Tag: Mental Health

Through the Fabric of Time

6361796709723034612039581096_time-7Time – in some instances referred to as the fourth dimension – but whatever our understanding of its concept, luxury seems an invariably, non-existent trait.  Unyielding hands on the clock counting seconds; minutes falling in line as the hours turn into days and weeks – years. A blueprint of past occurrences etched in stone; where dwelling in regrets or offering up heartfelt apologies still cannot alter the path we have walked – future interests that promise no guarantee; no donation or sacrifice can brandish an extended life warrantee. Breathe in this moment; capture its essence; catch sight of its elegance accented over a distinctly dismal backdrop – perhaps through the haze, it heroically outshines the viciously mundane.  Time is as simplistic or complex as we choose to make it; boiled down into a series of present moments that either amplify merit or deduct from its worth.  Constant business in the realm of the spirit can prove to be enormously depleting; an implication of encompassing stillness can effectively replenish a withering morale – resulting from the chaos is a distinctly unique art from a time-weathered heart; the mission is to find ourselves ultimately settling into that ostensibly unattainable, yet perpetually sought-after balance. 

But where does passion end and obsession begin? I sense an overwhelming correlation – where we find passion, obsession lurks and when push comes to shove, time will be spent. I passionately write about the tribulations I have endured; I can only write about what I know and I can only share my perspective on topics which have gravely affected my life. Over time, perceptions can change even though the factual events or situations in and of themselves do not – it’s simply my reality and whether I was in or out of touch with said reality at the time does not alter the experience. But these words that spill out over the page render me madly obsessed – addicted to the perfect stream; infatuated by the romance of choosing optimal words; perfection in their phrasing – love for the prose; a puzzle’s inception intricately interwoven amidst a sea of black and white anarchy; ideas that collide causing a subsequent consummation; carried to term and birthed from a mind interminably maneuvering misconnections. I grow consumed by their rhythm; possessed by the beat, tormented by rhymes ‘til my riddle’s complete. I reach deep within, for in crafting my words, an alliteration alternation authoritatively forms.

time-machine-5Do you feel what I feel when my words breach your eyes? Do you see what I see? Does my pain seep inside? I seek satisfaction in the emotional punch, when it splinters your soul and seeps deep in your guts. It’s merely meant for no more than a clarification; to spare the experiential eternal damnation.  So, the choice of my words with their cadence and tone, provide voice for the ones who feel most alone; transcribed for the ones who go on reprimanding; displayed for an ignorant world’s understanding – and after my words have pummeled your soul, I know that my story was rightfully told. But don’t be misled, because ingrained in the madness, is a message of hope rising out of this sadness – no, don’t be confused by this story of mine. I’d tell you much more, but I’ve run out of time.

So, can we conquer without sacrifice? Can we truly gain mastery of our craft without the derangement of fixation? Is greatness always achieved at a price? I find inspiration in tale after tale of prominence throughout history, but the underlying facts of achievement are almost always formed from the mayhem of obsession – no backup plans, no fail-safes in place – it’s that all eggs in one basket approach; an all-encompassing do-or-die mentality fueling the spirit to accomplish what no other has before – something original; an exclusive imprint on the fabric of existence; something brave – sacrificing what few others were willing to sacrifice; pleading for that sacrifice to make a difference in the greater good. Obsession can absolutely live without ultimately attaining greatness, but can we ever achieve greatness without entering into the ugly world of obsession?  

Runaway Train

traintracksmountainstrainoutsidesomewherebridge-14f856dad59eba5807dca40fd8c0fb19_hAs if a storm of indignation befell like hail from the heavens, emergence of a menacing silhouette ferociously ruptures the horizon.  It’s coming for me – me alone; its illustrious chanting renders resignation into a trance; an infestation of enticing pheromones tortuously taunting and teasing – saturating the atmosphere as the notion of crossing over intensely increases in appeal; far more formidable than remaining aversely trapped at the mercy of everlasting insanity.  The tiny sliver of land where I stand is now steadily shaking underneath tired feet; an earthquake of despair defining this crumbling of reality.  Crisp, autumn air meticulously prodding and biting at the vulnerability of rancor ravaged flesh; I can sense the end is near – this borrowed body all but terminated.  Time is of no existence in this plane of awakened unconsciousness; potion drained from the venom-ridden bottle coalescing with blood pumped from a heart cast in stone takes the stage for an all too familiar tango; dancing as one through the veins of oblivion – proclaiming the audience irrelevant and the trivialities of this world no more than a distant figment of imagination.

