It is no different to assume a loss than it is to lose in the physical sense. Either way, the mind sees what the mind sees; whereas my time has been confined to this small place and yet, there is a great big world outside and around me.
The receptors in the mind do not know the difference between fantasy and reality, whereas I can dream and picture myself or imagine my losses, and whether my thoughts are reality or fiction, the results of my emotions are the same.
I understand the games of chemistry in our minds, which is why I say it is no different to believe or to feel for a loss, even if we have lost nothing.
Put simply, if I believe that I have lost, then I have lost. And if I believe that I can never win, then I will never win.
This is the trick that the beast and the demons play.
This is how they keep us guessing or trick us into using their resources, to keep us coming back and steal our freedoms with lies about a temporary redemption.
“Man cannot be saved, lest he be born again.”
I am not capable nor can I go back to the womb–therefore, my estimation tells me that I can never be saved and thus, I will only be damned or at best, stuck here in Purgatory.
I see this place. I see everything.
And, so?
What else would I think or believe?
There are sights and sounds that never go away.
And smells too.
There are tiny remnants that trigger the flood of memories and bring us back to a series of people, places, and things.
Like say –
Some of these triggers are a godsend, and others come from a much different or desperate direction.
For example, there are those who understand the old junkie codes and despite their years away from the pincushion veins, the smell from a burning matchstick will remind them of the smell from cooking batches of heroin.
There are smells which I remember from the hot months of August in Jamaica, Queens during the summer of 1989. There was the odor of the small bodega, which was a front because their real business was running numbers for the quick-fix gamblers that tried their luck. And of course, it would be remiss of me to forget to mention how this was two doors down from the methadone clinic and one door west of the chop-shop automotive place who handled their business in a less-than-legal practice.
I remember these places. I remember the time too.
I remember the sickness, which I was warned about. And I remember the feelings I had of being young, lost, and similarly, I felt the ongoing sadness and the shame because I was a teenage dropout.
I was sick. I was too thin.
My skin was green and i had too many sins under my belt for a young man at my age
Other kids from my neighborhood were experiencing life. They were in school or planning their graduation or their college and their future. Meanwhile, I was the outcast. I was working for a living, —or at least pretending to work.
Stealing was more of my main income.
I was lucky to have what I had and fortunate to be part of my family’s business, —but there were other challenges and disadvantages that averted my eyes from the benefits that would otherwise be “my life.”
I could have had more.
I could have been fine.
But I wasn’t fine and nor could I believe that I was fine.
Hence, this is why I say that it isn’t much different to assume a loss than it is to lose in the physical sense.
I thought, therefore, I was.
I am as I believed and so, I believed in the labels and the titles that I was given. I believed in the worst of all my predictions. I believed the teachers who told me at best, I’d be lucky to find a job as a “ditch digger” or working in any of the manual labor trades.
I was labeled by the mental health doctors and the white lab coats specialists with clipboards and high-priced educations with their degrees on the walls of their office.
Yet, at best, they gave me labels that were overall blanket statements with no substance or explanation, —to which I have often wondered and still wonder to this day; what is the benefit of telling a 12-year-old boy he is emotionally disturbed?
And again, even until this day, I have yet to find a mental health professional who can explain this term, other than saying it was a loose fit and a label to cover over me because the truth is, they didn’t know what was “wrong” with me.
And I quote this word specifically.
I quote the word “wrong” as if to place a special annunciation to the word itself, —wrong, as it to be flawed, or imperfect, and worst of all, what kind of kid, person, adult, man or woman or anyone else in the human spectrum want to be seen as defective like some kind unwanted thing.
No one wants to be “wrong.”
No one. . .
And again, it is no different to believe that I was nothing than it would to actually be nothing because.
And of course, I was as I believed I was nothing, —and in this case, I could never be anything better than the best of my sorry or sad limitations.
I could only rise to this level and never more.
There are smells that remind me of these times. And some are worse and some of these memories will die with me and never see the light of truth.
And there are smells that remind me of being underground or hiding in filthy rooms, setting up, and cooking my special batches to keep myself high so that I could avoid my truths in tiny blasts, one hit at a time.
I was just a kid.
That’s it.
I was too scared.
I was too hurt.
I was too frustrated and too tired of believing that there was something wrong with me.
I had seen too much and yet, I saw nothing at all.
My fixation was averted to the left instead of to the right hand of God.
And no. I am not religious.
I am neither born again or preaching.
No, I am being honest that I turned away from the wholesomeness of truth and sought deceit instead of promises.
In fairness, I could hardly read. I could hardly speak my thoughts in a clear or understandable way. And I say this knowingly and I say this from the perspective of hindsight because I had to learn how to heal.
I had to learn how to understand. I had to learn how to read out loud without stuttering, —and more than anything else, I had to learn how to save my own life on a daily basis.
