I have these dreams, which are not dreams at all. They are more like pictures and memories of times, long ago, or back when I was old enough to understand but to young to know that I had the right to question the life in front of me.
I am sick now, late in some regards, and older, achy, and unforgivably defiant against the ideas that yes, “this is it!” and this is as good as it gets.
No. I refuse this.
I know there has to be more.
There are memories I have. I swear.
I was young once. Wild too, and I was crazy in the best ways possible.
I was eager and afraid.
And I remember.
I remember the ideas and the thoughts and the cravings which came over me like a wave as it falls across the shore.
I remember some of my drives, long ago.
I remember driving over the 59th Street Bridge.
The Big City. And there she was.
New York, New York.
She is bright like a dream and complete with every urge or desire.
She is complete with every idea or every kink or fetish.
And hey, don’t judge.
Or don’t knock it, until you try it.
You never know.
There comes a time when silence is best.
Just be quiet. Be still.
Let your eyes close and let your breathing slow down.
Relax.
And when there’s nothing else, then there’s nothing left to lose.
So, sit still. Be calm.
Close your eyes and fade.
The truth of the matter is that no one knows. No one cares. No one is paying attention and yet, we assume that everyone sees the same thing that we see.
Not true.
The fact is that everyone has their own life. Everyone has their own motivation, their own agenda, and everyone sees from their own perspective.
It is all too often that we take on more than we need, and I say this with the ideas of people, places, and things.
I have talked about the deception of our perception and the inaccuracies of emotion and assumption.
This is a link to my greatest downfall.
The meds from last night hit me hard.
My grogginess was amazing to me.
Literally.
I could hardly understand my whereabouts, yet I am where I am because I was where I was.
This is for sure.
The handcuffs are figurative but tight. Then again, so is the reality of fiction and so are the details of today’s courtroom proceedings.
Here we we go, I suppose.
Such is life under the watchful eyes of those who study the inmates in our private Alcatraz.
But ah, the benefits of the accusers and how they try to lead me with their advantages.
And so, I have to ask . . .
What have you seen that made you change the way you see the world?
What happened?
What changed? Or what snapped?
What broke and never went back into place?
It has always been hard for me to believe in the terms of God, or God the Father. It has always been too curious for me to look around and see the hurt or the destruction of our everyday life.
How could there be something all-knowing, and all-great, yet here we are, living on this rock, which is third from the sun.
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.
Are you who I think you are?
I am . . .
And in walks the devil without remorse for the fire.
The guards told me to be on the lookout.
They said you could appear at any moment.
They tell me you feel at home here.
Well . . .
Here I am.
I can see that.
And in he comes –
just like that.
Beware the smiles you see, I was told.
Not all of them are friendly.
Be careful who you listen to, I was told.
Everybody has an angle.
Everyone has their own truth.
Tread carefully . . .
The weather gets rough from time to time.
I heard the guards whistle this morning. I assume this was one of their many codes to warn one another.
But I don’t know.
At least, not for sure.
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.
