So this is me. Dangling off the edge of this magma laden death trap, my island worn flip flops almost melting with its heat. My sea blue eyes about to meet its only competition thus far at the bottom of my impending tumble. I wasn’t much a man for adventure, at least not outside the bar or the bedroom. There, I was king, the sole proprietor of pleasure, the man behind the curtain to the wizard I was. I got around, to say the least, not that I’m proud of the magnitude per say, but the quality…well that was impressive. I was the party, the white horse whose name was only mumbled so as not to defame the legacy I had become. Los Angeles was my kind of town, full of my kind of people. The kind of people stupid enough to screw what they think they know about people and relationships and live life going through every step facing forward, never looking back. That’s what got me here, see in this path of life that some people such as myself choose to feign as a race is full of signs and warnings but, on this road, the words are on the back of the sign and the front can only be inferred by the road itself. Some of us aren’t mature enough to realize that just because the octagon shaped sign in front of the busy intersection doesn’t say stop, it must mean go. And that is what I did for the first 30 years of my life. And that’s why I’m here in this wife beater and sweatpants on a decade stained couch unable to sleep, but far more unable to get up. O that part about the volcano was just to get your attention. You didn’t really believe that did you? But I do stand before an equally great figurative volcano, incognizant of how to turn back, unable to dive in. Living my life so fully that I never had time to look back at all of the admonitions of my past I ran headfirst into a wall. The king has lost his crown, age stripped it from me handily and now, I sit and wallow in the consequences of youth, and the fulfillments of a life “well-lived”. Going hard, I landed hard, flying high, I’ve fallen low, and now I sit alone in this buzzard filled concrete shell of an apartment, much incongruous to the blandishments of my youthful lavishness and, looking much like the bum that is now pilfering through your trash silently, I am alone, unwanted, used up, and taken for granted. But its hard to take something for free, for granted and that’s what I was—free. Freedom isn’t for the immature nor the stubborn. Freedom is too smart for the stupidity of America, unnecessary for the brave and strong of America, irrelevant to the selfish of America, misused by the wild of America. Useless by the sinful in America. Freedom is a fool’s greatest chain and that was me—a fool, this is me—a slave—to loneliness, to fear, to depression, to jealousy, to lust, to greed. The land of the free can only exist with one nation under God, full of people being justified by grace. I look around for that empty handed, still wasting away in this horse pee smelling rat hole-esque sty I reside. Praying to find out I’m still alive, concerned that won’t make a difference.
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