I had to teach myself survival skills, even if those skills were ill-advised or life-threatening, everything else was threatening to me to begin with.
I cannot say that all of this was bad or that all my youth was bad. No, I had moments which I cherish dearly.
I have sights and sounds and smells or aromas that remind me of sweeter moments.
This is why I always describe the smell from honeysuckles and how they remind me of springtime, just before summer breaks and the weather has already begun to warm the skin.
The smell from the beach at Point Lookout is another special smell to me.
I remember years after my Father’s death. I opened a bag that was given to me by him on my 13th birthday. He gave me a small prayer book that was given to him when he was 13.
I was supposed to pass this book along to my youngest son.
But this type of thing wasn’t in the cards for me.
I must have wrapped the little prayer book in one of The Old Man’s scarves after The Old Man died. And I hadn’t opened the bag since then.
I don’t know how the bag resurfaced or why or what I was doing at the time, —perhaps I was going through old things to see what I should keep or throw away.
And there it was.
I opened the bag.
I was hit with the smell of my Father’s cologne.
And this . . .
This was enough to trigger my senses and feel the same emotions of, say, what it was like to be a little boy in my pajamas and excited enough to run downstairs to greet my Father who came home, just in time before I went to bed.
Sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell.
These are the fingers that flip the switches in our receptors.
I know.
For example, Mom always knew when I was not well. She knew how to make things better because no one made mashed potatoes and fried chicken cutlets like Mom.
To this day, no one can mix iced tea like Mom did or make cinnamon toast, like she used to do when I was little.
I remember when I was very young and sick. I was in the hospital for two weeks and nothing could calm me down or make me feel better.
Mom came in and the feel of her hand as it wiped the hair away from my face was better than any kind of morphine or pain reliever in the world.
Love does this.
But there are different stages of love and different levels of intimacy.
And so, the mind is our receiver. Energy is our electricity, which keeps our lights on and keeps us going.
The mind is our directional conduit, and here I am in Purgatory, a correctional facility in the emotional sense.
My energy needs a better direction. Or else, I will never be free.
I am here –
Locked up. Segregated and separated.
I am sitting in a small room in solitary confinement and awaiting my trial by fire.
Maybe I should get up.
Maybe I should pace the floor again.
Maybe my darkness is too incredible and the light inside of me is overwhelmed and overdrawn.
Either way, the beast served us a cold breakfast again this morning. Some of the demons in the south wing enjoyed their powdered eggs and imitation bacon.
I was told the ambulance came again last night, —but this is nothing new.
They come to take someone away so that someone else can move in. This is all the same for those who are like the rest of the recidivists, —out goes one and in comes twice or three times as many.
Purgatory is always accepting new applicants.
And I assume, so is hell
It is no different to believe in prison than to be in one—even if we are free, we are only as free as we believe.
I know where I am. And I know why I am here.
I know the guards and the demons, and I know the prosecutors and the judges, all too well.
I know who my Angel is too.
She is beautiful and sweet.
But –
Elusive she is, distant but not so far from me.
I think of her.
I dream of her too.
I imagine what it was like, a snowy day, and the rest of the world shut down because the streets froze over.
I think about the warmth of her body.
I think about how it was inside our small little corner of the world.
Sexy . . .
I think about the way her legs feel or how her toes look or the way her chest feels when it is pressed up against me.
I think about the wealth from her kiss or the sound of her laugh.
I love these things.
I would kiss her toes, right now, if given the chance to.
I think about the feel of making love and how I wished I could have stayed with her and never left.
I think about the benefits of love and the crimes from within, which is what comes to us when we forget to nurture the love we fell, or if we take love for granted, I think about losing only lightning in the bottle that I’ll ever have.
God,
I know the demons have taken their pounds of flesh.
I know the meat on my bones is bound for the angry maggots who hunger for revenge.
I know that I have to serve my time and here I am, serving what’s left of it.
I serve with hopes to prove my case or in other words, I hope that I can break these chains and earn my innocence.
No one can ever make me feel like “her.”
No one can ever soothe my soul like she does.
No one will ever smell as sweet.
No one will ever taste like her.
No one will ever turn me on like she does.
No one.
And no one will ever tempt me, tease me, or love me.
Like her—
The prison turned the heat on this morning.
I felt the tips of flames from hell’s fire this morning. I felt this as I walked the floor and paced back and forth in my tiny cell.
Prisoner #7940178 . . .
Yes sir?
Stop talking to yourself.
You’re doing it again and you’re waking everybody up.
The guard reiterated, one more peep out of you, and SLAM!
Back to the rubber room you go
I’m not crazy though.
Nope. But you’re just crazy enough to know better . . .
. . . so, keep it down.
Yes, sir.
I promise.
The Written Addiction 