There was something in the air. I can say that.
I knew something was about to happen.
I would have no other way to describe it other than I could feel something coming, like a sense of impending news, crucial and hard, and yet there was an understanding—like a strange calmness that this is life and these are the rules of our engagement.
I was told about another death last night. The news hit home.
However, this is par for the course, and these are the rules of the game.
No one knows the hour or the day is what I was told.
And life?
Life moves in both an eventual and inevitable ways in which case, there is a beginning, a middle, and there is an end to everything.
Including us.
We move in circles from our perspective. We have our circles of influence. We have our own version of faith, purpose, and desire. And yes, we all have our own motivations and inspirations.
Of course we do.
We come from where we come from and yes, I can see how some of us become a product of our environment.
However, some produce benefits and improve. Some remain as they were. Some grow. And some become stagnant and lose to a life that was otherwise stagnant as well
Sometimes the news from outside the prion will find its way inside and leave us speechless.
I understand why the meat wagon comes here to take away the rotting flesh and removes the corpses to keep the dorms with new and hopeless souls.
I get that.
But this is here.
I suppose out there has its own demons that look to sign a contract with anyone willing to participate.
Take the girl from down south, for example.
I heard the news.
I heard she passed away peacefully.
I heard the toxicology report is destined to find the remnants of something unfortunate. However, regardless of the reason, the final hour is still the final hour, and the end is the end.
And so, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, “For dust you are, and to dust you will return,” is what it says in Genesis 3:19.
It is a strange moment when we find ourselves in the awareness of an afterthought. Life moves.
And nothing is more sobering than mortality.
The clock ticks and age mounts like droplets of water, adding to a vase called “life,” which ticks like the seconds until the vase is full, and lastly, our mission here has been accomplished and complete.
I know too much and yet, I knew enough about my friend down south to know there was something beautiful about her. There was something precious, and something that made her stand out as more than her final days.
She was far more than her outcomes at the hour of her death (Amen)
It is a quiet morning here.
Purgatory seems different, as if the punishment wore thin for the moment. None of the dogs are growling at my soul and none of the guards have come to take their pound of flesh from me, nor have I had my blood drawn to keep me lifeless.
The mood is quiet, and all is still.
I suppose this is because the news has only broken and the sentiment of truth has yet to permeate the air.
This is the numb part.
She was a good girl . . .
The tiny soldiers who did her wrong are incapable of apologies. And the troops who led her astray have all gathered to point their fingers and keep the blame from exposing their truth.
it is a murder charge in the state of Florida.
It is murder to sell a bag or a lethal dose of heroin.
I’m told they know where she got the bags from
All that’s left is the toxicology report
and a life sentence for someone who has the same problems.
I am not numb to the news and nor am I new to these so-called preventable deaths, —to which I often question if any death is truly preventable because if it was, —then no one would die from them.
Including my friend from down south.
I have a memory.
I have a picture in my mind.
I have a special place in my heart and a reason why I keep her there.
Prepare yourself.
This moment is far more important than you think.
Everything from here on is precious.
Nothing can be wasted. No one can go unnoticed and no stone can be left unturned.
I am here to offer my thoughts. And I am here to mention that despite age or distance, or despite the roads we travel, —if I say that I care, then I care. And if I say that I love you, then I love you.
If I say that I am here for you, to listen or to talk to, then I am here to listen or to talk to.
I am aware; however, that life does not operate according to our plans. People might go off in their own directions, and some might never know or be aware of who they are or what they are worth to other people, or say, someone like me, for example.
And who am I?
I am none other than another imperfect entity in this world. I am a sinner too. I am faulted and flawed.
I am serving my time, which obviously means that my soul has yet to be justified and that in turn, —I am equally a sinner and equally someone with ties to my own prison and my own hell.
I know this is true because we meet here.
Every day.
I was told my friend down south went in her sleep, which only serves to make me wonder.
What were her last words?
What did she say to the last person she spoke with?
I know she was sleeping, but I wonder if she was dreaming at the time and found herself in the face of a moment of awareness.
The guards and the beast, the demons, and the weeds that strangle the soul are all unemotional about these things.
This is all something that takes place while doing business.
And that’s all this is to them, —business.
But that business is none of my business.
No, I can say that I knew what I knew and I saw what I saw, and in the end, another person falls to the murk of their emotional quicksand, —drowning alive until the body gives way.
I have seen people who deserve bad things.
I know people who are evil and they would sooner cut you to pieces before mentioning a kind word.
I have met bad people who were somehow rewarded with good things. And I have met good people who were faced with the worst and made to endure bad things.
I have been to the belly of the beast and watched the serpents and the bottom feeders look to feast on whatever they could find, —the scavengers are always eager to please you with a deal.
I see them, scrounging the wastelands to feast on the souls of volunteered spirits who chose to poke their needles and pincushion their arms.
It is sad and unfortunate but true that people do this with hopes to escape a demon and surpass an unreachable heaven.
Meanwhile, the demons hold the leash which retracts and brings you back down, and deeper than you were before.
It is a hard place to be—in the trenches.
it is hard to see the common casualties or watch the innocent be laid to rest because someone infected them, and learned how to make them guilty.
And please remember something; sadness is far more contagious than we seem to believe. Yet, we understand the details and the rules of engagement because the pain makes sense.
Pain is easy.
Sadness is easy
Hope and faith is hard.
And hope and faith is brave.
The bitch about this is our worst fear is that we are cowards . . .
And dare I say, I have no right to point or execute, or blame, nor is it appropriate for me to say anything other than this, —I look to find the light here in my little prison cell.
I am unclear as to why I have been chosen to be where I am. And I am unclear why I lived and others slipped away, voiceless and sad, but their names remain in memory to me, which is better than the apparent list of statistics which otherwise keep them nameless or faceless.
Life is worth too much.
Unfortunately, it often takes us learning to die for us to realize how valuable it is to know what it means to live.
I don’t want to die anymore.
“No one does,” said the beast.
“But this is how I beat you people because no one realizes the value of their life until they learn they’re going to lose it!”
Is that why you laugh, I asked?
“No, this is how I stay fed.”
I don’t understand . . .
“You feast on your dreams that come true,” remarked the beast.
“And I feast on all the dreams you’ve surrendered.”
You lied . . .
“No. I told everyone to stay away.”
“I told your friend from down south too.”
The beast continued –
“But here’s the secret to my trick—I don’t have to tempt you by saying anything. I can ignore you all, and somehow, you come to find me.”
“It’s a game of free will, remember?”
Blessed Father,
I am far from free and I am restricted and caged, like the rest of us inmates here.
I call up to you. I call up to the Heavens to speak with the penitent thief, St. Dismas.
Remember me, when you walk into your house.
Perhaps maybe one day—I could dine with you too
in paradise.
But not yet.
Not now.
No.
I have an appeal to win
a life to fight for
and a girl who asked me to make her proud.
I love her . . .
Prison or not.
Nothing can take that away from me.
The Written Addiction 