It is here I’ll stand alone – covered in the blood of battle; it is here I’ll face the fear –  supplying substance for the sweat; it is here I’ll confront the demons – shedding these tears I could never fully comprehend; it is here on this bridge I embrace what destiny has prepared – for better or for worse; to be granted perpetual passage into an alternate realm where darkness overcomes; to declare my one last foundational cry out to the gods for relinquishment of any prominent power or persuasion; that they may bestow me diversion from traversing the precipitous portage generated in my wake – and so I stood, patiently waiting with no distinct notion of a response; murdering the last glimmer of faith in a god I cannot grasp an understanding of.  So I just stood – almost in silent solitude for the places I have been and the truth I had arrived at.

I commit to holding my high ground overlooking the park where I innocently created memories as a child – much like an eagle majestically mounted on its perch viewing the world from a distant and foreign perspective.  Vigorously pushing present reality aside and sentimentally reverting attention back on a far simpler time, I reminisce and relive glimpses of the past that are rapidly firing on all cylinders.  They breakthrough my disillusionment and appear like a slideshow in the forefront of a now tainted stream of awareness; pondering how every pulsation of my heart, every step with these feet has led me from being that child with infinite dreams to a man shattered at the seams; recurrent botched efforts to gain tangible focus on the definitive turning point and lock it into the crosshairs of my clarity scope; that single second in time I seek above all else where everything I once desired expired and exposed the first perforation leaking down into a bottomless void.

history-lists-8-things-you-may-not-know-about-trains_istock_000021551059large-eMy wavering attention quickly shifts back to the present moment; back to reality or whatever semblance of it still pertains relevant – these tracks and the impending collision with a fate yet to be determined; the massive fusion of steel and brute, deadly force barreling forward; its course to inevitably intersect with the ground I have chosen adherence to.  It’s surreal staring straight down the barrel of mortality; to know it could all be over; to mourn what I could miss; to no longer experience – to plead my concession and allow the void to swallow me up in the ultimate compromise for sustainable stability.  Abruptly a blanket of peace overtakes my being; a rare quieted mind; an unknown solemn spirit – despite all the mess and regardless of the agonizing internal conflicts, I felt a sigh of relief amidst the violent event transpiring in my presence.  Deep in the core of my being, if only for a second, I accepted the coming moments to be my last; that I’d draw one deep final breath into my lungs and exhale into a domain of the unknown.

Suddenly silence sank over the landscape and my encounter on the bridge swiftly turned much slower in motion, as if the world was stuck buffering and any semblance of connection was lost in translation; icy water trickling through the rocks down below merely left to be sensed by the detection of moist eyes; flapping of feathered wings sending ripples of energy through the air and crashing off my chest like blows from clenched fists – I felt a vitality blossoming in the chaos; resurgence of what it felt like to be alive – and almost as quickly as it arrived, the train passed me by and continued on track toward its destination; seemingly unaware of the power it manifested; obviously oblivious to my sickness soaked soul – and so there I remained holding the high ground mere inches from its might as fate barreled by and invigorated a dying spirit. 

imagesidvj2rjuBut at my conclusion of confusion, this fresh spark of life was quickly smothered out by a supplemental realization; discernment for the probability I could never refill the void inside me that was rapidly depleting with the passing of every second; that this distinct feeling of freedom I crossed paths with could very well have been as good as it was going to get for the lost and the broken – so sticking with the cognizance of my new self-diagnosed reality, I edged my way over to the side of the bridge.  Almost in ritualistic mockery to the gods I felt failed me, I turned my back to the abyss and gazed upwards in surrender to a baby blue sky.  I obeyed the overwhelming urge demanding its desire for me to let go; to finally hand over the control I had so clearly lost; to allow gravity the chance to showcase its guidance.  Continuing my contempt for the faith I had lost, I lifted my arms and spread them wide while simultaneously shifting all weight backwards, transferring my fate into the arms of its embrace; it was now that I felt authentic freedom – virtually weightless in mind and body; and as I descended down from my conflicted higher ground, the baby blue sky slowly faded as I welcomed the shift into sanctuary of the black.   

