All For More (Or Less)

The wind was howling sometime around midnight last night. Then everything turned quiet.
There was an odd, yet somber tension to the moment. I suppose this is because this morning is called Christmas Eve on the other side of Purgatory.
No one spoke last night. No one set any notes down the tier to the different prison cells. Not even the demons or the guards made a peep last night.
Even the hounds were quiet.
I suppose that even here, there is a presence known to this day. Even here, there is a promise or the light of hope, which can lead us all to the beacon of truth.

The world moves. We know this.
We know that the Earth spins and yet, we can’t feel the motion. We can only see its effects.

We notice the daylight and the moonlight. We feel the shift in the winds and the weather changes.
There is something beautiful about this truth.
I know there is.

There is something promising too, which is to say that the morning is gone, the afternoon fades, and soon enough the sun will set to resume another day.

There are no windows where I am now. There are no bars or doors, just an opening where the beast delivers my daily poison which has yet to kill me.

The guards have yet to enter my cell or toss my belongings. They have beaten me, yes. But they have yet to come inside and look for items of hope, like, say maybe a bible, or a paper and a pencil so that I can write and spill my thoughts and keep them from rotting inside of my brain.

I told you about the miracle I saw here the other day. And yes, even here in Purgatory; miracles exist.
I saw a shaft of sunlight beaming through the cracks in my solitary confinement.
I passed my hand through the beam to see light touch my skin.
It was beautiful.

I wanted to hold this in my hand because God only knows when I will have another chance to touch the sunlight again.
Or maybe this was a dream. Maybe this was a mirage.
Maybe my hopelessness needed to find something to be hopeful for.

I have not heard the last of the commanders or the lieutenants and the chiefs or the warmongers and nor should I suspect that my accusers will allow me to rest or forget my infractions.
I know where I am.
And I know why.
I understand.
I know why the mouths drool for vengeance

Their hurt feelings look to hurt the feelings of those who either crossed the line or otherwise left someone empty or wanting, or worse, people want revenge when they were left brokenhearted.
I have been no different.

I am not strong.
I am not tough.
At least, I am not tough as far as real toughness is concerned. 

I can endure. I can accept pain.
I can tolerate the isolation and the perpetrators who look to unleash their hells upon me.
I have been cut and shot at.
I have been beaten and marked.

I can accept the hounds who bite at my heels and sink their teeth into my calf muscles. I know why the packs of dogs bite at the back of my thighs.
They do this to remind me that running is out of the question.
And should I choose to run, then I assume that I will always have to run.
But I have run enough . . .|

And essentially, this is what led me to where I am now.
In prison –
I have run away from my entire life. I ran from the truth. I ran from my fears. I ran from the consequences of my actions, and yes, of course; I ran from the wake and the aftermath of my choices.
I tried to escape.
But the dogs chased me down.
I have learned that a man can only run so much. A man can only go so far until he realizes that eventually, there will be nowhere left to run, no place to hide, and no one to help bail him out.

I have spent most of my sentence in Purgatory, listening to the bleeding hearts of otherwise madmen who blame or point fingers. They deny their crimes and excuse their actions with a wild imagination. They do this so that they can rationalize and justify their behaviors, —or so they can act as if they’ve done nothing wrong.
But we all know when we are wrong.
Why else do we hide our secrets?
(or deny them)

I would like the record to be clear on some things.

There is no excuse. Hence, this is why I plead to my crimes as not guilty, guilty, and no contest.

There is no way to justify the past, other than to say that this is my past, and so, I move on.
And I will move on, regardless of the executioner or the guards and the accusers who’d rather see me suffer (or scream.)

There are no ways for me to rationalize what has happened, —and neither can I plead to ignorance and nor can I hope to move the jury.
I cannot appeal to the sentiment of the jurors with hopes that mercy might find me.

I have no plea for mercy; nor will I beg for anything other than my right to be heard.
If it pleases the court, I will openly explain what I have done.
I am as I think or “man is as he thinkeths,” says “The Word.”
Therefore, I am as guilty as I have convicted myself to be.
I am the murderer of souls and the henchmen of innocent bystanders.
However, should my charges be convictable, or should my wrongs be so outrageous that the executioner is called to drool for my flesh; or should I be destined to remain where I am, then so be it.
If I am guilty, and if I am to serve consecutive life sentences from now until the new millennium, or even longer, then so be it.
Or if I will be sentenced to life sentences for even longer,  which is the millennia, or 10,000 years or longer than a megaannum which is a million years, or a gigaannum, a billion years, then here I am, Your Honor.
Come take my soul and get it over with.
Let the hell begin because I have been here forever and the anticipation of your wrath is already incredible.

