what was and accept that I am on the verge of what is and this will lead me to the truth of what will be.
Life:
It is what it is, right?
And it ain’t what it ain’t.
That’s for sure.
I think about the character Sebastian from The Never-Ending Story.
I watched this movie when I was a kid. . .
I think about the plea from the princess when she cried, “Bastian, why won’t you do what you dream?”
The world of Fantasia was about to die.
She was the princess.
The Nothing was about to overtake the land and all the of the world would vanish—and become nothing as well. The Nothing got its name because it took everything and left nothing behind.
Nothing. No bodies. No carnage.
No tears.
Just nothing.
One by one, The Nothing was devouring dreams and hope and aspirations.
The boy was the only one who could help,
but Sebastian was too afraid to do anything.
He couldn’t believe that a boy like him could be so important or have that much influence.
It would appear the doubt is the weaponized monster, delivered by The Nothing.
And dammit to hell, doubt is one hell of a weapon when it comes to the mass of self-destruction.
I get that.
Even now.
“Call my name,” the princess cried.
The princess needed a new name . . .
Otherwise, The Nothing would win.
I have a name for her.
But the Nothing hasn’t come this far.
So, for now, I’ll just keep her name to myself
until she asks me to call her.
Okay?
The Written Addiction 