Restart This Heart

restart-heartPinned to the sidelines; cast curse on the stars; written an ending; cashed in my scars; detested myself for this mind’s misconnection – total betrayal through misguided direction.  Counted my blessings, no matter how few; scaled up the mountain to seek peace in the view.  Traipsed through the valley where darkness seeps in; hunted by death and conceded the win.  Escaped from its clutches time after time; soul searching through grime as I climb from the slime – adding powers of showers which rained from above; washing clear smut to make room for the love; but still most of all, hope carried me through – when totally lost and knew not what to do.  There must be a reason, for by skin of these teeth; I countered the spiral from way down beneath; breathed in fresh air; felt warmth on my face; vowed no return to that ill-fated place. 

c95b708a5a5f4acf87e7dce318db1315But no sooner than free I fell back in despair –  my fortress of rubble; my grim, dreary lair.  Escape a mere fiction, absconding a dream; deemed to endure its harrowing scheme.  “Where did you go? You thought you could leave?” It taunted my soul and adjourned my reprieve; inhaled me back in with no chance to break loose; seduced and reduced to bear the abuse.  Shackles and chains and poisonous rains; fire and coal that burned through my soul; shreds of the dead breaking into my head; the frontier of fear was clearly right here.  Begging and pleading in hopes to go free; I haggled the demons mastering me; “Just let me die!” I solemnly cry; “I can suffer no more on your blazing hot floor!”  They pointed and snickered; demonically whispered, “you don’t like the heat? Try a violent blizzard.”  A hell that’s now frozen from words I had chosen; a place of disgrace I’m forced to embrace; through all of the hardship, through all of my might; the odds firm against in the arduous fight. 

There’s no easy solution to elude its pollution; from being immersed, ensnared in its curse – for to sustain liberation from despondent damnation; seek a total revamping of soul understanding; it’s bound to get bloody and darker at first, but that’s what it takes to break free of this curse; that’s what it takes to find a way home; to experience life and not be alone; to really find purpose and meaning and grace; forever free from that deepest, dark place; an ultimate unbounding from a cycle of crashes; to restart a heart and rise from the ashes.         

On with the Side Show…

circus-sideshowWhispers of doubt echo throughout the chambers of a mind infested by darkness.  It’s not a pitch black however – not a complete absence of light.  It’s an intrinsic black that manifests when tired eyelids give way and collapse under a vibrant, cloudless sky; a ghostly ambiance of gleaming desperation committed to break through the delicate barrier of flesh severing opposite worlds.  Perhaps that’s why the whispers remain whispers and haven’t yet materialized into screams; they still perceive the presence of light – a glow which hosts a breeding ground for hope; a dingy darkness draped overhead birthing seeds of suspicion – an apprehension that perpetually recycles itself into a tenaciously dull roar and emerges again, sentenced to remain incarcerated within the mind of a mad man.

c8a0c0174beb3d18cedea00e823e605fNevertheless, the show carries on despite a seemingly inexhaustible search for authentic purpose or meaning, despite the mental barriers and personal trust issues; emotional traumas, wide-ranging mood swings and impulsive personalities, despite being thrust into the Southern California culture which heavily highlights human beings at a mere surface deep level; every heartbeat delivering confusion about who’s real and who’s only prerogative is to win the popularity contest; fueling self-worth based on the amount of people willing to jump under the sheets for a night of meaningless, sexual escape – deciphering between who’s willing to get dirty and actually fight in the trenches instead of breathing in an existence which is evidently based upon personal appearance, money, power or prestige – it’s high school revisited; this clique inundated, horror-drama that permeates throughout the soul of recovery communities like an epidemic.

