All For More (Or Less)

The meds from last night hit me hard.
My grogginess was amazing to me.
Literally.
I could hardly understand my whereabouts, yet I am where I am because I was where I was.
This is for sure.

The handcuffs are figurative but tight. Then again, so is the reality of fiction and so are the details of today’s courtroom proceedings.
Here we we go, I suppose.
Such is life under the watchful eyes of those who study the inmates in our private Alcatraz.
But ah, the benefits of the accusers and how they try to lead me with their advantages.

I have read their notes, despite their refusal to disclose them to me. Hence, these are my disadvantages ad too, the violation of my rights are more civil than something I can claim in my criminal defense.
I see how they do this.
They study my responses to different stimuli.
Do you see?
They do this so they can notate my functions and see what makes me weak.

It’s okay.
I’ve played this game before.

I dreamt again last night.
There she was, walking into my new life and ushered in by fate and faith, and destiny too.
I consider all three because nothing as beautiful or as meaningful as her could ever be so random or accidental.
At least, I don’t think so.

The dream is beautiful loving, sexual and more.
My fingers slip through her hair on either side of her cheeks to accentuate her face.
I can see her.
I have millions of dreams which come nightly, of course.
I have them awake and alive, and even in my hours which are full, I see how everything I think about stems from my need to accommodate my feelings “for her.”

I try and I try. Even if I swing and miss.
I have to try
I have fallen on my knees more than once. However, my broken soul and my injuries have made it difficult to stand up again.
My weariness and my aches make it hard to fight off the enemies, both foreign and domestic, who have doe what they could to overturn my appeals and keep me from peace.

No one can see me like this. No one can know.
No one can know what she does to me and no one can know that I am weak for her.
No one . . .
No one can know because I am certain that a weakness like this will make me vulnerable; and hence, I will be subject to an emotional violence that hurts worse than pain itself.

No, I have to protect my love. I have to protect my truth from both the guards and the other inmates in Purgatory.
I have to keep from the demons because they look to plug into my fears and disrupt my sanity.
And I can’t have this.
I can’t lose her or let anyone take her away from me.
Not this time.

Then again, such is life.
This is what happens to a soul which is guarded by bars and the flatfooted officers who patrol the corridors.
Such is life after the wakes of our aftermaths.
Such is life after the punishers decide to condemn the broken souls of discouraged men like me.

And more, such is life when it pertains to self-fulfilled fantasies and self-destruction.
And such is what happens when all we do is worry about the impending doom.

“Just bring it on, already!” screams the inmates
“Let the pain begin because the anticipation hurts more than the pain itself.”

This is prison.
  Yet . . .
Still, I dream.

I close my eyes and see her as I imagine her to be.
Beautiful as ever. Sexy too.
I see her body as she exposes herself, and thus, I assume that I will continue to dream this way from now until the hour of my death.
Of course I will.
I can see her chest.
I see her swirling in sheets, nipples exposed, face on its side and pressed into the pillow.
Her legs curled as she lay sleeping, —and despite this peaceful look or her beauty and purity; I cannot stop myself.
I’m sorry.
I can’t help but wake her up.
And she cannot deny me.
Not at all.
She cannot ignore me because she can feel me as my lower body is extending and growing hard, fast and full.

I will always dream of her.
I will dream of her until my dreams become reality.
I swear.
And should my punishment be to dream endlessly or if I am to be condemned to this kind of solitary without her, then I will dream to ensure my freedom,
Not only will I dream; I will dream more to stay alive despite the prosecutors who urge to sentence me to death which is just life imprisonment (without her.)

I think about the great composers and the genius of Beethoven.
I think about the presence of sound and how it vanished to the ears of Beethoven.
Yet, still, he heard everything.

Beethoven memorized the sound of notes and chords and so, despite the deafness in his ears, he heard symphonies in his heart.
I think about this all the time.
Beethoven wrote the 9^th Symphony and composed this nearly completely deaf, —and of all, he wrote Ode to Joy with a music that come internally.
This is how I know that freedom of the mind is far freer than freedom of the body.

Ode to Joy . . .
what a name to brand a song.
Ode to joy was Beethoven’s plea to feeling alive, despite his loss.

In fact, I believe there is a word for this.
I believe there is a special claim to this word, which I say is heroic.
I want to be a hero to
And thus –
She is my Ode to Joy.
She must be.

I find that I am equally without sound and equally without vision due to my situational blindness. But with all of my heart, I know that one sense links to the other which is a result of my situational deafness, which is otherwise locational because, of course, location is everything.
Right?

I am here.
And she is everywhere else
(for now)

Hence, this is why I dream. This is why my mind leaves my body.
Or even better, This is how I escape my conditions and keep myself from the pain of emotional execution.

Same as Beethoven escaped his situation, I escape mine as well.
I escape the rot and the stench and the thievery of my body’s five senses.
Rather than wallow or suffer, I escape the current conditions through my dreams because if I lose this, then I will have lost everything.
And therefore, I refuse.
I refuse to let go.
I cannot give away my mind and nor can I surrender my will or my heart, which is not even mine anymore because everything I have belongs to her.
Everything I have belongs to her; it always has and it always will.

