I have these dreams, which are not dreams at all. They are more like pictures and memories of times, long ago, or back when I was old enough to understand but to young to know that I had the right to question the life in front of me.
I am sick now, late in some regards, and older, achy, and unforgivably defiant against the ideas that yes, “this is it!” and this is as good as it gets.
No. I refuse this.
I know there has to be more.
I remember the drive I took from Albuquerque and up through the desert, heading north through the unknow districts of old New Mexico.
I was by myself, of course, and taking a quick trip that was more like a pilgrimage to me. I was lovesick and mad, hurt and wounded deeply by the previous life, which had unfolded to a subsequent pain that left me reeling.
This was me:
Mindless. Hopeless.
Empty. Alone.
None of these things are helpful.
None of these things would allow me to be free.
Not even the sun could warm me.
Nothing could stop this and no one could help me.
I heard about this place called Chimayo where more than 300,000 people travel each year, with hopes to find some kind of healing or have their prayers answered.
This is a small Church that supposedly heals the sick.
I say this with an emphasis on the word, “supposedly.”
There is something there, I was told.
There is dirt in the rear of church at Chimayo and is said to heal the sick.
And me? I was sick.
Only I was sick from something different than what I have now.
Both kinds of sickness are viral.
Both are like a bug. But one sickness is mental and the other which I face now is physical.
Yet, in either regard, both mental and physical sicknesses are equally draining.
I was searching with hopes that I might find some kind of answer. I wanted to be healed from my emotional ailments so that yes, I could escape myself or get out of my own way.
I was hoping that maybe, or if the so-called gods would take kindly to me, that I would be healed and equally absolved from my mistakes and sins.
But no.
I can see that miracles do not work this way.
Or maybe the dirt was not meant for me. Or maybe my lessons were more important than a simple absolvent and, so, I needed to learn my lesson so that I would never make the same mistakes again.
But of course, I do.
And I have.
I have been called crazy before.
Crazy.
Yes. I am crazy.
I am fit to be tied.
I’m as mad as anyone else here in this mental facility we call “the world.”
I have my own voices that I have to contend with. I have my own psychosis. I have my own science or pathology that make me tick the way that I do.
Sure.
I’m crazy.
Of course, I am.
I am crazy because I am still willing and despite my falls and all the bumps and bruises, I am willing to make a run for it again. I would endure the same outcomes if it means that i have the chance to make my dreams come true.
The question of course is how many times do you try to make your dreams come true before you give up? How long should someone keep going?
My answer is always.
Keep going.
Never stop because the day you stop is the same day you’ll overthink, “What if I turn away and never see that she turned around?”
I’d rather die trying than die with the regret of wishing I’d have given my dreams one more shot.
I’m willing to put everything on the line again.
I swear.
I’d risk everything I have. I’ll run for the fences and try to make my escape.
I’d climb the razor wired fence and let it slice me to shreds.
I’d do whatever it takes.
I’d dig a hole and try to tunnel my way out of here. And with all I have and all of my heart; I will take my shot, even if the risk is painful or unforgiving.
I’ll do whatever it takes.
I’ll do anything just to find my place in the sun and hold the love of my life in my arms, —even if it’s just one last time or if i should die right after.
Then fine.
So be it.
I’ll take the pain. I’ll take the risk.
I’ll make my way out of here, even if the guards object. Or even if I have to sneak out or escape the chains. I’ll do it.
No matter what,
And no matter what happens, or if the watchmen in the watch towers aim down with their high-powered rifles and scopes that zero in on the center of my back or the back of my head, —then let the pull the trigger because you can bet your ass that I will still make a run for it.
Fuck it all.
I think back to that drive I took through the desert. I remember how the people in town smiled or came from different backgrounds. I thought about the locals who said things like “hello” with no ither intention than to be kind or welcoming.
I want this.
I want to find my way to where the world is friendly and the personal and social bullies are nonexistent.
No one looks to say a snide or unkind thing.
I want to find a place where they serve a nice peach cobbler and Sundays at the local diner are both Godlike and wholesome enough to make people smile as they greet you on the street.
Peace be with you.
And also with your spirit.
I know my whereabouts all too well. I know where I am and I know the battles I have to face to free myself. I know I want to be free, that is, of course, if I can be freed at all.
No one can contain me or my spirit.
No one can stop me. And maybe no one can help me.
But I can make a run for it.
I can give this everything I have, —and by any means, even if this kills me, then at least I would die while trying to be alive.
By the way . . .
The wardens don’t like when we get this way. And nor does the Devil like when we turn to the Lord.
No one likes the lights that expose their lies and no one wants to face the truth.
I get this.
I remember thinking how I used to run to escape the pain.
I swore that the pain starts once you stop running.
No matter where you go, there you are.
And no matter how fast you go, you can never get away from yourself, —or your truth.
And I know this.
Ever see a video of a lion as it paces its cage?
I’ve seen inmates do this as well.
Walking back and forth.
Pacing.
Contemplating.
Planning.
I cannot let this be me
(anymore)
I heard they changed the grain in the bullets for the guards in the watch tower.
The bullets are trained to kill
And so are the sharpshooters, both foreign and domestic.
I heard the judge was thirsty in the worst and most perverse way possible.
And the guards love this. The wardens are well kept and fed.
But who knows . . .
Maybe I can make it.
Maybe I can beat the landmines in the fields outside the grounds at Purgatory’s Eastside.
Maybe God is on my side.
Or maybe God has nothing to do with this. Or perhaps this is like Pontius Pilate, and maybe all else have washed their hands of me.
Maybe the dirt I collected from Chimayo has a delay or like the host at church on Sundays, maybe the bread which is His body or the wine which is His blood are not meant for me.
I don’t know . . .
But I know it’s out there.
My Heaven.
I have to go now.
I heard the guards sharpening their keys this morning, —and they do this to twist the locks and keep me helpless.
I can’t give in.
no.
I have one more try in me.
I swear
I can feel it
The guard shouted out, “Inmate #7940178”
Yes, I answered.
“The judge called.” he said.
“be ready by tomorrow morning!”
The plot thickens –
The Written Addiction 