To some this suffices, rendering enough sustenance to be considered living in “recovery” from a life shattering addiction, almost unaware of the side show sickness slipping subtly in to infiltrate weakened defenses; a disease, magnificently mutating; cunning enough to distract the mind from its primary purpose – gaining personal freedom from the bondage and throws of chronic self-destruction via the aid of whichever poison we fancy;  it’s hiding patiently in the shadows, waiting and striking out, unsuspectingly, at the next obtainable weakness in hopes to commence the cycle all over once more – whatever vulnerability that turns out to be; to keep us at bay from discovering the deep-seeded purposes behind an overwhelming desire to escape and numb out a life we never truly desired or could determine how to fit into in the first place; from unveiling the secrets to filling the void and creating some self-worth without substituting one unhealthy behavior for another. It’s an exhausting path to remain tirelessly trudging along for a group of the highly emotional.  Is it realistic or more along the lines of a far-fetched fantasy that people of such nature can ever fully see past these distractions and prevent them from occurring within a society in search of serenity?

toddler411.pngAs my children began to enter the realm of somewhere between full on baby and tiny human being, I thumbed through a manual at a local book joint entitled, Toddler 411.  Essentially, it’s the low-down on how to survive anything and everything you might encounter during those vital yet challenging, early years – as it turns out, most of the advice and strategies suggested for dealing with a growing toddler can be easily interchanged and wielded to maneuver through a community recovering from substance abuse – especially when these personalities are all residing under the same roof; so in essence, having children of my own bridged the gap, serving as a strong pre-requisite course in living amongst a society of the behaviorally challenged – myself included.  Similarities that are actually quite astounding when broken down with the primary exception, of course, being a substantial difference in age.  Regardless, we all need each other; we all learn from each other – no one person holds the coveted secret of life, but we do know the importance of sticking together – conflicts, personality clashes and all, so we can continue our pursuit for the greater good.

Answers – answers to questions that may not have set answers are my kryptonite and by far the biggest hurdle to leap on this arduous quest in search of uncovering the purpose for my existence; I just want answers; I yearn for understanding; cursed to traverse the world with a mind that automatically internalizes, processes, and analyzes every little detail – I crave to gain a conscious awareness of what the point to all of this is – do we simply exist going through the motions, engaging in the obligated mundane because it’s required for survival; what are we surviving for? What is the endgame?  Is there an end game?  I had attained all the goals I set for myself by the age of twenty-eight and subsequently lost it all by the time I turned twenty-nine; materialism and obsessively constructing an image to be admired from the outside looking in was just not cutting it; I was still miserable; I was still dead inside; a shriveled soul with a rock hard heart; I numbed it all out and pushed it away, and finally one day I came to – it was all gone for real. 

2231744073_babdf84c8c_bIt’s hard to accept the side show circus surrounding the recovery community, but somewhere deep down I understand that it’s my personal responsibility to make a choice – either get sucked into it or don’t; learn to live and let live; keep fresh the memories of how I got to this juncture in my life and what I’m really trying to accomplish as I carry forth on the journey – to find the balance for a better way to live.  So, on with the side show, for with every side show there comes a featured act – let us remember to exercise patience and stick around long enough for it to take place.

For the Tug of War


Being tagged with a life in the land of the free seems no more a fairy tale than any conglomerate of characters and their stories most of us connected with as children; aspired to be like – even envied.  As far back as I can recall, I have never been authentically satisfied or content with what I have or who I am, where I am going or where I have been; categorically nomadic in mind; a life spent theorizing and plotting a never-ending series of events; tsunamis of instantly gratifying trials and errors, with a predominant outcome weighing heavy on the side of error; miniscule and temporary bursts of fabricated endeavors to replenish an insatiable hole in a squandered spirit.  Just as these thwarted attempts, the stories, too, morphed into nothing more than fantasy when my mind evolved and the realities of this world fiercely flooded in; characters that never actually breathed life, but were merely made up and left to remain stranded within the pages of imagination; an inability to deviate from the storyboard they were cast into.  The daily war; to seemingly grind through an endless existence with this ill-advised perception of a life without charge, painstakingly begging to be convinced there is no great price to pay is eventually whittled down to no more than a factored in percentage of its masterful deceit; we have never been, nor will we ever be entitled to the concept of perceivable, let alone tangible liberation – everything has a price; something for nothing is non-existent, and deliverance, from where I’m sitting, should be considered one of the most substantial deceptions we have comforted ourselves with as necessary cogs in the societal machine.

