All For More (or Less)

Another morning comes to us here, in Purgatory.

I hate this part. I hate the smell of the courtroom. I hate the feeling of impending doom; but more, I cannot stand the feeling of being judged or being held as guilty until proven innocent.
But we seem to be this way. We seem all too quick to accuse or to point fingers. We love this and this is common. We come from a species who looks to assign blame, especially when it comes to the emotional crimes in our life.

We need to find accountability or to designate some kind of liability to either make sense of what happened or to keep us distant from our involvement with emotional pain.
I hate defending myself. I hate this kind of atmosphere, yet, I have been here before and although I swore to never be here again; here I am, facing my accusers.
I hate all of this.

I hate the benches where people like me sit and wait before seeing the judge. I hate the judge too. Although, this judge is different and so are the courtrooms. This is not about the current legal system at all. No, this is about me deafening my life. This is about me replacing the divots I left in the grounds where I used to romp.
Either way, I hate this.
I hate the rooms I have to wait in. I hate the interrogations. I hate the good cop/bad cop scenarios or how people will pose as friends, just to get information from you.
I hate that people will throw someone under the bus, just to save themselves, or that people will use someone else for firewood, just to keep themselves from getting cold.
Or to find out if we’ll be set free or held for further detainment.

I hate being the defendant. I hate the stigmas and the contempt I feel. I hate the co-defendants and the other criminals in the midst. Perhaps I hate them most because they remind me of my own imperfections. They remind me why I am here in purgatory to begin with and that, yes, I am a sinner. I have committed wrongful harm and that I have committed acts that lead to personal and emotional injury.

I hate the roundup of souls who sit and wait for their fate to carry them off, like inmates to some kind of infernal punishment, or hell beyond all hells.

I hate this and I hate myself for being where I am. I hate sitting on the bench with the others, hooked to some kind of punishing cuffs, which wears heavy on the wrist but heavier on the soul — at least for those who have souls, that is.
I hate being sat in the same proximity of those whose filthy souls are mimicked and mirrored and thus, I hate that I am pooled with this sort or person or species.
Either way, I wait. I hear the clock ticking in my head. I can envision the executioner and feel his breath and almost smell his hunger or thirst for death.
I hate sitting in the holding cells with those who wait with me. I hate wondering about their same fates.
I hate the smells of them or the sounds of them—and even more, I hate the talk from jailhouse lawyers who ill-advise the others or act as if they are  the all-knowing, which they are not.

I hate the advice of the downtrodden who suppose that their cases are like mine. I hate the inmates or the guests of purgatory who act as if they did their time or as if their time served them enough to have a law degree.
I hate this because I know that the laws we face are different.

I hate having to defend myself to a so-called jury of my peers or stand before an equally guilty or corrupt prosecutor and judge who are equally as human and like me, they have their own secrets too.
Is there anyone among us who can claim they have no secrets? Is there anyone who can withstand the microscope as it inspects the soul and say that they are absolved and disease-free?
No. I don’t think anyone can say this, at least not honestly.
We are all human and each of us are imperfect.
Some are more imperfect. But no one is so clean or free of sin that they have the right to condemn me to hell.
Or can they?

“Only God can judge me.”
But where is God?
Is God listening?
Is God looking?
Does God see us judging one another and if so, does God laugh about this and does God render a decision by way of the scripture, which says, “Judgment is Mine, saith the Lord. I will repay!”

“Only God can judge me”
I remember sitting in a tattoo shop when someone was having this tattooed across their chest. He had the black tears stain on his cheek by the bottom outside corner of his left eye, which could mean different things.

This could mean nothing, and that he was posing or posturing as if he had a murder under his belt. Or this could mean that yes, he did murder someone.
The black teardrop could mean he did time or this could represent an unforgettable loss or be a sign of eternal mourning.
“Perdon Mi Madre,” was also tattooed on him, which translates to a plea for his Mother to forgive me as if to say, “Forgive me Mother,” inked into his flesh.

