All For More (Or Less)

The dampness in the morning is rough on the joints. A man can only see what’s in front of him. Yet, the darkness of morning before the light is hard for me. I’m not sure if it is darkest before the dawn.
I see myself where I am. I know the courts await and the cell, although not ideal, has become somewhat understandable to me.

I know what I am. I might not know who I am to anyone else. But I know who I am to me.
And who am I?

Am I strong?
If I was strong, would I have been strong enough to bend back the bars that hold me in or keep me imprisoned?
If I were strong, would I mind the size of my cell or the outcomes, or my punishments, because if I was strong, would I still be susceptible to pain?
Or would pain mean nothing to me?
I could eat pain, like candy.
No?

If I were strong, would I be able to endure it all?
Pain, pleasure, highs or lows, would either mean anything to me?
I think these are valid questions.
If I were strong or at least stronger, would I allow myself to be hinged upon my dependence for passion?

Where does my sadness or my submission come from?
Is this because I am afraid?
Am I too weak?
Or is this engrained in me, in my heart and soul, and thus, have I been programmed to fulfil the predictions that were designed to destroy me?

I have no time for pity.
I have no time for shame.
I have a case to fight; in which as I see it, I am here to fight for my life.
I want my freedom, Goddammit!
I want my dreams back.
I want the souls against me to be held to the same accountability that I have to face.
But I wonder, is anyone on the jury or in the court willing to be this honest about themselves.
Or, is there?

No one among us is so pure or clean enough to cast the first stone. I know.
But I’m sure there’s a line around the corner for the person who throws the second stone.

“He among you who is without sin; let him be the one to cast the first stone.”
Ah, that Jesus.
He had a point.
They tell me He walked on water too.
I was always told the last person to walk on water died a long time ago.
I suppose, as the story goes, He faced judgements too.
Of “biblical proportions” I might add.

I say that yes, emotion is raw. I say that to feel or admit to this is brave; and yes, I say love is an action. So, if love is an action, then hate is an action as well.
I know that actions speak louder than words. However, all I have now are my words to defend me, even if my defense is for undefendable things.

I recall something that I learned a long time ago, which is a lesson that came to me by myself. No one taught me this.
I suppose I can say that this came to me at a moment of awareness.
My eyes opened differently, perhaps, or maybe I was tired of the adrenaline and the aggression. Or maybe maturity stepped in. Maybe I woke up or maybe I grew up and the novelty of revenge wore off to the point where my rage became pointless.
I viewed this like a soldier who saw his own battlefields, meaning that, yes, I saw the dead, the wounded, the destruction and the sabotage, and even the kamikaze-like deaths that did nothing but promote deaths upon more deaths.

How much warmth can be built from my hate?
I know all about the fires of hell.
I know them intimately, yet, I burn myself more than anyone else.
How much energy does it take to keep the fires alive?
How much can one person take?

I saw the progression of my outrage. I saw the blood, the ruins, and also the collateral damages or the losses due to my so-called friendly fire should have been enough to make me realize that this was insane.
Insane, as in insanity, or as I was told when I walked through the doors of my first rehabilitation facility — insanity is doing the same things, over and over again, and expecting different results.

In fairness to the definition, I cannot say that I expected different results. I’m not sure if my actions were that deep.
More so, I think that I took shots and fired back. I launched my missiles of self-destruction and whether I hit the intended target or missed completely, so it goes.
So it goes.
Hate is real.
There was something understandable about this brutality. I was far from safe, but at least the rules of engagement were clear and set in stone. There was no gray area. All else was black and white.
There are enemies and non-enemies. There are friends, but friends come with a cost and friends are often a liability, — to which, I always assumed that everyone had an angle, everyone had an agenda, and everyone had a scam.
There is no honor amongst thieves, which is why I understood the rules of violence—eye for an eye, tooth for tooth, and yes; all the while, I never realized my path would only lead me to be toothless and blind.
Maybe I was blind.
Maybe I lost too many teeth when I sunk them in and bit the flesh of souls and leached, like a parasite, from a figurative perspective.

I saw the world as an understandable food chain. I agreed with the Caste system and the social order, hierarchy, and even peasantry.
I agreed that what goes around comes around; therefore, had I done something cruel or devious, and had I stolen or taken something that was not mine, in this respect, I was the underbelly of the machine which churned the wheels of our destiny.
I was the peasant. I was evil, no good, and the lowest on the food chain.
I was like the Varna system where the Brahmins were at the top, as priests and scholars, and then came the Kshatriyas, the warriors and the kings, followed by Vaishyas who were the traders and agriculturalists, and beneath them the Shudras as laborers and service providers, I saw myself as the bottom of the system or as the Dalits saw themselves. I was the unwanted, the unfavorable, untouchable and, of course, I was the undesirable.