Freedom: the front page cover story for this life which has me held captive and restricted, not unlike the characters of my childhood that were predestined to suffer the same fate; they, like I, were involuntarily sentenced to abide by its command.  I dreamt of being the characters in the stories of my youth without heeding the repetitive warnings of being careful what to wish for; my dreams, they came true, although blackened and overrun; consumed by a nightmarish tint that blankets the path; nothing like I could have imagined; nothing anybody would wish to embrace.  I didn’t understand the manifestation of their struggle; I couldn’t open my mind to the verifiable torment endured as they trudged the tireless quest; I thought they were heroic and brave; I thought it was uncomplicated and effortless; I thought they were free and even beckoning the question of whether or not the ending would be happy never crossed my misguided mind; as far as I could tell, in my limited understanding, they always were – but I was wrong – so rather now, my mind perceives the once beautifully attractive luring aspect of heroic fairy tales as un-relatable and farfetched, with the dishonorable facet of the incarceration of my beloved characters, however, precariously erupting into the forefront of my unfortunate, yet genuine reality.


With acknowledgement of most likely living in the minority with my somewhat skewed filter on how I see the world, I’m left with an apprehensive desire for human connection that wages this crestfallen and complicated tug-of-war in my head; a faith in mankind that slips further into the shadows with each exiguous effort to redirect towards any sign of radiance or relief – the pivotal flag draped from a rope dangerously close to the final decision for falling under an eternal cloak of darkness; an assumingly obvious unbalanced battle at this phase of the contest – yet concession has never been granted entry into my inner circle; assumptions can be dangerous, and it’s as if teetering on the edge of madness is a thrill all in itself; testing the boundaries and exploring my limits – just how far is too far? Can I ever let myself get close to a person again or do I keep it safe at the status quo, surface level interactions that allow me to remain wrapped up in my self-professed zone of comfort from a distance? Am I protecting myself? Hurting myself? Maybe I’m I protecting the potential people I would be letting into my world if and when failure comes crashing through again; maybe protection of any sort doesn’t play a factor at all.  With a little over six months off the bottle, the jumbled circus of questions haphazardly floating around my head are adding up, but the answers have seemingly fled seeking safer grounds – a point which has proven problematic due to the over-proven fact that patience, as well, has never been given access to my tight knit, inner circle of self.

Only the Lonely

_16 FB beginning tubBalmy; humid; utterly miserable – this motel bathroom suffices more accurately as a tropical torture chamber.  My body lies, awkwardly twisted and face up, at the base of the tub which, for all intents and purposes, is shedding some living insight into what it might be like lying in a coffin – the final resting place for my forever tortured and disconnected soul.  Steaming hot water rains down on me, concurrently generating a dense, cheap lavender smelling haze which renders it even futile to make out the battered, decaying tile despairingly clinging to the walls; there they hope to remain, holding on for dear life and overseeing my predominately lifeless body; the random gaps in between illustrate comrades not adequately spirited to endure the torment of their rather trite existence.  I unpropitiously stay behind, sprawled out and conquered, resenting their ability to irrevocably let go.    

It’s the loneliest place in the world; the most disengaged and isolated I’ve ever felt from reality or life itself – including all the self-created drivel and mendacity that even I had naïvely bought into as authentic over the years; my head just as clogged and clouded with confusion between the factual and the fraudulent as this hell hole is overrun by the fabricated tropical steam produced from that rusting piece of water-bearing metal protruding from the wall far above.  No matter what I do or how far down I sink into oblivion, I cannot, for the life of me, get to that place where I no longer exist, where everything is nothing – the sentence I crave for an eternity lost in the black.