Here I am:
Members of the jury.
Here I am, prosecutor!
Here I am to both my accusers and false accusers.

If it pleases the court, I have committed sins of the heart.
I have broken codes and crossed unimaginable lines and I have broken the boundaries that were set before me by both good and bad people.

I used to say that no one can kill a man more than once; however, the prosecution and the jurors of my so-called peers are looking to see the sweat across my brow.
They are looking to gauge my consecutive deaths, which occur on a daily basis. Or even better, they are trying to get a feel for my pulse as it fades, —just so they can revive me once more, and keep me as I was.

This is the meaning of hell.
This is the absence of justice and the shift of blame to shed guilt. This is what people do to escape their own guilt.
They do this to remove the culpable proof that yes, we are not all created equally,—but we are equally guilty and equally indictable.
All of us . . .
We are equally lost, or sinful, and we are all equally faulted and flawed in countless ways.
And the list of lies goes on
But we excuse far too much, to keep us from being guilty
(or honest)

I am mindful of this.
Wait, no.
I am proof of this.
I am this person, —sinful and scared and serving my time in my consecutive sentences. I am serving my penance, due to my dilemmas that have caused me to forfeit my freedom.
And I plea to the God above
Even if he fails to listen.
I refuse to find comfort in the cold steel or the ugly concrete which cages me, and keeps me in.

I am aware of the evil around us.
But this day has a different appeal, —even here, in the belly of the beast. The Devil knows who was born unto us.
It was said best when it was said in the Book of Luke, 2:10.
This is when the Angel of the Lord shone above the shepherds abiding their flock in the field.
And they were afraid, but the Angel of the Lord said, “Fear not: for behold, I bring you tidings of great joy,”

Fear not, I say, for I bring you these notes of hope.
I offer the promise that despite the hells we see or that pain we feel, on this day, a savior was born, —and while I struggle with my faith, I believe that I am here and alive despite the attempts to shake me down.
I am here despite the way others looked to break me, or destroy me into dust.

No one can or should have power over me, unless it was given to them from above.
Therefore, should I be healed or saved or should the Angel of the Lord come to find me in my cell of solitary confinement, —I will be mindful that the tricks of the beast are only tricks.
They are like smoke and mirrors, that sway my attention and lead me to see an inaccurate reflection of how the world really is.

I know there is only one truth.
I spent more than five decades running from it.

I spent most of my life hiding from the light because I was afraid of what the light would expose, —such as my fears or my weaknesses.

I am afraid.
I am weak.
I am the sinner and the convictable culprit of the wrongs which were perpetrated against me as well as the wrongs that I hated most.

Above all; my greatest sin was the sins committed against myself—to fear touch or to feel love and to revolt against the warmth and the glowing truth that love is far mightier than hate. And hate is far more degrading than we think.

Even here in the belly of the beast; I confess with my mouth and my heart and soul that I have sinned.
Have I sinned more than others?
The answer is no longer applicable.
I am here to answer for myself.

All that’s left are the hours of my penance and the decisions of the judge.

Just then, I heard a voice:
The beast shouted down the empty corridor.
“Prisoner# 7940178”
Yes, sir?
“Pray all you want. No one is going to answer you!”

Then how’d you hear me when I didn’t pray above a whisper?

“Because I know you,” responded the beast.
“I know you better than you know yourself!”

Of course you do.
You are the beast. . .

I know this much:
The demons are my demons
She is my love and my forever angel.
elusive, she may be.
But I love her, nonetheless.

The Lord is The Lord.
Today is today
and tomorrow is tomorrow

I heard him growl
“Prisoner#7940178!” said the beast.
“So, what does that tell you?”

I answered the beast with the feeling in my heart that came when I saw the shaft of light in the darkness of my prison cell.
I answered back: this tells me that I am less afraid of you than I was before.

I fought back against the beast.
I had to.
I told him, I know who you are.
I know what you have done to me.
And to be honest, we both know that God exists, —and still, we both tremble.

“I’m not afraid of your God!” said the beast.

Then why are you arguing with me?

“I’m not!” said the beast.
“I’m just you, fighting back against yourself”
“I am your inner evil.” he laughed
“I am the devil in your prison cell.”
“And I am the beast in your head, and the whispers that go louder than screams.”

You are here to keep me sick, I suppose.

“No,” responded the beast
Then he laughed, “I am here to make you volunteer!”

“You are your own victim,” he told me.
“I don’t have to fight you for anything.”

“You do it all for me.”

And so it goes, I suppose.

One day, I swear—

I will be free again.
And she?
She will love me like no other and together, we will be better than any dream I could ever have.

This is my estimation of Heaven

I promise