Addictions are funny. They are wanted and unwanted lovers.

Here I am, under an umbrella. It’s slightly raining and it smells like Chinese food. There’s this new shop that opened. I want to try their roast pork.

The meats mingle with the tobacco. And again I come back to here. Just me and this cigarette under the rain, washing away the pain.

The funny thing is, I told myself I would quit. It’s got to be the thousand-and-first time by now. It was going well too.

And then I walked by some workers, and asked me too.

So here I am with a half-smoked cigarette, with other drugs in my hands.

Today was a good day. For I was there. Blessed strangers in wetlands.

And I feel amazing! Wow I missed this buzz! I can’t wait for my high. This is what it does.

And I’m in the pure lands. It really feels like it. I know this is a lie, but I don’t give a shit.

Love. Fake love. Real love. Somewhere in between. Because I don’t love myself at all.

But I do. And so these addictions are my lovers. Saving me from myself and keeping me trapped.

Until I finally learn that this is just that. Me escaping me from me. And it’s costing me time to be.

I don’t care. It’s whatever. It’s time to go to school.

The next lesson is here, time to be a fool.

And I wish and fear that I lose and keep all I hold dear.

For I am a divided self, and so I give up my health.

Because, deep down, I pray this is my savior.

For I cannot accept what I’ve felt.

-

Just now, I walked to the supermarket to get my apples. It was time to feed the addictions. You know what they say, an apple (bowl) a day keeps the doctors away!

But this is not a cheery story. In fact, it’s taking everything in me not to collapse.

As I was on my way, there was a homeless woman on the side. It was warm out, but she had on a mask, scarf, and jacket.

I know that unnatural cold. It feels like it never leaves.

This was right in town. Everyone was laughing, the trains were running. People had places to go and others to see. And here she was, holding a cup only to be met with stone eyes.

As I walked by, I reached into my wallet. No cash. And so I went by deep in pain. I am sorry.

I soon found myself picking out some apples. This one had cobwebs. This one had some marks. This one had no flaw.

This hauntingly beautiful piece started playing on the speakers. The red soon blended with the weeping strings.

And so I was happy. For I had just experienced awe again.

As I was on my way back, I saw the woman again. I asked if she wanted an apple. She said yes. I asked if she wanted two. She said no. And God bless you.

It has been a few minutes since, and I’m wailing as I make my way home. Why? WHY?????

I can’t make sense of it. I’ve tried all my life. And here she is, with such grace amidst this hell. I am sorry. I am so sorry.

And so I listen to the weeping strings again, for I too need my escape. This is too much to bear. For I have a home, a here and there.

Forget the mystical winds. Live with love and service. Promise that every wave of selfishness has ripples of selflessness.

That I must. That I will. Dear woman, God bless you too. I love you.

Next time, I promise we’ll have a feast together, you and I. I wish you the best of luck. May you find peace among the chaos, and see your way through.

As I sit now with clenched fists and puffy eyes, I know there is still so much left to go. And I pray that we can meet again, only this time knowing hope.

Sometimes, the most truthful response to witnessing suffering is this. To let it break our hearts open and then to allow that opening to guide our actions.

I know this is the way. I will honor your dignity and my values.

May we both find peace. Some days, we truly can turn over that leaf.

And as I am trembling with despair and gratitude, I tell myself that I cannot look away. Our task is to stand strong, as be our way.

May your grief remain tender. May your love remain fierce. And may both guide you forward.

Good luck. I love you.

-

Earlier today, I decided to go by the ocean. To just sit on a bench and listen to the waves.

It was a beautiful morning; the sun was powerful, and the wind had a warm embrace to it this time. Finally, a change! Spring is near.

As I sat and watched the fishermen cast their lines, I remembered the last and first time I did that.

It was a few years ago, by a different sea. There were mosquitoes everywhere, and somehow, we managed to catch this one ugly looking brown thing. Fortunately, his appearance was what led him to see another day.

I remembered the picture I took of my friend holding him up, which reminded me how whenever I’d see this particular photo, the next one would always be of my other friend’s dog, Bailey.