24b34492dd28b994fb14f03aa5f50962The notion and idea of resilience is, well, annoying – especially as I despairingly lay, hopeless and spiritually shattered, at death’s door in the tub of my room at motel hell; although I’ve knocked many times, I have yet to be graciously greeted by those on the other side.  My body wishes to carry forth, but my mind and spirit are ready to concede.  I cannot comprehend why the reaper maliciously skulks all around me, but ceases to ever grant me admission into its world.  To me, the greatest lie ever told is not convincing the world that Lucipher doesn’t live amongst us in the shadows, it’s that entrance into his kingdom of Hell down below is widely believed and accepted to be worse than remaining forced to endure here on Earth one more day. 

Thoughts incessantly race through my mind; how outside these incarcerating walls, folks are happy, joyous, and free, going about their day and basking under the sun – or how some of them must be actors as well, tirelessly going through the motions as I so often do; what my kids are doing at this exact moment and how the woman I counted on to be there, betrayed me and wishes to evict my existence from their youthful, collective consciousness; I wish I could shoot the fucking sun out of the sky and damn everyone to witness eternal darkness, as if finally seeing the world through my dismal, ill-fated eyes would be the end-all-be-all, that suddenly everyone would finally understand; I wish my body would allow me to ingest more of that mind numbing potion, but it continues rejecting any of my thwarted attempts; it won’t allow me passage back to the black.  I think about ordering a lady of the night to get me out of myself temporarily, but I can’t handle anybody seeing me in this dire a condition, paid or otherwise; besides, my wallet is now devoid of any currency due to the, “who knows how long”, bender I am currently and barely living through.  I miserably attempt to rub one out, but even that, my body states, is a temporary escape that will not be rewarded.  Resilience; yeah, it’s a bitch.

dc87bb9377d7c360a0da67c4a518bb5eMy body aches; I can’t muster up enough strength to stray away from this desolate tub of torment; I don’t deserve to depart from it’s rigid, wet porcelain shell anyway – the sheer will to carry on plays no role in my immediate, cognitively distorted mind, nor does it appear to be an undertaking I’ll be in pursuit of anytime in the near future.  Microscopic bullets of water ceaselessly pummel my face as they ricochet off what’s been collecting in the bottom of my makeshift casket.  Through the suffocating mist and dim glow of flickering light, silhouettes of bath towel demons lurk, seemingly floating and motionless in mid-air, patiently waiting for the moment they can finally carry me away; whether or not visible to the naked eye, these spirits of the darkness perpetually tail my every move; making their presence known through various incarnations and dialing, intrusively, into my every fleeting thought.  I meditate over the probability of whether or not they know I’m thinking they can go fuck themselves for perpetually prolonging my suffering.  I ponder whether I will, in fact, ever make it out of this tub alive. 

The sociopathic tendencies I periodically exhibited throughout various aspects of my life and relationships started to make me wonder if I was devoid of any feeling or emotion at all, but in my brief and far between moments of clarity, I knew that could not be the case.  I knew I wouldn’t consistently crave a substance that makes feelings and emotions disappear if I was not aware of them to begin with.  I started to think quite the opposite at that juncture, that maybe my feelings and emotions were so intense, so real and so bold, that I didn’t know how else to handle them besides stuffing them deep within or forcing them out altogether through use of mind-altering chemicals – the first solution that seemed to work regarding my issue of an overwhelming amount of passion and unrelenting remarks from the heart.  Maybe every emotion I have been exposed to over this lifetime has been felt at an abnormally extreme level – maybe I love too much, admire too much, and care too much; maybe I feel overpowering senses of enjoyment and euphoria.  Maybe, this too, would insinuate that I feel inordinate amounts of hate, disgust, jealousy, fear and insecurity; that I cannot have one extreme without the other; that if I blot out the negative, I am also eclipsing the positive; that I would have to set forth on a journey to understand myself, my emotions, and how to create a healthy balance if I ever wanted to evade a life ensnared and alone in the bottom of dingy motel bathtubs.    

