I agree that this is not intended for everyone. I don’t believe the following subject is something that most people will know about, nor should anyone have to know about this.
However, in the sad desperation of hardship, or in the course of imprisonment, and whether this jail is figurative, external or self-induced, or in the interest of darkness and after the fallouts or the aftermath of battle, or the drunken bouts of shame, or as a result of drug-induced sickness, or an otherwise circumstance, I think of the times when life was at its worst.

I think of when my back was against the wall or on the floor and the only way up was too far or too high for me to climb. I think of my own madness and the drooling lunacies of emotional downfalls or mental health catastrophes.
I think of the self-destructive moments, sad and terrible.

I think about the times when some of my old friends made me laugh. And yes, I say this again and again, and I’ll say this now, repeatedly, until my last breath or until the hour of my death (amen).
There are no friends like old friends.
There are no memories like the memories that shape our youth or the ones that remind us of the days when it was fine and safe to be wild or crazy.
I like to be crazy once in a while.
Don’t you?

And here’s another good “when” question . . .
When is enough, enough?
I ask this, as in how long do we need to keep this going?

How long do we need to be angry before we realize that all we do is run in circles and keep the pain alive? Why do we have to keep the feuds going?
How does this help us?

Why do we have to waste time and energy? If this is true, and if we are allowing ourselves to waste time and energy, then why do we keep the feuds alive? If it is us who keep them fights alive, then when is our turn to realize that our life will be better spent if we let go of the past so we can pay attention to a better future?

I like it when there’s silence. I like the moments with no sound except for the sound of your breath or the assumption of your heartbeat, which is pounding in my dreams, or thumping, like a source of something, which is everything, but unstoppable.
I like the quietness of nighttime and the after-midnight sessions when my eyes open and there you are—next to me.
I like the feeling of you and the smell of your skin.

When —
I have another “when” question, which I believe is an important question to share in this journal. I have lived my life for a very long time, obviously.
And I say this with the honest assessment that perhaps, at times, my view or my perception of self is wrong or inaccurate. Otherwise, my view or my perception of myself has been shaded by years of misperceptions and misguided ideas that led me astray.

When there is nowhere left to fall or when there is nowhere else to turn, and when there is no more room for excuses and no more time, no more energy, and when there is nothing left but the harsh reality of “what is,” at least now, we can grow from here.

Since I am calling this journal “The Book of When?” then it is important to talk about the moments when life is not what we wished it would be.
I think we need to answer the unanswerable questions, which is when does life get easier? Or does life get easier?
Or is life easy to begin with? Maybe life is only life and everything we see or think is more imaginary than we realize; hence, we create these monsters and demons, merciless as ever.
Maybe this is only me. Maybe this is only you.
Or maybe life is like it was told about a program that I am all too familiar with, in which it is commonly called “a simple program for complicated people.”

Maybe . . .

This entry is number eighteen. Come to think of it, I don’t remember much about when I was 18. I know where I was, which was not the typical norm for most 18-year-olds. I know that I was living on a farm with a bunch of kids and grownups who came with problems of their own.
I was learning about living life without the use of drugs or alcohol. At the same time, I was learning to live without being caught up in some image about who I was or about being tough.
And no, I wasn’t tough.
Not at all.