No one asked this man about his tattoos. No one questioned this man’s posture either because there is truth to the saying that “real gangsters move in silence and violence.”
He was too quiet and to himself and furthermore, the man was somewhat kind to be judged irresponsibly or for someone to be careless and question him, — and his obvious jailhouse tattoos were clear and present enough to recognize that this man had seen hard times.
He understood pain. He understood violence.
Was he good?
Was he bad?
I don’t know any of these answers.
“Only God can judge me,” was the tattoo across his chest.
I wonder if he often finds himself defending his life too, just like me, — looking to beat and distance myself from my past or looking to find some kind of great absolvement or absolution so I can be free or at least forgiven.

It was clear this man saw hard times. My conversation with him was interesting and it was clever to say the least and, yes, I understand the looks of this man would lead me to believe that he was uneducated or unintelligent, to say the least. Meanwhile, he was one of the smartest and most educated that I have ever met.
Then again, education is always relative and so is intelligence.
I suppose my point here is that the same as I am judged, and the same as I hate being judged or persecuted; I have judged equally and with a similar ignorance.

I remember this man and his scars. All I thought was yes. He lived a hard life.
Then again, is there anyone among us who has never seen hard times? Has anyone gotten away without feeling pain? Has anyone lived without adversity or witnessed or experienced hard truths and is anyone unaware  that life can and will be unfair?

Life can certainly be unkind. I know this the same as the jury of my peers knows this too. However, fate does separate people. Class and cultures and judgments place us in different brackets,
There are choices and changes and paths that some take, which are both inexcusable and unforgivable. I get that.
However, and while I defend my life or share my truths as evidence that not all living people are as they seem, I understand that we are all equipped with the mind, body and soul.
Aside from those who are otherwise incapable, we all have an understanding between right and wrong. I understand that some are gifted. Some have bigger and brighter and better talents.
Some have a stronger or better moral constitution. And some are more Godly and others are more like the rest of the demons who roam Project Earth.

I cannot say that we are all born equally. I do not subscribe to white privilege nor will I allow myself the excuses of racial division. I think this is a ploy or a plot and that yes, our society is rendered weaker because we are taught to be divided.
I do not accept or agree with the excuses that come with labels. I say this because I used these labels as an excuse when I was younger.
I allowed myself to assume their stigmas and I supposed that terms like learning disabled or labels that cover emotional disturbances had the right to truly define a person.
But I was wrong.

I am not the labels that were used to define me. Nor am I the person who my accusers claim me to be. I am not who my enemies say nor am I the person my friends tell me.
I sit here now and collect my thoughts and prepare myself for another day of deliberation. I have to prepare myself for another day of standing in front of the judge and jurors and prosecutors. I stand before these people who somehow find themselves justified when they know nothing about me or my situations. 

I know that a day will come when I am judged. Though my faith is often challenged and sometimes my faith is faithless, I do believe a day will come when I have to face my maker. And I will have to answer the questions “Why?”

Why did I do what I did?
Why did I allow emotion to turn me into someone different?
Why did I allow myself to become selfish?
Why did I look for quick fixes and instant gratification?
Why did I lie?
What was I running from?
Why didn’t I have the faith that I would be safe and protected if my belief was strong enough?
Or am I like St. Dismas? Maybe I am like the penitent thief; judged while I am of the flesh and judged by those of equal flesh and while late to the game, I am realizing that I am no more (or less) a sinner than anyone else is, and somehow, I can be saved — that is, as long as I believed in The Savior, of course.

What was so bad about life? Or the world around me?
What was so horrid or awful that I sought to gain an extra yard? Why did I lack faith and believe that I was weak or soft? How is it that I saw myself as the same worth of an imposter?
An imposter. That was me. Or so I thought.
I assumed that one day, the curtains would be pulled and the truth about me would be revealed. No one would see me as a man.
This was my fear.
No one would want me.
No one would care.
No one would consider me to be valid or worthy; and thus, I would be alone or by myself, unworthy of all, unlovable of course, and unwanted, like the refuse we toss in the garbage which smelled like the rank of old bodies.

I hate this.
I hate the weight of my chains and the sound of the jails.

