I think I’ll just let this entry roll without any thought or interference from the surface.
I’ll let this one come from the depths of me.
And so, here I go again.
I have things inside of me, brewing, and I know there is something on the way or there’s something up ahead.
I don’t know what it is.
But I know that the clock is turning and as sure as this is; I know that all things will be revealed.
Someday.
I always go back to the saying that goes, “If you don’t know, then you just don’t know.”
I’m sure you understand this, at least from your own perspective.
I love this, by the way,
The way no one else is here, except us.
I love that you and I can speak freely, at least here.
I love that I can close the door and share my things here, without worry or fear that somehow, my old truths will find their way back and the retaliation will be swift and merciless.
In fairness, I am just a kid.
I am that boy, I told you about.
I am that kid who wishes and wants and hopes that maybe (someday) I can arrive at your doorstep to see you answer the knock.
My eyes will open wide and my smile will be bigger than my face when I see what you’re wearing.
And I will hand you a corsage and weave my arm through yours, so we can finally have a dance, which I have been waiting lifetimes to have .
In the beginning,
there was light and the light was good.
In the beginning, it was the beginning
and you and I had yet to know
what was about to come.
I write this to you,
staggering my thoughts
so I can break them down
and hopefully,
you can understand where I am.
I do not want find myself where I was
again . . .
There is no space between now and then.
I know this both intellectually
and emotionally.
The physical distance between us
is only something
that discusses our proximity;
and yet, I am not closer
nor farther from you
and nor can I ever be distant
from you now or ever again
because I could never be far
from anyone who lives in my heart.
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.
The Written Addiction 