Grey – A peek from under the wet blanket

It’s an art to live with pain… mix the light into gray.” – Eddie Vedder

Listen, while I tell you a story of grey. The grey wraps around my soul in a haze of unwanted anxiety, a watered down black, like dark swirls in spoiled milk. These streaks of deteriorated joy cover my lens, my warm blanket soaked with fruitless tears. Feelings are sharp and cutting, nothing is gained by the sorrow. My grey love backfires, I point it toward her but the pain is set loose on my soul. This grey soaks me, in vain I try to keep myself warm in the breeze of cool emotion. Grey is my elixir of madness. I drink deep from the drought of darkness gone bad. Stormy clouds gather, a condensation of holiness evaporated from the lake of my soul, leaving it a lifeless puddle of unfathomable sorrow. Now you know of my affliction my curious companion, my lifelong condition of grey. Pray that you escape its mesmerizing effects and that you with the brightness of healthy hope, avoid this quicksand of a tortured mind.

For help with depression: Symptoms, Warnings, Solutions

The Waiting Vengeance

“Some justice, though did not deal with kindheartedness or good feeling toward others. No, justice had a darker side, a gray area where it mingled alongside vengeance, and only the wise and pure of heart were able to tell the two apart. That kind of justice was swift. It was only called upon after mercy and morals fail. It was the darkest form of goodness known to anyone, even the gods, and required only the strongest, most daring men to bring about.” ― Evan Meekins, The Black Banner
The problem is when I’m hurt, especially publicly hurt, there is pressure, both inside and out to exact revenge and “take care of your business”, and generally, the quicker, the better. To the regular guy, this is real, but to those whose mental condition, or whose social position, puts them at more precarious odds with vengeance, it is crucial to examine the actions considered before acting them out. It is expected by both violent subcultures and societal inputs, movies and books, that with great aggression and extreme guile a man should strike back at that evil which caused the hurt. To not strike back causes a loss of credibility within those cultures as well as a strike against the ego. The names that are given to those who do not strike back with the same or more violence than what is done to them, are not pleasant nor easy to bear. But wait! There is an element in warfare that waiting is part of the plan. It indicates wisdom and provides opportunity for an element of surprise to those who refuse to be provoked by the poking and prodding of careless violent predators. If I am easily provoked, then I am easily controlled. To ruin me only requires irritation, and the rest I’ll do on my own. There is a time and a place, to hold back a temper, put that gun down, knowing that the triggers of violence are controlled by the one waiting. More can be served by waiting and letting the violators of my life turn on themselves than by acting on an out of control violent spree that may end up hurting people other than the intended perpetrator(s), and may hurt the vigilante by the confinement of jail, institutions, or death, or the burden of never being able to speak of that which is done. There is a better way than to be violent immediately. Know myself, then my enemy. Hold my peace, the opportunity will come. When my defense is sure, then my victory is absolute.

Trickbag – Setting me up

“Men are so simple and yield so readily to the desires of the moment that he who will trick will always find another who will suffer to be tricked.” – Niccolo Machiavelli 

Thinking you would catch me in a *trickbag of a players game

Pushed to limits of civil thought, left with a criminal’s way

Laughing thinking that never the gun would flash and knife bleed

Lay down the weapons of flesh for the attack that brings to seed

A falcon’s wings now serve me better than a dragons breath

These three ends you chose for me: jails, institutions, and death

Homicidal fantasies I would loath to create a reality

I shun the sad you see I can never be your patsy

Flying high above the fray, killers killing each other to despise

I gather rising winds of peace beneath my tattered wings to rise

They almost had me, looking for a vulnerable spot with hate

Finding my weakness, a harbinger of danger to reveal my strength

They came against me as one, now they run in divided derision

I enjoy the meal now, prepared in the presence of their incursion

Freedom is mine once again, in spite of me, in spite of them

Caught away by spirits leading, the world of success my diadem

*trick bag – setting someone up to do things they would normally never do using peer pressure, elicit substances, alcohol, women, or whatever means to manipulate.

