All For More (Or Less)

I come here in the mornings first, of course. I suppose this is the best time for me to come clean. or if nothing else, at least let me start clean. Let me purge now before the impurities of the day take away the purities in my heart.
It is hard though. Not the mornings or the ideas.
It isn’t hard to confess or to come clean either.
I suppose that this place is as safe as any to come clean, or confess.

The trouble is the anticipation.
It’s the building and the mounting anxieties that start, one by one, and it’s the worry about the impending doom that often carries me away.
But here I am. Good or bad, like it or not, it’s showtime.

It is hard to wrap our minds around the outcomes and the results of what took place.
Acceptance is key, or so I am told. But my fear is if I accept what is, then I might never have my way.
What do I do if my dreams do not match my destiny and my fate is a ship that falls short of the closest ports of my Heaven?

No.
I cannot accept this.
Not now. Not ever.
Then again, I am told that hell is the unacceptable.
And all else is punishable by dreams on demand that wake me up before the climax of anything beautiful.

Please Father.
Why have you forsaken me?
(I hear one of the local drunks vomiting in his own prison.)
The frost on the windows around town explain cold days in hell still burn the skin. And if so, then so be it.

It is hard to be here, where I am, which is so close ut so far from the one truth which is the only thing that can set me free.
(She is My Love)

How does one accept the unbearable?
How does one accept the unwanted details of their life?
How does one get beyond the pain when all they wanted is more?

and I want more too –

The cold air was sharp this morning and numbing like a frozen blade, enough to sting or cut through my flesh without effort. And the wind was blowing too , and whistling beneath a sky that appeared to be clearing and with a sun that blossomed in the morning sky.

A full sun will bring no warmth to us today.
The light is true and all this will do is brighten the truth behind our lies.
Or, so I assume.

I suppose only the prisoners know what the view is like from inside of their prison cell. And I would assume that only those who live with irrational blindness can see light or perhaps color, but nothing is clear and nothing is sure or true.
All else is doubtful, here on the tier.
The guards allowed the inmates to sleep later this morning. Either that, or the beast in the cages have something hidden, which means that something else is in-store for us.

There were no announcements in Purgatory this morning. Everything was quiet, like a momentary sense of eeriness to which, this is what it feels like when we endure the quiet before the storm.

“There has to be a way out of here,” remarked another inmate.
And there is.
There is more than one way out of here, I say.
However, it’s the alternatives and the details and the rules of engagement that have often kept me stuck in my cell.

I can think of all the times, I considered the unfortunate alternatives. I can think of the times when I folded and submitted or quit before I even tried.
I can think of those who defied the demons and dared to dream, no matter how many times they were told the word, “No!”

I want to get out of here too. I want to het out now or hopefully soon and in a timely fashion.
Or more, I want to get out of here alive. Or even better, I want to feel alive instead of living like a prisoner to some kind of mindless fool, dangling like an unwanted drool that falls from the bottom of a maniac’s lip.

The natives can be restless this time of year. And some of the guards and all of the gangs are ready for the unwinnable wars because to them; it’s better to fight and die. Or to some, it’s better to reign in hell than to serve in Heaven.
And I get it . . .
but I refuse to be that desparate.

The fools who lead the fools are ready for their battles. And the martyrs have already died, at least four or maybe five times this week.
This is how they stay alive, I suppose.
They die as frequently as they can.

But not me.
I want more.

I want more, the same as the child-like and eagerness of Icarus who was warned not to fly too close to the sun because the heat from the sun would melt the wax in his wings.
And I know he died. I know he crashed and burned.
But for a minute, Icarus had the feelings that each and ever one of us would die for too.
No?

I want to feel the warmth of the sun.
I want to feel the freedom of being so high, so free, and fearless, as if to be able to risk everything and dare it all without worries for the cost
(Even if she cost me my life, I’d still be willing . . .)

I want to fly high too, even at the risk of plummeting down because to me, it would be worth every second of my downfall, just to feel the grace of my love’s warmth.
I say this because to me, she is the sun because even the sun shivers when compared to her.
She is the warmth and if I am to be like Icarus; then I would fly high to feel the warmth because to me, feeling her is the same as it would to feel shafts of sunlight from the hands of Alectrona, the Greek Goddess of the sun.
It is dawn now.
First light has come and gone.
I pace . . .
I wait . . .
I can hear the guards talking about the powers that be.
Something is in the mail.
Or maybe the mail arrived and the demons have the envelopes.

I am not sure if the saying is true about it being darkest before dawn. I know that despite the darkness, there is always light.
There is always hope. There is always a purpose.

I know there are reasons behind everything.
Of course there are.
There has to be.

I know that I am here for a reason, —then again, where else would I be?
And why would I be anywhere else but here?
Who else would I wait for, other than you?
I tell you the quiet can be painful when you are not here.

I understand it here, in Purgatory.
I don’t mind the seasons or the different neighborhoods in Purgatory. I know that despite all, I have to realize that I have survived far more than the average person.
I have seen what I have seen And so have you, which is relative, of course, and subjective as well.

I know there is love out there for me. I know that the demons lie and they’ve tricked me.
I know the mirror has reviewed my request for leniency. However, the inaccuracies in my reflection teach my ugly things.
I know there is hope and whether I am drawn and quartered or if the social judgments or the local bullies have their way, or not, I know there is love out there for me.
I know this in my heart.
I also know that I have no choice but to go, move, be, and do.

