Today is the day that I put an end to this.
I am done with the lunatics in my head and done with all else that distracts me from who I am or who I choose to be.

There are nights when I have dreams and I am faced with the younger version of myself.
I see this clearly.
I see the way I was and how I behaved. or I might see a place that I used to go to.
Sometimes I see the places where I used to hide.
And I wonder . . .
I wonder what life might have been if I decided to go on my own instead of trying to be someone else.
And then I wonder about who I am now and who was I meant to be.
Is this it?

When you escape the fact that no one is coming to save your life, and when you realize that your freedom can only be claimed by you, then you have no other choice but to save your own life.
You have to do this without exception.
And, if you are broken, then you are already broken. The only thing you can do is either get back up and start to repair yourself, or remain on the ground, lay still and become dust, or stay broken and be left behind.

Your last role in the toxic playground amazes me. This is not to say that you are toxic or that you and I are toxic together.
No, I have no place or position to point fingers at anyone and nor do I have the right to judge or condemn.
Let me say this, when it comes to playing the game of life at this level, and when we talk about being toxic or toxic people, it seems to me that our choices came from a place that caused us to either do or accept the unacceptable things.

The sun came up from the east as usual this morning. I dreamt about the horizon and how the underbelly held the colors of sunrise.
I love these moments. They are limited by number, but beautiful nonetheless.

I love the early mornings when the heavens above are laced with scattered clouds, all powdery and stretched out like the feathers of an Angel’s wings
These things are beautiful—the soft pastel colors of morning in the sky, a gentle breeze that feels kind when the wind blows against my face, and the view we see of our Loving Mother, Mother Earth.
I love it this way—a good, quiet morning.
Perfect.

These notes to myself from my prison cell have helped. But I am still lost and my defense has yet to get off the ground.
I have appealed to the process is killing me
(slowly)
I hate this real fiction business.
But it is what it is.

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.

 And when there is nowhere left to turn, or when you have nothing else, not even hope, all you can do is stand to the best of your ability, even if you can’t take the pain, and face the world.
When all are gone, or when all have abandoned hope, and when there is no one left to help you, all you can do is dig deep and face what comes.
That is all.

It is morning, again.
Another night went by and another gurney took away another inmate, gurgling their last breaths, bleeding from an apparent mauling by the guards and in return, all that was left was the bloodshed inside of an empty prison cell, which we all assume will be filled again before breakfast ends and the day begins.

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?

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

It is no different to assume a loss than it is to lose in the physical sense. Either way, the mind sees what the mind sees; whereas my time has been confined to this small place and yet, there is a great big world outside and around me.
The receptors in the mind do not know the difference between fantasy and reality, whereas I can dream and picture myself or imagine my losses, and whether my thoughts are reality or fiction, the results of my emotions are the same.