Did I feel remorse?
Was I someone with true sorrow?
Did I feel shame?
The answer is yes. 

However, there was something that removed these things from me. I had to keep myself from emotion. I had to separate myself from feeling anything, which ranged from pain, joy, or both alike.
I had to numb myself. Otherwise, I would be too weak to survive.

One could say this stemmed from an emotional cancer, or sickness. I could say this was a result of the constant deliberations in my head. And one could say that this is what drove me crazy.
These are the thoughts that led me to make crazy decisions. Another could say this was my response and insecure beliefs.
I could say that I was reacting to pain. I was reacting to my fears and I could also say this was my reaction to my anticipation, which made everything grim.

I was accused of being crazy.
However, I’m not so crazy.
I’m only human.
Or, hence, at least I’m honest.

One could argue that maybe I am a bad person. But in fairness, bad people or evil ones have no remorse.
Bad people feel nothing, just like the butcher never feels bad for their slaughter and a fisherman never feels bad for his catch (or live bait) bad people do not care for the pain they create.
No.
Not at all.
Evil has no cares, no sorrow for their victims, and they are free and clear to eat, sleep and drink well, regardless of their heinous crimes or the pain they caused.
Everything is meaningless, including the blood on their blades and the notches in their knife handles.

I am not this person. I never have been.
But I can see why I am judged and judged by my appearance.
I am not soulless or heartless nor am I so evil.
I am afraid. I have operated and acted accordingly to my irrational fears, outrage, and guilt.
Therefore and in response, I moved and crept and I was selfish or self-centered, which makes me none other than human and flawed.
Can anyone else say that they have never felt this way or done something hurtful to another person?
If this is so, then why do we find ourselves judged like we do?
Who is fit to judge anyone?
Not me.
But I’ve judged.
And not you either.
But you’ve judged too.

We are all flawed this way. We have all committed crimes and sins. No one among us can say that they have not encountered one of the 7 Deadly Sins and pulled the trigger in some shape or form.

I hate myself at times. Especially when I look back or see the wake from my aftermaths
I do not mean that I hate myself down to the core; however, I hate my past disturbances. I hate the intrusions which went unaddressed or undefended and thus; I hate the person I became to avenge or defend myself because these are the symptoms that twisted my version of truth and life.

The truth is:
I have a softer side. I have a gentle side, which no one can see. But do I show this?
No. I am too afraid to be this vulnerable or wholesome because I have seen what I have done and my fear is that I will be picked as someone to be weak or used.
No one goes after the strongest in the herd and the so-called gangsters or tough guys make a good living from feeding off the bones of the weak.
I am simple and soft and there are pieces of me that want to run, like a child in a field, or share something (like how I share this with you).
I want to experience the feeling I had the first time I flew a kite.
Should I share this with the jury or the prosecutors?
Should I allow the judge to see that “See? I’m only human.” Therefore, perhaps my testimony could humanize my defense. Maybe this would normalize the truths which are that we are all in some kind of recovery.

Everyone feels pain. No one walks away without a scratch.
I will agree that some are luckier to be born from a different gene pool. Some are fortunate to be born into privilege and money. Some have to fight for what they have. Some have less and some have nothing. 

Some have a taste for blood. Some steal. Some work. Some have a taste for revenge. And me, I am the misplaced and the lost one.
I want to be better.

Peron Mi Madre.
Perdon Mi Padre.
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

I am the son of someone who loved me. I am the young and old soul and yes, I am the infected one. I am the viral one. I am the sick one and at one point, I was the violent one. 

I am my own tyranny and stress. I am my own view of hate and I am as evil as I allowed myself to be.

I have no defense because, in fairness, there are those who were born with worse surroundings and those who were born with less and somehow, they chose to use their deficits to allow them to succeed and gain more.
They did this freely and fairly and they never stabbed a back or pulled a trick or deceived the world.
Have I?
Yes, Your Honor.
I have.
But, have you?

No one among us is without sin. However, there are those among us who can say that despite their lives, they did well and that they are good people. I do not know what the courtroom will have in store for me today.
But I know that as I stand before you —
I want to be better.