Writing a Book. ( title 5150)

Here is an excerpt from the first few pages


>>>>>I know this may be the very last flight that I might ever take. The airport is congested, as usual. People busy about performing the duties of ants as prescribed by the queen. See luggage, retrieve luggage, carry luggage, get cab travel more. Greet, shake hands, exchange niceties, move along in line, and smile. Point a to point b, new point; new life, baptized, blessed, cursed, vacation, honeymoon, anniversary, death: yes death that is my favorite. Everyone in his or her own world, traveling to unknown destinations. Some may be terrorist, bankers, businessmen, housewives, or students. All the people, individuals, with some agenda and something important to do, or someone to meet are busy with excitement and happiness of a new adventure or memory in life. I have nothing important to do and this may be my very last flight I take. I am insignificant. When I am gone from this world there won’t be a stain to tattoo the history of my presence of past chaos.

I look around to see the hubs and travel destinations. Kauai, Montreal, Cozumel, Cancun, Mazatlan. I’m going to Mazatlan on flight 187. If my intentions for travel aren’t positively moronic enough the flight number spells murder in familiar police code to further make concrete of my emotional turmoil. There is a small café and flower stand, a Carl’s JR. serving starch that is deep fried in animal fat surrounding protein that will never be absorbed no matter how much a person devours. They are serving an empty promise to most of the people here it is just what they need, emptiness. Another push towards the edge of disintegration and physical failure. More excitement. It will make their traveling worthwhile. It will show them the other side of which they know very little. It will reveal to them the delights of their travel and the wonderful merriment that they saved their hard earned money for to vacation or try a new geographic location. The contrast will seem real to them and complete their experience. Just as a start and finish to an evening’s symphony, the vacation is only the intermission in the trip. The risk is the real vacation and for most, fast food is as much of a risk that they can stand.

I have packed lightly for this trip. The usual travel wear of slacks, shirts, undergarments and socks, lots of warm comfortable socks. The carries on I currently maintain close supervision over contains my laptop, medication, toiletries, extra undies, socks, and my pills. One year ago I entered a treatment center against my will for what a family member said was a dependency on alcohol, muscle relaxers, sleeping medication, and painkillers. I have no booze, just 500 Norco, 500 sleeping pills, and 750 muscle relaxers. Everything is made out to the appropriate dosage and time lines so that if discovered I can not be charged with trafficking narcotics or the intent to sell or worse even yet the confiscation of my pills. Mexico does not sell any hydrocodone pain medications, although they do provide a nice assortment of muscle relaxers that when accelerated with the right amount of alcohol will do the trick in a pinch. I have not consumed any narcotic based medication in just over a year. Before I was forced into the treatment center I had been taking the medication for severe headaches caused by an immediate rise in blood pressure due to life’s little peculiarities. The combination of painkillers and muscle relaxers worked well for the discomfort and even provided nice temporary vacations from time to time. Especially when taken with the sleeping meds and or accelerated with alcohol. Up until this very moment I have been accepting of the big shit sandwich that life has dealt me and the wanting of more and more and more but only being allowed to taste just little hints of emotional freedom. My entire life has been bondage of some kind. Emotional, physical, addiction, pain, spiritual, mostly the expectations of entitlement are what have badword me. Up until now I have been accepting that I am a damaged goods and there has been no good from the presence of my life here on this planet. I have done very little if nothing that is selfless and without the expectation of gain. Every step of my life has been a calculated shortcut towards the desired entitlement and birthright I deserved. I have not set goals. I have not set boundaries. I have not pursued education, career, personal enlightenment or growth. I am 38; a drug addict with no future and no past. I have been forgotten before I have been seen. I serve the cultural icons of excess and indulgence ignoring the sanctity of my own temple. I contribute to the general relief system of the American Capitalistic economy; where bigger is better and more is an emptiness longing for more, replaced by fear and resentment. I am the new America. I am a drug addict.

I have already eaten so I pass at the offer for a fun house ride special for 6.99 at the Carl’s JR. across from the florist. I do decide for a double espresso at the Starbucks that has even managed to weasel their way into the commute of international travel. That will be 6.25, please. Keep the change. I find an appropriate spot to watch the other travelers and their relentless pursuit of busyness. I am with my old friends, Caffeine and Nicotine. I am alone except for another smoker that has just quenched his but into an alcoholic beverage looking to be a Bloody Mary. I am always alone, but that’s okay because it is comfortable. Alone, I don’t have to make merry chit-chat with strangers about the weather or where I’m going or why. I don’t have to act or put on a show of excitement and anticipation, I can relax inside my uncomfortable skin. For most people the very feeling of their skin not feeling comfortable would be cause for endless sessions with Dr. Something, shopping sprees, deserts enveloped in whipped cream, or risky sexual encounters. For most the feeling of pain and discomfort caused by the cracking skin and blood seeping from the scabs and scars of the past would be cause for suicide. I have learned to live with these feelings, to embrace the pain and discomfort that I have felt over nearly 3 decades of despair. When I feel the pain I know that I am alive. I know that I have not started to fade from the shadow that I live in. The pain softens the anger and resentment that has built within me over the past 38 years. I feel. I feel something and in feeling something I find some compassion for life outside of my body. The pain helps me to see the thorn on the rose and appreciate the blood red color of the blossom. The pain is all around me. It is in every breath I take, every movement, every thought, and every shadow. It is everywhere. The pain.

Posted by bbeard on 12/18 at 01:21 PM in Personal

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