All For More (Or Less)

I wat this more than before. Then again. I am not sure who I was before.
That is of course, if there was such a thing as before.
But there always is. Isn’t there?
There is always a time before now; and now is the time.
Now is the time when my eyes are opened enough that I can see what I have endured, what I have missed, and what I have squandered.
I am not so different from the Prodigal Son; only, I have yet to return and I have yet to be forgiven by my Father.

I want more. I want more than before but to be clear; I’ve always wanted this, even before I found myself here, which is where I am, and waiting for the prosecution to rest their case

The doors open to new inmates. Except, I never see anyone released. At least, not without a body bag draped over them.
Purgatory has strict rules, I suppose and while all of our other faithless abandons enter, life fades and freedom dissipates to an nonentity of faceless existence.
it is sad too. But this is all real.
And so are you.

It is no more for me to think about my freedom than it is to consider my demise.
This is all we are faced with.
Either Or,
Each day comes and goes. And all we can do is make decisions.
All we can do is decide to stand or agree to submit.
That’s all.

I know what I have to look for,
For example:
Sunshine crept through one of the cracks in the doorway last morning. I saw tiny shafts of sunlight piercing the blackness of solitary confinement and thus; I noticed how the beam took on a slow-motion appeal, as if all else in the prison cell had faded or came to a momentary stop.

It has always amazed me, the unexpected flower somehow pushing through the cracks of pavement in New York City, —or the rose without thorns, or a random flower in the dessert which comes along to defy science and reason and to remind us that yes, despite the times we face or the circumstances at hand, life does exist and beauty can never be destroyed.

It is no more for me to consider my dreams or my desire to be free than it is for me to think about the size of my enclosure or how I am imprisoned.
I am locked-up and the dogs and the guards are eager to feed on me the flesh of the other inmates.
It is no more for me to think that somehow, I could rise above all of this.  
I could refuse to submit and decline the rights to surrender. I could deny the right to a trial by fire or come under the judgment of a so-called jury of my peers, and I can stand and tell them “shoot me now,” because their bullets are aimless and mores; this is a reflection of them and their contempt.

I could give in. I could let the waves take me away and be like a dying leaf that trails atop of an outgoing river that eventually finds the sea.
I could die and be unmarked or anonymous.
I could do that.
I could give up.
I could back down and conform. I could lose myself like water to a drain, and I could flow down the spiraled vortex and consent or comply with my own sorry execution.
Or I could stand. I could rise.
I could refuse to go meekly and sit quietly while I await the judgments—and yes, dammit all and dammit to hell! Yes, I could be led to the guillotine and wait for the blade to slice down and sever me from existence.
I could do this.

Or I could fight.
I could let the rage to live and restore justice in my heart grow strong and reach the levels of St. Michael.
Yes, I can call upon him too.
Or if I dare to risk the battle and the blood and pain; I could be just like St. Michael, leader of Heaven’s armies, —and I can defy the demons The way St, Michael defied Lucifer and scream, “Who is like God,” and claim that form or supremacy against the imposters and the wicked.

I could fight back.
I could defy the thoughts in my head. And I could defy the worries in my heart.
I could defend my honor, and be like Churchill and say, “whatever the cost may be.”
I could defend myself, regardless to the drooling hounds of war, who dare me to run us down, just so they can sink their teeth into the meat of my flesh and devour me in some kind of sinful destruction.

It is no more for me to fear the pain than it is for me to desire my own redemption. And it is no more for me to defy the doorway to hell and repent to find myself at the Gates of Heaven.

Sometimes we face our own last temptations, like the one of Christ, and how he defied the Devil and said, “get behind me!” to Peter to sway Jesus from His path.
I do not know what my path will look like.
And I am unaware of whether I will arrive on the peaceful shores Heaven or I will see the antichrist and be swallowed in the deepest holes of fire and turmoil.
I don’t know if I an win or lose but whether I win or lose is not applicable. This has nothing to do with my desire and my will and my intent to defy the beasts around me.

I know their predictions.
And I know how the demons and the accused enjoy the opportunity to watch someone fail.
But whether I fail or not, at least I did not surrender the one last thing that I have, —and I say this because I have lost my space and I have lost my freedom. I’ve nearly lost everything.
Yet, I refuse to surrender my mind because when I do, the I will have lost everything and then I will have truly been beaten.

Not today, Satan.

Not.
Today.

The knot slipped from around my neck, and I woke up on the floor. This was me in a previous life and during a previous conviction and a fight before another pending incarceration.
Assault with a deadly weapon.
“I should have killed him,” I thought to myself.
He would have been a pawn in this game. He’d have been wasted and gone, but a pawn nonetheless, to show that I am capable of outrage and destruction, enough to find the burden of control which no man should know.
No one should know the absolute power of taking another man’s life, —or destroying a soul. No one should know this control for it leaves you drunk with an inaccurate substance and leads you to believe that you are like God.
Hence, you are more like Lucifer
And thus, you will be cast down worse than the beast, himself.

I heard a voice while looking at the sunbeam that broke through the doorway, last morning.
“Why do you think you lived?”
I don’t know.
“Did you deserve to be spared?”
No.
“Do you deserve another chance?”
I don’t know.
“You must have someone on your side then, right?”

“You should have died lifetimes ago.”
I suppose you’re right, I said in a sad whisper.
The truth in my heart was like that of purity which stung the impurities in my soul.

“Not even Satan had the chances you had, and look where you are now?”
“You are alive because I have kept you alive!”

Does this mean you’ll help me?
“No, this means you’ll have to find the desire to help yourself—”

“so you an be free.”