 Therefore, since this was my position in the system, any crime, sin, or any harm brought on by me was something needed to turn the hands of fate and destiny. If this was destined to be me, then this was destined to be me. And yes.
So be it.

Your Honor, members of the jury, and to the prosecutor and the accusers, I offer this evidence that I am guilty and yes, I have passed the torch from one extreme to another.
I have sewn and woven my own failures and deceit. I have committed all of the crimes against me to which, again, I plead not guilty, guilty, and no contest.
I own my own mess and no, I refuse to claim the rights to some kind of temporary insanity. I say this because I am not so insane nor am I less insane than anyone who sees themselves as fit to judge me.

I must have fallen backwards. Or maybe I lost my mind (again).
Or maybe I lost my way and that perhaps my hysterical blindness caused me to fear for my safety — and yes, in fairness, I am afraid.
I am more than afraid. I am petrified.
And even still, I am more.
I am mortified, horrified, and otherwise ostracized by my own hand and my own sentencing.
All of the above is enough to alter our perception and lead us astray.

I look at the mess I’ve made.
What have I done?
How could I have done what I have done with a sane mind?
I ask this and yet, none of my charges will be plead to by ways of temporary insanity.
No.
I refuse.
I have come to stand and to approach the bench, not to seek mercy from the court or to win favor with the jury of my peers. I am not here to “save face” or to save my own ass because I know that no one can save both their face and their ass at the same time.
And let’s be clear, no one on the jury or one of my peers is ready to be equally honest about themselves. Yet, everyone who sits as judge or in the jury has committed a crime of the heart.
And somehow, they’re fit to judge?
How is this so?
It would be easier for me to defend myself by accusing my accusers,
but this is not about my accusers.
No.
This is about me, my little jail cell, and the warden, the guards, the victim, and the inmate within.
This is about the way I am and the way I have lived.
All of which needs to change.

I learned that if I can hate, then I can love.
The energy is the same; however, the energy needs to be directed.
The energy needs to be driven or pointed and so, if I can hate with all my heart, then I can love with all of my heart too.

I once wrote, “The span of my love is equal to the depth of my hate.”
If I can hate,
then I can love.

This is what I will use to lead me towards my recovery.
First, I must strip myself down to the barest parts.
I need to rid myself of all my hate.
I have to undress myself and yes, I have to openly admit to my crimes, my sins, and whether the jury’s verdict is cruel or unusual, I have to face this now and forever, — or in my heart, I have to face this now and at the hour of my death (amen).

I cannot live with the ideas of shame, nor can I improve with a shame-based mindset.
I cannot hold myself to the fire because in the end, all I’ll do is burn. If I continue to burn myself, I will do nothing else but become unrecognizable, or worse, all my damage will become irreparable and I will have to face my maker like this, broken and unsolved.

“Bless me, Father, a sinner”
I say this because one day, I want to go home justified.

Your Honor, I am accused of being dishonest.
I agree.
Your Honor.
I have been called a liar and a cheat.
I have been called everything under the sun.
I have been accused of each of the seven deadly sins.
I have fulfilled predictions of failure, and I have facilitated harm to me, myself, and to others who I loved or loved me.
I agree with this. Yet, I refuse to have this become my jacket.

I made mistakes.
But –
My mistakes do not make me.

If it pleases the courts, I can share more.
I can show more too, or like it was when we used to take math tests in school.
This was before the educational system came along and changed the old math to “new math.”
Therefore, and for an easier deliberation, I can show my work and define that I am always going to be the square root to my own equation.

I am not here for mercy.
No.
I am here to face what I’ve run from.
I am here to face the judgment and the firing squad or even face a trial by fire, or even the electric chair, if the court deems this necessary.

No one can kill me forever.
Life is short.
Death is long.
Therefore, let me face what I have done.
Let me take the pain, and whether I win or lose with my defense, at least no one beat me.

No one shook me to the core enough that I was too afraid to be honest about me — even if the truth is unfortunate, truth is still true.

So –
I have no excuses.
No rationalizations.
I have nothing left but the awareness that my life as it was is not living at all — and even if the judges wish the worst or sentence me to death, no one can kill me. No one can judge me.
Above all, no one can stop me from reaching for my dreams.
Maybe no one cares.
Maybe no one will help me.
But no one can stop me.

I’m ready for this, Your Honor.

Raising my right hand –
“Sir, do you swear that the testimony you give to the court in this matter shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

I do . . .