And so, what does it mean
to be beautiful?
I wonder.
I stand at the corner of hope
and wish that perhaps someday
I will find myself in greener pastures.
beautiful as ever, or if ever
I my hope is that
I should find my place
where I belong . . .
and when I do
I hope this place is graced
by golden sunsets that surpass
my wildest dreams.
When there is nothing left, then there is nothing left to lose. And yet, we find ourselves pondering the losses and mourning the irretrievable. And we weep and we cry and we beg and we plead with the Gods, as if something or anything could eve be changed.
Laugh all they want, I know what I have lost. And I know what I have gained in the absence or the aftermath of my own aggression.
I’ve lost and I’ve tried and I’ve found myself in the emptiest place, late and past the midnight hours, and talking to myself, aimlessly, and with hope that somehow —I can find my way or find something that makes sense to me.
I come here in the mornings first, of course. I suppose this is the best time for me to come clean. or if nothing else, at least let me start clean. Let me purge now before the impurities of the day take away the purities in my heart.
It is hard though. Not the mornings or the ideas.
It isn’t hard to confess or to come clean either.
I suppose that this place is as safe as any to come clean, or confess.
The trouble is the anticipation.
It’s the building and the mounting anxieties that start, one by one, and it’s the worry about the impending doom that often carries me away.
But here I am. Good or bad, like it or not, it’s showtime.
Ah, the teenage version.
The sun came up like it always does. I realized where I was and thought back to recall what happened the night before.
I woke to the typical concerns after nights like the one before.
“Do I have something to worry about?”
Did I start something or say something to the wrong person?
“Why was my nose bleeding last night?”
Or at minimum, did I play the fool or act like a lunatic?
Chances are that something happened.
Then again, something is always “happening.”
Right?
Was this just another night of teenage angst, and drinking too much, smoking too much, too much weed, and of course, too many doses of mescaline, which I could feel chemical reaction that was lingering because the aftermath was still in me.
No one wants this. No one wants their back against the wall and their peers, or a jury thereof, sitting in front of them with the power to deliver a verdict.
But let’s be honest. Who is anyone to judge me or you?
Who has the authority? Or like it was said before The Son of Man was led to the cross, “You would have no power over me, had it not been given to you from above.”
I go back to the words, “Only God can judge me.”
The world spins around another day, and so it goes.
And so it goes that another year is nearly over. Another chance to make another change and all that was is gone and time flew by me again.
And so it goes that I am another year older.
I am another year away from where I was. All that was is fading like the view of old towns in my rearview mirror.
I have no ill-will or contempt anymore. Things are fading behind me, which is a life that is gone and growing further in distance and further from my memory.
I am glad this is so.
No one knows.
No one really knows what goes on in your head or your heart.
Even if you tell someone your thoughts, they can only understand you from their own perspective.
No one knows how you feel.
No one knows what it feels like to have a cut in my skin or a bone that never healed right or the aches in my back.
But then again, this is me.
As for you . . .
No one feels your pain or your pleasure.
No one knows what color looks like from your eyes.
And I know this.
I know because I say this all the time.
I have no idea what the color red looks like to you. I have no idea what the waves at Point Lookout feel like on your skin nor will I ever see the sunset through your eyes.
No one knows what it’s like to wake up and get out of bed and face your life or your struggles. Even more, nobody knows what it took for you to stand up when you swore that you couldn’t.
One thing I know is that the world does not happen in an accidental way.
No, I believe in intention over coincidence and purpose over happenstance.
I believe that the world is a deliberate place; whereas you and I or the way we overlapped more than once is not coincidental. No, this comes from the power of some greater force than something that’s an accident of subject of chance.
Nothing is ever accidental, except for accidents.
Of course.
And even accidents come to a head or lead us to a point where we learn something or grow stronger.
I have travelled a great distance to be here.
At the same time, I have only moved in tiny circles to find that no matter where I went, all I needed was right here in front of me.
You have always been here.
Always . .
and I have always been there
(in your heart).
We never knew it though.
I have experienced life after the severity of consequences. Then again, no one can pretend that this makes us special or more resilient than anyone else in the world. No one can say that they’ve never been to the crossroads or found themselves at the turning point.
Life is not specific nor am I so specific to anyone or anything. I am only me.
And I have learned this, repeatedly, which is important because people can often forget that ego is a killer, and to this I say to hell with it.
What has pride and ego done for anybody?
Or namely me. What have I done?
Please, someone tell me . . .
What’s become of me?
Because whatever the answer is, deep down, I know that I am capable of better.
Or so I hope.
Love this life. Please.
Love it with all you can. Love this like it was your last hope and abandon all else that comes before you or gets in your way. Trust me or hear me.
Let this ring out like a plea from the bottom of my heart.
Risk everything. Risk it all. I swear.
Even if this means you will lose, or that you’ll lose it all.
Risk it anyway.
The hours can change and so can our fate.
The mood can change, and the weather can turn.
Anything can happen.
Anything at all.
So, please . . .
With all I have, I beg you.
Love this life.
Please.
The Written Addiction 