And, again, this is how I vanish.
This is how I evade the troops and avoid the guards and the shithouse scavengers who look to rape and steal the soul of men like me.
More than anything else in this prison; this is how I stay alive.

Nothing can hurt me in my dreams. Nothing can stop me. And as for her, she is the sum of my five senses. She is my freedom and even more, she is my memory’s version of sight, sound, smell, taste, hearing and touch.
This is what keeps me free.

Same as Beethoven heard his symphonies; I hear her voice.
I smell the flavor of her skin.
I touch her to the point where I can literally feel her.
I swear.
I feel her the way rose petals feel at my fingertips, —and while this is only a dream, I can feel all of this inside of me.

I can hear her speaking, or whispering, or more intimately, I can hear her moaning and calling for me.
God, she is so beautiful.
I hear the sound like when she explodes, erupting and calling my name, screaming in the excess of orgasms. “I’m going to cum,” —and yes, I can see this in my heart and feel this in my mind.

I can see her in my dreams. I can hear her in my soul. And I can feel her, pulsating and throbbing like the beating of my heart which goes wild and crazy.
Yes. Crazy.
Of course I am crazy.
I must be crazy to say this here and now.

I have to be insane to admit that I am this weak, —or if this is the sum of my weakness, I must be crazy to let the world know that I am weak enough to be so strong that I can break from my prison cell so that I can find her.
No one can stop me.
Not even hell can keep me hostage when I am like this.

Have I told you how I worship her?
Have I told you how I admire her?
I love the way she feels.
I adore her.
I notice her too,
I notice her toes, which I confess and admit that I want to kiss her feet and perhaps nibble at her ankles.
I would even polish her toenails as a means of loving submission.
And yet, I do not submit as if to be submissive in the weaker sense.
No.
Not at all.
I submit this to be loving.

However, I am more on the dominant side.
Hence, I prefer to be passionately dominant. I need to take what’s mine and I admit that I can be hungry or even more; I am hungrier than the beast himself.
I admit that I am insatiable and unstoppable when it comes to the taste of her flesh.
I can’t help it.
(Even if she swears that I can. I know I can’t)

But I . . .
I digress.

Rather than pose myself as strong; I admit to my softer side and render to my weakness.
Nothing is accidental. Not the randomness of seeing someone out of nowhere or the reconnection of two souls who travelled separately and then reconnected, to come back together.
Hence, I say again; there she is, ushered by faith, fate and destiny too.

I do not submit to an accidental imprisonment.
No, I am the source of my outcomes, and I am accountable, responsible, and equally liable.
I know.
Therefore, I am held here to be punished and forced to be made answerable for my sins.
I accepted my bid.
I understand the details and the rights which were never read to me.
But again, there I go and digress once more.

I see the biggest sins of man, which are as follows—

No sin is worse than the destruction of the heart.
No sin is worse than destroying someone’s worth.
No sin is crueler than ruining the spirit of someone so beautiful and manipulating their heart to believe they are either not enough, not worthy, or that something about them deserves to be punished or smothered until death.

I never hide her in my dreams. I never hide how I feel or how I parade her.
And I will never hide anything ever again.
I swear.
I will never commit the sins above.
I’d rather die and burn because hell is nothing compared to the realization that guilt of this is soulless enough that even demons would condemn me.

I will never betray my heart or my love and no, I might not find my way out of this prison, in which case, Purgatory will claim another inmate before lunchtime.
But I swear to this with all I have.
Not even hell, damnation, destruction or the isolation of this imprisonment can keep me from her.
So help me God.

Or maybe this is what hell is like –

To know her—

To know she exists—

And yet of all I know, my hell would be real if I were to fail to have her as mine and hence, my punishment will be that I knew the most beautiful girl in the world, —and I lost her.
Or worse, my hell would be the knowledge that I will never have her completely or to myself.

I remember my first dance with intimate euphoria.
I was too quick. I was too selfish.
I was too sure that sexual exploration was always promised and guaranteed.
This is far more to me.
I used to invest in the physical more than anything else. . .

But all has changed now.
Not just me. But my body is different now.
My heart understands the value of time.
I do not operate as I used to.

I cannot do the same things like when I was younger or carefree, yet, what I have now and what I feel as far as for “her” in an emotional version is far more orgasmic than anything I have ever imagined.

I refuse to allow my emotional content or my love to be limited to the momentary explosion of one or two orgasms.
No.
What I want is lifelong.
What I want his one will be infinitely more euphoric than feeling the clouds of Heaven beneath my the soles of my feet.

The prison cells were cold this morning. Purgatory had frost on its windows which tilted inward to fumigate the smell of rotten flesh that came from the open wounds of hell-bound souls.

I can’t help it.
I can’t lose her.
I can’t let go.
And I can’t be free without her, —at least, not yet.

My wherewithal returned as I heard the voices in the courtroom remind me of my location.
I thought to myself, “Where am I?”

“Bailiff, please remove the defendant from the courtroom, and see to it that he returns to his holding cell in solitary confinement.”

Don’t worry, Your Honor.
No hell you can send me to is worse than the hell I’ve put myself through.

“We’ll see about that,” replied the judge.

Yes, Your Honor.
I assume we will.