A Side Note...

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    Sadly, as true as it might be, I have never seen myself much more than a tourist, here, among the shattered hopes, lost dreams and broken promises of those seeking recovery. A process, which in my mind begins at birth and continues daily until at long last that bright shining moment comes and it's time to lay it ALL down. And that one luxury, guaranteed, is afforded everyone, over & under insured alike. 

    Many of us, who, in the time it takes to die, know that life does literally flash before one's eyes. Those last thoughts, images, or impressions are the memories you keep before being gently guided across the void, dragged down into hell, or, low and behold, as it were in my case, spit back out a bonafide Devil's reject.

    The commonality is true, as I've discovered among those deemed as yet unworthy of their final reward, there persists a certain abandonment of the fear of death. And that translation can be difficult because it's not by any means an absence of fear, or, as such, an unfettered disregard for the eventuality of dying itself –– far from that. 

    Suffice to say, unfortunately enough, to those who remain snared in the entrails of the 'program' it's the ultimate surrender which still awaits. This is why, or at least in-part, I do not say I am addict –– I have already died, and that makes me a nothing. Cop-out, you say? Go ahead, I say - try it. And if you have, call yourself anything you like.

Picture, if you will, in your minds-eye everything you assume to know of the heart of Mother Teresa, suddenly & without warning dropped into the soul of Robert Mapplethorpe ––

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