All For More (Or Less)

It is a pretty Sunday morning in Purgatory. The autumn weather has settled down for the season and most of the leaves have fallen from the trees.
You can smell this in the air too. You can smell the wet leaves which are stuck to the ground after last night’s rain.
The streets are wet.
The sun is out for now and the wind is blowing pretty quickly. The scattered clouds and the colors of dawn were beautiful this morning.
I love this.

It is clear to me that life moves. And yes, so do we.
So does time and so do the chapters in our life, which somehow brings me back to a full circle.
I swear, I have been here before. yet, no.
I know that I haven’t been here.
At least. not like this.

I am back to where I began. And I don’t know why and I don’t know how either.
I just know that I am here again.
I am looking at the details of simple things, like say, my old hometown and how the suburban streets are quiet on Sunday morning, —almost as if the world knows that today is the time to repent or pray or allow this morning to be quiet enough to enjoy a state of reverence or peace.
Peace . . . or, if there is such a thing.

I do not know or understand why we have these moments of Deja-vu, as if we feel like we have been here before because, of course, none of us have ever been here before.
At least, not exactly.

What does this mean, anyway?
I have been told that Deja-vu is some kind of memory error. I have been told this can be caused by some kind of neurotransmitter activity, as if this is some kind of glitch or another brand of thinking errors.
But who knows . . .
Then again, I have been told this is an overlap from a past life regression or some kind of memory from a past life that can help us identify root causes to our psychological state.  
Or maybe this is nothing other than the unexplained mind, which our theories and studies have yet to understand or uncover.

Maybe this moment is a spiritual awareness which is telling me not to worry, that new things are on the way and that somehow, all I have ever wanted has been right here, where it all began. Ad so new things are old things and old things are new and beyond all doubts and confusion; soulmates always find their way home, no matter how long it takes or how bad the traffic is.

I am home now. Then again, I have learned the term “home” can mean different things to different people.
I know that I have lived in different places. And I have called these places home.
I know that I referred to these places as home in the past. Yet, there was something missing. There was something integral or perhaps integral and yes, there was a piece to this which was somehow off our out of place.
I have been searching traveling on this journey to find one thing, above all, which is to find my way home.

And what does this mean?
Does the word “home” mean the same thing to you as it does to me?
This is more than where I shower or lay m head and go to sleep.

I think the word home is more of a feeling than it is an actual place. I think the saying that “home is where the heart is,” means that home is more emotional than geographic.
I have been hearing this since I was a small boy. “Home is where the heart is.”
And sure, this is the same for me as the saying that goes, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
Home is not where the discomfort is.
Home does not sleep in a bed with a pillow wall or boundary between you and another body.
Home is filled with love. yet, some people choose to see this differently and some will live in a home, per se, regardless of who they live with. Then again, some people are fine to live a plastic or fake life. Some are fine with a life that adds up to a sub-par standard or unaffectionate life.
Good for them. I guess.
Some are fine to go backwards, just to “be” with somebody because they are too afraid to live their life alone.

Either way, I know what beauty looks like to me. I know what home feels like, or should I say that I know what home is supposed to feel like to me.
Ad that’s what I want.
I want to find my home, wherever this may be.

I want to find this place.
My home, that is.
I want to feel this down to my core.
Do you see? Do you understand?

I want this to be more than the pride of ownership. I want to be where I belong.
You know?
I want to lose the application of overthinking and over-question everything because when I find my home or the place where I belong. I want to feel this, inside and out.

I know that if I am set free, or if the courts rule at least partially in my favor; I will find my place, down where the southern winds blow across the sands of white sand beaches. The pal trees will be my new friends, let alone, like family.

I want to lose the absence of self and find a new brand of life, if you know what I mean.
I want to shape this and build this because this life belongs to me and only me.

I don’t mind things, like rainstorms or the smell from the fallen leaves on an early Sunday morning. I enjoy the November winds and the subtle chill in the air, which forewarns us that yes, winter is coming.
There is a birthday on the way, which celebrates the birth of the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.
I have to say it –
I love mornings like this. I love the crisp feeling from the air and the sound of the wind as it whips through the trees.
I like the oddity of that past regression or Deja-vu moments which calls me to feel like somehow, I have been here before.
And I have been here before.
Somehow, I have always been here and no, I don’t think I will ever leave, even after the hour of my death (amen.)
I am unsure why the world has taken me back, in full-circle.
I am unsure why I have chosen to face the courts and turn myself in.
It’s not like anything major will change. But at least I never have to go backwards again.

I suppose I need my last few chapters to close or die so-to-speak.
I need them to die so that I can be reborn in a sense and learn to live in a new better way.

It is frightening to say the least. I am petrified to address the phantoms or the ghosts of my past.
Yes. of course, I am.
It is uncomfortable to tow the line and face the lies with an honest truth, which says “yeah, that was me.” or “I confess. I did that!”
At the same time, it is uncomfortable when I call out, “That was me then, but this is me now,” to a jury who does not believe that things can change, or people can adapt or recover and improve.
And for the record, I have  improved.
I know I have.
I see this as a result of the absence of people, places, and things, which only proved that we cannot walk, talk, or live where we are not supposed to be.

And to be honest, I don’t want or need much.
No.
My requirements are simple to say the least.
I want to find places that serve good food.
I want to eat at places like this and tase their desserts to see if their Tres Leches cake is better than their flan, which it is.

I want to walk somewhere and feel the wind in my hair. And I want to dare this without worrying if I will be alone for the rest of my life.
I do not want to go or be or live my life, wondering if anyone else will accept me.
To hell with the rest of the world.

Then again, I do not want to go or do this alone.
No.
I know what I want. I know that man cannot live on bread alone.
I know that no man is an island and that in my case; I need more to survive than just food, water, and shelter.
I need you. And regardless of what you say, I know something you are afraid to admit.
You need me to.
I know it.

When it comes to forgiveness and to our forgiveness of self, or when it comes to the sincerity behind our apologies; nothing needs to come after, and no more words can be said.
We said enough to let the past be where it is.
Behind us.
I am sorry for my past. I am sorry for the wrongs and the things I said.
I am sorry for the hurtful actions which was brought on by my temporary acts of insanity.
And sure. I’m insane
I’m crazy. I am just like the rest of us inmates here on Project Earth.

I have to rest. I have to keep myself fed.
And I have to stay healthy too because one of our worthwhile fights can be won if we are not feeling at our best.

Ah, Sunday.
You have shown me a new side of purgatory, which has always been here before.
I suppose I seemed to have overlooked these things.
Or maybe I forget how pretty you are when the sun comes up and I am driving alone down Merrick Avenue to remember where my early life began.

It feels like I have been here before.
Only because I have been in
one form or another.