Bailey was a big girl, a beautiful Rottweiler. I remembered how every time I opened the front door, she’d be there to greet me. She’d always put her paws up on me, which hurt a lot. Tongue was always out, and even now I can hear what her excitement sounded like. She was the guardian of the basement, where all our treasures lie. Days and days of ping pong, getting mad over NHL games and how the game was rigged, and where I’d always sit on the couch with my juul next to me snuck between the cushions.

I remembered how we’d leave at night to go to an abandoned shed by town, where we’d come stocked with apples and weed. Oh man, you should’ve seen how surgical I was with those apple bowls. Now that was art. The secret was in using a chopstick—not a straw or pen because that always messed up the airflow.

We would go inside the shed and sit on this dead log, and get high and laugh and chat about our days. Sometimes, we’d bring some joints if we were really indulging. Those were always a treat. And I have to brag here, because to this day no one has rolled one better than me.

I remembered the first time I had smoked a joint; it was actually a week after we had come back from Cuba. I used to play baritone sax, and our high school band got to play around the country for the locals. That was cool.

My favorite song we played was New York, New York by Frank Sinatra, and they loved it too. There was that one time in Havana where we played it a few times back to back. Encores galore!

Those days in Havana were something else. There was this one afternoon where we went to the big marketplace in town. We had twenty minutes to walk around and shop, and of course with us being us, we snuck out onto the streets and started asking for cigars. A bit stereotypical I know, but could you blame us? And if you’ve had the fortune of smoking a Cuban, you would’ve done the same thing too, I bet.

As we were asking around, a man came up to us. He knew what was up. And so we followed him down a few backroads to this little room. This room was a treasure chest. In one corner were boxes and boxes of Cohibas and Montecristos and Romeo y Julietas. In another was this man sitting at his table, watching soccer from a small TV caged behind some bars.

We bought as many as we could, and impatiently waited for the night. The hotel we stayed at in Havana had a balcony on each room, and our chaperones were on another floor. So we all convened as the moon rose to revel in our findings.

That first one I smoked was a Montecristo #4. Now this was the first time me and nicotine met, and what a way to enshrine our entangling for the years to come. That buzz, I shit you not, lasted for hours. We had the time of our lives.

I remembered how I looked at the water then. It was so blue, and it went on for miles and miles. Just blue.

And now, here I am again, me and blue. And waves and wind and seagulls.

I wonder if the ocean knows of its treasures and remembers them too. That we’ve both been graced by the laughter of the waves and each other.

And as the ocean whispers back, it is the silent keeper of story. Because as I remember, it seems the world does too.

-

I like living a story. Now that suffering has been mostly tamed, I find myself wanting it to be an element of my being. Who knew it would turn out this way? Lol

I like drugs and the euphoria and pain it brings. I like the journey it takes me on, as messed up as it is. I like being weird and fucked in the head. Why? Because that’s who I am.

I’ve spent a lifetime hating myself and now that I don’t but also don’t really give a fuck, life has been a wonderful exploration and series of self-experiments to see how bad bad can get and how good good is.

Of course, it took everything in me to get here. And more. I’ve come so close to a willing death - to the true absence of hope.

That singular moment when I fully gave up was the necessary surrender to ignite the alchemy. I remember it so clearly now. When surrender became salvation.

So what is there to fear really when you’ve been kidnapped into the lower realms? When you’ve had no choice but to figure out what the actual fuck was going on in your head to find a way through?

Well it turns out a lot of things; but what I fear no more is my lack of faith. Beyond my soul, that I am.

I decided to stop being bad for a few days and yeah my body is much better and my mind is much clearer and my emotions and thoughts are much more manipulatable and I’m just more able - but where’s the fun in that?

There’s a time and place for everything, and for me, as soon as my dark night is over it’s so over for you bitches

But maybe I don’t want the darkness to end, because it is my friend; because I’m no longer its victim, but a willing participant.

I suppose, at the end of the day, maybe I was just born the wild.