Crackhead – A day in the life

Be advised that this post may trigger those who are prone to addictions. This post is written, not to glorify drug use with “war stories”, but to show the futility and danger faced daily by those addicted. Take time and patience with the addicts, you may the next one that needs the help. 

“Click, click”, the metallic voice of the AK told me all I needed to know. I sat down, quickly, in the darkened room. Behind me, open doors, black holes of doom in my mind, I had no idea what or who was waiting there. Two of them stood in front of me, one with the barrel pointed at my eye. “Grandma”, as they reverently referred to her, sat at the table in the kitchen, one bare light bulb lighting the table and a few baggies in front of her. Two more thugs stood by her side, armed, their expression disinterested, just another night to them. To me however, it was an epiphany. I was looking down the barrel of my life. The man with his gun on me shouted, “smoke it!”. I guess my frequent trips to their house that night inspired some paranoia, or perhaps the doses of high grade crack fueled their suspicions. It didn’t matter which, now, the paranoia was going to be mine. I took the pipe, hazed with brownish yellow on the inside, and balanced the large rock on the end. It was the size of my pinky nail. There was no choice, no option, it was smoke it or die. 

I held the flame to the pipe, melted the crack in place, and with my held tilted way back, lit it up. I heard the crackle of my mind as I took a deep breath of rock. I couldn’t finish it, I slumped back, my ears ringing loudly, vision growing narrow, my heart leaping furiously to catch up to an unnatural rhythm that would have killed most men. I slumped back in the chair, my eyes wide, my ears attuned to a supernatural level of hearing. Every creak, whisper, and movement was amplified to startling levels. A mind gripping fear took hold, all those dark rooms, all these guns, everything geared to annihilate me. Satisfied, the goon took the gun away from my eye, and smiled a knowing smile. I was not a cop, I was a rock star without a guitar. “Leave now”, he said, throwing the eight-ball I came for, “and don’t come back tonight”. 

You didn’t need to tell me twice, I left with my feet traveling faster than my mind, driving without knowing where I was going. I just wanted away. Away from there, and away from all that tormented me. Away from the loneliness, the pain, the rejection, the failure of my life. Away to a room, where all that waited was fear and my little rocks. No love there, no hope, only hours of torment, compounded by days of depression and sadness as I recovered from my 5 day binge. Sad life, sad time, another night in the life of a crack head.

The Queen – Chapter 11 – Taking out the trash

The sting of the needle, inserted quickly out of necessity, brought me back to consciousness. The gray bearded, decrepit doc had me laying on the kitchen counter, working out of an old leather bag which resembled the texture of his skin. Evidently I was out for a while and as he busied himself cleaning up, I looked over my shoulder, seeing the body of our attacker wrapped in heavy plastic, red smears on the inside looking like a crazed water-color painting. My Queen was calm, her hands stroking the blood, my and his, from my body.  I noticed a strength in me, her strength, unafraid and capable of handling these situations, enabled me, giving me confidence and lifting me above fear. She was amazing, and I owed my life to her now, as she did me for had I not taken the hit, she surely would be the one in water colored plastic. I saw her reach under the counter, pressing something, the cabinet above the sink shuttered and then flipped into itself revealing a stash of items, the most prominent of which were stacks of green, fresh money, the counting straps still banding them together. Grabbing a couple of bundles she handed them to the doc, the street has its own health care system. Letting sleep claim me again, I dreamed of the nights with my queen, her body an escort into the galaxies of pleasure beyond my experience.

The doc left satisfied and we settled into an evening of wine and pills, my Queen drowning my pain and apprehension with kisses down my neck and chest, settling into a rhythm with her hair in my lap. Closing my eyes, I turned to see the body again, I inquired about how to handle the trash. “The cleaners would be here soon, don’t worry.” She went back to her self-imposed task of intimating sexual pleasure on her bodyguard. As I grew closer to the summit of my desire, I recalled that this was the reason I worked my mundane, back-breaking job, to guard her and escape from the listless world that was mine, outside this Queen’s castle.

Related Posts: The Queen,  Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,  Part 11,, Part 12, Part 13