My kingdom for a horse . . .
This comes from Shakespeare’s King Richard III when he said, “A horse, a horse. My kingdom for a horse.”
I suppose a horse would be of great use, or perhaps this might come at a greater expense. But more, I suppose wealth and cost is all relative when it comes to the different levels of supply and demand.
And yes. Of course!
I have my own demands, but perhaps now is not the time for to express them.
I think about myself and then of course, I think about my old and former self with the same and perhaps normal or commonplace questions of “where have I been,” or “what the hell was I thinking?”
I collect these thoughts with a quiet attitude, humble, like a young man on his knees while offering himself to the rosary with “Hail Mary” consciousness, as if to review my life in hindsight with divine hope of intervention and in all; I view these moments with both cathartic and conscious awareness.
I review myself and my life and all that went on during the in-between times.
Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
Therefore, I look back at the good and the bad and the endearing moments of chaos, which are both sick or sad, and either way, I am somehow alive.
So alive.
I am alive and capable of telling my story. And so, this means that I am bless and fortunate.
I am alive and so, yes; I suppose I have been this way for decades.
I am alive for years and perhaps in some ways, I am alive beyond the predictions of my so-called expiration date.
I am alive enough to look back with a mild to moderate disbelief and alive to live another day.
Yes.
I am.
And some days, as dead as I might seem or appear or feel inside; I am alive and well and still breathing.
I inhale.
Long slow and deep.
I hold or pause.
And then I exhale.
Long, slow, and deep.
I have heard countless people tell me about the details of their life. I have hear reports, to which I hear stories from people about their life and their struggles.
I hear from different people who tell me about their stories and how this always follows with the idea that says, “my life would be a bestseller if you wrote about it.”
I nod . . .
I agree. . .
I say yes, as if to act as though I have never heard this said before.
We are all mad, sad, crazy and destined to die.
We are all wild and feared and we are all on our way to explore the ineviatble, in some way, shape, or form.
Mine is not the ordinary life and nor is my life so extraordinary or more extraordinary than anyone else’s. Mine is mine.
Yours is yours
And we?
We are not so much like or unlike those who remain unheard or untold.
There are those who have existed as an unsaid life, hibernating and hiding their secret-selves and guarding the shameful whereabouts of abuse or abusive history.
We all avoid our painful truths which at one point were seen as either normal or everyday.
I never knew much about the world outside of my own. I never thought much about anyone else, except for me.
I never looked or explored or experienced the view from someone else’s perspective.
I knew what I knew, which was neither fact nor fiction. No, at best, I can say that I learned from my circle of influence.
I had an idea about the various lifestyles or patterns of living which were different from mine.
I knew what I knew because I saw what I saw, which became subjective to me.
It took decades of growth and awareness to realize the laws of interpretation and perception are often biased and misguided.
Then again . . .
We are all biased and misguided to say the least.
There is more than one version of toughness and therefore, there is more than one story and more than one version of guilt and reasons for shame.
I only know what I see.
I only know what blue looks like to me
I do not know what touch feels like in your hands and I am not familiar with the sounds of music as they pass through your ears.
I breathe in
Deep.
Exhale
And I let it out.
I do not know what it feels like to wake up elsewhere or to live where the sun sets over the Pacific.
I have not been out that way in a long time.
By the Pacific, I mean.
My last time, I remember . . .
I watched dolphins in the harbor and noticed how the sunset over by Venice Beach saw a mixture from homeless to hostages who are slaved to the almighty dollar.
We are all slaves to some degree.
And I . . .
. . . if at all possible;
I would like to abolish this.
Slavery, I mean.
I might never see the sights and I might never live the life I’ve always hoped for. And I might have it tough in some regards, but I agree. There is a difference between Park Avenue problems and Park bench problems.
I have both of them.
But what I have is mine.
This is me.
And I will never be so shortsighted again that I think I am better or worse or mightier or poorer than anyone else.
I just want to be free.
You know?
