The dampness in the morning is rough on the joints. A man can only see what’s in front of him. Yet, the darkness of morning before the light is hard for me. I’m not sure if it is darkest before the dawn.
I see myself where I am. I know the courts await and the cell, although not ideal, has become somewhat understandable to me.
I know what I am. I might not know who I am to anyone else. But I know who I am to me.
And who am I?
What does it mean to stand up and shout? Or better yet, what does it mean to scream out at the top of your lungs?
Could you imagine?
Imagine climbing up to the highest peak of a mountaintop. The sky is blue. The sun is bright. The air is cool and thin and everything is crisp.
Imagine the outfit you’d wear and how this would look to you.
Think about the last few steps of this climb and how you made it after all these years; finally, you made it to the top.
Imagine what this would look like to you.
Imagine there is no one around.
Now, scream. . .
What would you scream?
What would you say?
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.
I remember being asked by someone, “What if I told you that your prison cell has no bars, no walls, no ceiling or roof?”
He asked me, “What if the guards were not guards at all, and the judges, or your accusers, and the prosecutors were not real?”
Even my warden was nothing more than a figment of my imagination.
What if this were true?
What if my challenges weren’t even a challenge? What if my room was not a room as much as a place or a momentary location, to which, what if there is far more to this world than I have ever seen?
What if the answer to this is simple?
If it is, am I ready to find out?
I know what it means to want more.
And yes, I know what it means to want more and settle for less. Only, I don’t ever want to settle again. Not now. Not ever.
No, I am here for a reason.
I have not come here to resign or make some kind of tearful confession.
I have confessed my sins enough and I have done this to a power of the highest authority. Therefore, no judge or gavel can condemn me.
I know who I am. I know myself very well, in fact, because I have always been me.
Even when I was trying to be someone else.
I was still me.
No matter what.
I have started this idea, which is a journal like all my other journals. Yet, this one is taken from a slightly different angle. Although this is fiction, there is truth to the stories the same as there is truth to all stories. There is truth to the facts that life will not always go according to plan.
Dare I say this or dare I say anything, but I am only a character in this script—this is me, of course.
Or maybe this is a version or maybe this is a different side, as in the unseen side.
I am the one who sits and waits. I am the one who paces the cell, plotting and rethinking, and wishing I had gone left instead of right.
If ever there was a day to be a new day, then let’s make this day the right time to be a new day.
And who doesn’t want that?
Who doesn’t want a new day or a new beginning?
So, let’s go.
Now . . .
We have all been through the gears and the windings of this so-called life. Each one of us has had our share of ups and downs. We have all been hurt. We all have our own scars or cuts scrapes, bumps, and bruises.
No one gets out alive. No one escapes this part of life.
We know this.
I wonder. I think all too much and I find myself asking questions.
But still. And what about this?
What about these questions?
I ask because when we find out, I wonder if the answers will be what we thought they’d be.
There are times when we go left instead of right. And there is a moment in our head when we question if this was the right way to go.
Maybe there was something better waiting for us in the other direction. Maybe life would have been different if we stayed a little longer to see what would happen.
Maybe I left before the miracle could take place.
I like to think about myself in other places and doing other things. I see this more as something that I do for medicinal purposes, which helps restore my mental stability.
I say these are the things that keep my soul alive.
I dream. I see. I breathe and I hope.
I close my eyes and ready myself for departure.
I like the idea that the mind can somehow slip-away, and if we allow it, we can go anyplace or anywhere. We can go and dream and then we can return, just fine, and in good shape and ready to face the day.
Continue readingI suppose I know what I have to do. I know what I need to do as well. The trouble is the more popular question which is this – what am I going to do now that I am here?
It is dark before the dawn where I am now. Purgatory decided to dress for the holidays a little early this year. Then again, I suppose there’s more need for something to be hopeful for. Maybe this year might be the year that we end it all with a neat trick.
Maybe somehow, you and I will be together (again) and make up for the lost years of bullshit pastimes and subpar vacations from this crazy place.
Then again, I assume no one else would understand about these things.
Except you, of course.
Or except us.
The Written Addiction 