I hear these words like, “Stay!” or I see the word “Continue,” which is spelled with a semicolon in place of the letter “i” or spelled more accurately like “cont;nue.”
The symbol of the semicolon is known in the mental health world as a sign of encouragement to stay alive.
Your story is not over!

The suicide angels have fallen far before any of us and none have come back to inform us that the alternative is better.
Hence, the word “stay!” is more of a heartful plea because life without you seems unlively, at best,

You hear people say thing like, “the world is a better place with you in it,” and of course, I hope this is true
I know these are kind words to hear.
However, what’s the use in hearing words like this when you fail to believe in them.
Am I right?
What’s the sense in someone calling you beautiful when all you see in your hidden ugliness, which you hope you to hide, or keep from sight.
The mirrors in Purgatory are misleading.
I know.

The word beauty is one that I love.
I love it the same as I love the value of a sad song which allows me to weep when no one else is around.

I never asked the mirror to be so unkind and nor did I think the jurors would be as restless as the other natives.
They are no different from the other inmate who hide tiny knives in the words to cut at my soul and slash the throats of all my dreams.
I never wanted to be like this.
I never wanted to be evil.
I never wanted to be ugly either. . .
Then again, no one does.
No one wants to be the ugly one. But the assignments of our beauty has nothing to do with me or you.
This comes from an authority beyond our control.
But wait . . .
I pace my cage in the morning and I beg the following:
Stay with me, please.
Love me.
This is all I ask,
Allow me the chance to touch you, or worship you,
Or better, let me reach for you the same as Icarus reached for the sun.
Let me fly high, and up to your soul without crashing.
And should I crash, then fine.
At least i reached for you.

The morning hours tick –
I have my case to defend.
And I have an angry jury, judges, and a prosecutor who was sent with revenge.

Yet, still, I think there is more for me to do. I know there is more for me to say. I know there is more on my plate, and the threat of uphill battles are par for the course.
Who else can deny these things?

Purgatory is Purgatory. Heaven is Heaven and hell is hell, which is fine. Then, whatever will be, will be.
And so be it.

I think about the word “Endure”
I think about what it means to endure or how hard it can be to find the endurance to get up after falling.
it can be hard to endure our falls, let alone the idea to get back up, and keep on moving.
(If you fall, they’ll let you die, or so I heard)

I think about the word, “Stay!” and what it means when someone pleads for you.
And then there’s the word “worth.”
And then there’s the idea of worthy or our own worthiness.
 And dammit all, I know.
I know what it means to be afraid.

I know what it means to fall hard and to try to get back up.
And you grab and you reach and you strain and you cry.
You try as hard as you can to get back up.
But no matter how hard you try, you fall back down because something’s missing.
I know what it feels like to have something missing
(or should I say “someone” missing)

I know what it means to try, but without the endurance to go, or to move, or to be and do; I know what happens the same as you do.

These are the tricks we find that set us back in Purgatory.
This is the weight. These are the items that blur out the sun.
Yet, so long as the sun shall burn, so shall my heart and so shall I.

I prepare to address the courts.

Your Honor,
My testimony is long, and rambling.
I agree.
Some might call me bizarre.
Some refer to me as evil.
Some say I am insane or crazy like a fox.

Yet, my truths are certainly relatable, which does not make my sins allowable.
no.
Wrongs are wrongs.
Excuses are excuses, and in fairness to myself or to us as a species; no one is so good or pure that they can say they are without sin.

I always say that the devil knows me, far better than I know myself. The faults and the tricks that come with pride and insecurity can be as deadly as the worst narcotic. I know because I have overdosed on both.

There is hope. And there is help.
We might not like our choices.
We might not like our circumstances.
But no one ever promised any of this was going to be easy, which is why I will look to rest my case..

To the members of the jury and to my accusers or to those who find themselves justified to judge, how honest have you been?
How sinful are you and if not at all, what is it about you that makes you sinless, or what makes your sins better or justified?

“No one watches the watchmen!”
I remember seeing this quote written on the wall behind a store when I was young. I was longhaired and high, angry, resenting the world and quick to light match so everything would burn.
But I’ve paid for that sin.
Therefore, that debt is settled in full.

I think about those who pretend or those who find themselves justified to sit higher or find themselves mightier, —and yet, I go back to the idea of how “absolute power corrupts, absolutely.”

No one has power over me (or you) unless I (or you) allow this.
No one can judge me.
I can lose my time. I can waste my life, and I can forfeit my freedom.
The choice is mine!
Perhaps this is not a choice for the better; but these are choices, nonetheless.

Stay!

Continue!

Get up!

Another word that I love is “Rise!”

And when I say “rise,” I say this in a different context and with a better or more improved sentiment than when “Your Honor” walks into the courtroom.
No
Rise! As in, rise up.
Stand up.
Now.

I was much younger when I heard someone tell me, “suicide doesn’t take away the pain. It just passes this off to someone else.”
And I can see how this is true
Another inmate came to mind, last night.
Gone to an unwinnable war.

I can understand the desperateness and yet, I can understand the other side of this coin, which is the selfishness of leaving without fighting back.
I’d rather we had talked than find out afterwards – my love and my willingness to talk was too late

But I get it.
Purgatory can make you tired.
So can all the bullshit remedies that our pride looks to find.

No.
I want to say this right here and now.
Stay!
Tomorrow needs you.

Your Honor and to the esteemed members of the court and to the spectators who are following this case; I confess that I am only human. I am just a man.
No more.
No less.

And somehow, despite all that I see or all that I have done, I know that there’s love out there for me.

I love you, always.