Chameleon Conformist

uV6xNNqXkK7htQ8L6QmFTJUrThe chameleon conformist; he vigilantly adjusts and positions a colorful smoke screen for the world to see; a front for the purpose of carrying out his personal agenda; he acts in accordance with societal norms to mislead the naked, unsuspecting eye.  He is, in all truth, completely anti-social to the core while in the privacy of the unremitting darkness that plagues him; a place the devil himself would even feel uneasy.  Behind the smoke lives the shell of man who appears to have it all; behind the smoke lies an empty void yearning for fulfilment.  This man aversely survives, lifeless on the inside; hollow; robotic and pre-programmed to carry out essential obligations to preserve the sickness holding him hostage; the sickness that is continuously at liberty to haphazardly course all throughout the captivity of his veins.

His primary objective never changes color; he is the non-conformist in regards to the pre-destined arrival of his daily escape – his outward conformity allocates the sustainability of his interior rebellion – his daily mission never waivers off course; he blends into the background the same way a chameleon would elude its fierce hunter; he doesn’t wish to be seen; he doesn’t hope to be heard – the world and its incessant vexation gradually drifts from his consciousness as he irrevocably ingests the pernicious remedy, subsequently releasing a distorted sentiment of well-being and an immensely sought after sigh of alleviation.

conformity_by_vicodininjaThe first layer and most prominent color on his suit of acquiescence is green; the green of a rewarding and gainful career which serves as the lifeline to the truth of his darkness; it’s the glue that binds together the whole charade and paves the way for its continual operation; without it, he is vulnerable and exposed; without it, the authentic blackness of all his little carefully crafted designs are open for the world to see; credibility eradicated; reputation wrecked.  The green of greed invites envy into the mix; he wishes to be anyone other than himself; he fantasizes about what it would be like to have it all – the big house with an ocean view, a luxury vehicle for each day of the week, a multitude of women just a phone call away and ever-lasting freedom to do as his little, black heart desires; he presumes that would be the answer to his issue of contentment, but somewhere deep down in his being he knows he would only crave still more; all the water in the world isn’t enough to satisfy an unquenchable thirst. 

Anticipating its moment to shine through the voracious green exterior is the second in his array of covert defense layers; it’s soaked a deep blood red; a red labeling his path of destruction, his internal anger, and the emotional damage to all those he crossed paths with along the way; it’s his defense mechanism to keep others at a distance; a warning not to approach; it keeps him locked in a little box all alone – his safety net; he unknowingly becomes a ticking time bomb; he craves human connection, but in his mind, the risk outweighs the reward – the thought of rejection or abandonment is too overwhelming to handle; so he just sits silently by his lonesome as the world keeps spinning; life passes him by; he can’t get in the mix; the torture is unbearable; he intensely prays for it to be over – his prayers for relief are answered; the answer is no; the heinous cycle continues with no end in sight.

The yellow of his deceit and deception is prepared to reveal itself directly underneath the blood-soaked red of desolation.  It’s how he maneuvers his way through the daily grind of a dilapidated existence; dodging and weaving, he meticulously spins a web of lies around himself; a shield built to protect how he thinks his world should work and what all the players in it need to comply with to best suit the motives of his self-interest.  He becomes trapped in his head between the worlds of wanting to be left alone or forgotten and yearning to be endeared or understood.  Building up these falsities becomes his only purpose for waking up in the morning; he has to maintain the madness created in desperate attempts to fit in; he has to nourish the misrepresentations generated during his trials and tribulations to fill up and seal the emptiness perpetually lingering inside.  The way he goes about it never changes; he never redirects off course.  It’s always been a losing battle, yet he chases after the idea of fulfillment nevertheless.  Insanity interpreted.

9Tpoj6XTEDeep and sheltered in the core of his being lives black; the black he painstakingly attempts to conceal from the world time and time again; the blackness of his cold, tarnished heart and the darkness it constructs, spreading throughout every facet of his life with the zest and insidiousness of an infectious disease.  Its power and authority is unmatched; surreptitiously he meanders about; he feels most comfortable traversing through the cover of night, protected under its blanket and veiled by his matching cloak.  In the darkness he is his genuine self; stripped down and bare to the bone; in black he is a man using every resource at his disposal to hold himself together as he inescapably falls apart…