inspired by an old friend from an old life
You have to pay attention to the task at hand. Get up, keep going, run into yourself at the front door and yes, there are times when it seems like the candle is burning at both ends.
And so, the burn out seems to be inevitable.
The sober life is my only life.
Yet, I do not question this and nor do I function in the circles where criminals swerve to intercept the light and change what we see –
to suit their needs
Early morning. Rise and shine.
I wake up and wash my face.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes and try to prepare myself for another day in this so-called life of mine.
“It’s another day above the dirt,” is what I always say.
I know….
However –
In the world between possible and impossible, the day is about to start
and I?
I have no other attractive option, other than to begin again and start over.
no different from how I’ve done this before.
And so,
As I weave through the desired and the undesirable moments in this world, it pays for me to pay attention to the effort business.
“We are in the effort business. Not the result business,” is what I was told.
I was told this because all else is beyond my control.
I know . . .
I know how it is to cut corners or to rob from Peter to pay Paul and yet, the bedt gets deeper and the hole gets bigger.
I know all about ego.
I know all about envy
In fact, I know all about why the seven sins are deadly.
We know all about these things.
And we know why too.
I am in the effort business.
Not the outcome business.
Not the results business.
I know that I have to focus on this, solely and patiently, because otherwise, the unwanted outcomes and poor results can throw me off and distract me.
I know . . .
I know that I need to invest myself properly.
I cannot waste another lifetime, which is how life seems after I grew older and looked back
Lifetimes have gone by since this time last year and worse, I am too far gone and too lost.
I have trouble establishing the difference between me and the insecure notions that recovery is too impossible to consider. And so, I think of you and a few others who dared the life and sought a quicker fix to a mathematic equation that never changes and always gets bigger.
I cannot lose to this.
I cannot lose myself like someone who loses to the sunk-cost fallacy, which means that as we fear loss, we invest more so we don’t lose more.
Hence, the fallacy. . .
Hence the reason why there is the suggestion to “surrender to win.”
I surrendered my weapons of mass and self-destruction a while ago; however, i sill have the remnants of its gunpowder, which is why I “blow up” every so often.
“I have to get up and go . . .”
I toss cold water across my face to shock the system. Or in other words, I pinch myself because no, I’m not dreaming. This is all live and in the flesh.
I know . . .
The world is beyond my reach.
So are you
So is “she” and so are too many hopes that have taught me to fear that excitement of faith and hopefulness.
Perhaps there is truth to the idea that the sky is the limit. However, and at the moment, all I can do is manage my time to the best of my ability.
Breathe, kid . . .
Inhale deep
Exhale hard.
And get ready
because life is about to be “live and in person” at any minute.
Therefore, I need to understand the value of all things and waste nothing.
And so, I give myself to the process of my own ability.
All is not right and all is not wel
but –
I am here.
Send me
Go
Be
Do
There are no words more valuable or bigger than these three little ones.
Go
Be
Do
One thing at a time.
Right?
Whether I put together a puzzle or find a hobby building models or if I decide to be defiant on class and fold paper airplanes, or wait . . .
if I am building a project at work or if I choose to repair the broken remnants of an old dream, then?
I have to accept the process is not on my time.
Nothing is on “My time!”
So, if I am connecting the dots to a much bigger idea or to create greater picture, all parts connect one piece at a time.
I know . . .
“Dear God,
The battlefield is still dark
and the sun seems so far away . . .”
they shot him . . .
in the head
. . . through the face
so
I suppose
no open casket
“My God,
The cold seeps in to replace fear
and so
I am built with rage
because what else can I use
to keep myself warm?”
The masquerade is more pointless than the emotional warfare we choose, and yet, my question is why are so many afraid?
Why am I afraid?
Or what am I so afraid of?
Why is it so bad to expose my truths and play the game straight?
Why are so many of us afraid to be upfront or honest enough to expose our depths and share from the heart?
Is the damage from old vulnerability so deep that they’ve decayed the beacon of a better light?
Is faith so dangerous?
Is hope too hopeless?
Am I too lost to find my way home?
Or am I just crazy and too lazy to risk the chance and stand tall on my own?
I have to . . .
regardless of the rejection, regardless of the lack of acceptance and rather than pay the fee or pay the fines of my inability to coincide; why am I so weak and so afraid to be seen?
Coffee . . .
Maybe this will help
“Blessed Father,
Let me face this
Let me hit the ground running
Let me rid the fears that robbed me from years of possibility.
Let me be brave
Let me be strong
Let me wake up, one more time.
Let me pay now before the interest hits and I am too poor to pay what I owe.
Let me right the wrongs and if not, then let me stand here before you as a sinner and accept my fate and be like the tax collector in the story of the collector and the Pharisee.
Let me hit my own chest and say, “Bless me Father, a sinner,” because whether I am justified or not, or if I can go home justified before you; I am nothing more than this –
A man . . .”
There was a late night or maybe it was early morning, I’m not too sure what the hour was. I ended up in a cold cellar. This was in winter of 1989.
I was hiding behind boxes of empty bottles in the shallow basement of a neighborhood bar. I was hiding from the authorities and hiding from others in my town who sought their revenge,
I was hiding with a bent spoon, a few packages to empty the soul, and wild chemistry that is used and intended to solve the personal void with a few seconds of suspended euphoria and a wasted minute of euthanized bliss.
I remember thinking . . .
“Why don’t you just take me now?”
I was thinking upwards to God.
“No one would know until the smell lifted from the floors.”
“No one would care about a skinny kid, or a junky like me.”
“No one would fuss or be surprised.”
“No one cares.”
“no one loves me.”
“What would be the difference?”
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .
. . . the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away
I could hear the sounds of laughter and happiness from the customers who sat at the bar above. I could hear the music.
I never had friends like this.
Or real ones, or friends who were not sick with a similar affliction and thus; all the people I knew would use anyone as firewood if it meant that they would never have to be cold.
I cooked a batch . . .
I loaded my pipe . . .
I finished the last of my packets and then . . .
I switched gears to a slower vehicle, which otherwise –
changed the wheels to something soft ride
to absorb the shock
to stop the rocking
to slow the motion
and . . .
to numb the eruption from this vehicle of death
“Dear God,
You made man from dust and woman from his rib.”
“But what am I made of?”
What was I made of?
“Where do I come from,
and of course, where will I go
when mine is the last breath that breathes.”
Today is just another day in paradise.
that’s all.
I somehow made it out alive.
And . . .
As I walk from my spot on the railroad and duck underground on a subway, I head over to the place where I earn my living. . .
An old friend took two shots to the head.
I found out last night.
They shot him
twice
two in the back of the head
execution style
You choose “the life.”
You live “the life”
And yes this is “the life” that killed him
Blessed Father,
I am not sure why you chose me
I am not so sure if I am worth your selection
But I am here . . .
. . . send me
My boots are laced and tied and my belt is tight.
I am here and dressed
Send me
I am here
And hopefully . . .
. . .so are you
unless, of course, all prayers turn to vapor
like the body
once we leave it behind
Sleep well, old friend
I know you would have rather this gone elsewise.
Maybe now
you have answers to those questions
maybe somehow
you can share them with me
or, if not
I’ll wait.
I’m in no rush to find out
and neither were you
I’m sure
To you, St. Dismas
Pray for us
The Written Addiction 