A Beautiful Discovery: Death of a Dis Ease- Journaled August 2014

He use to drink, smoke, and wipe his ass with crayon paper when really high. He thought it would help him smell better and bring more creative color to his work. He remembered a time in the early 90’s when he was still very very young, always thinking his life was apart of some bigger plan. Dreaming of being infamous, invincible, wealthy, and still young were the “intrinsic” elemental pieces within his web of existence: past, present, and future which was his code for survival. He had more future in the mind of a kid than most adults. In the mind of an insecure adult, now sober, returning to the youthful green mind, he was now wiping asses with toilet paper and wet baby wipes. Regression or Progression? Name the addiction was the newfound game. Boring to be around, he felt like ending his life more times than sitting down and attempting to create a better one. Action without drugs is like starting a car without keys. Science to Art. Creative abstract thinking focused in present awareness mirrored distracted confusing dyslexic handwriting and images that reminded him of pre-k drawings. Was this the new great sober life he would live?

A potential partner in this new life would have to be justified and imagined to be more of an addict and crazier than he or a codependent, selfish, unaware narcissist. The combination in mind could lead to great things or amusing times to be had, he thought. In dis-ease and madness; a rollercoaster ride never ending, fecal matter and vomit everywhere. The shit one goes through to better themselves. Why must he want to better himself? Sitting on his lovely couch, clothes scattered observing an empty fridge. Takeout was the answer for the immediate gratification craving. That and Netflix. Does addiction skip generations? Or does it manifest in those only willing to lend it an ear to what it really is or can be?

Transformative history runs amok in the brains of those who really give a shit.  Is it transformative though? Mental history is fabricated false memory. We’re creating a timeline that no longer exists to say we are healed from the imaginary past to create an imaginary future. What happened to the moment? To think about what it means to grow and build a life worth living is agonizing after rebirth. Follow this example some may say or listen to your heart. You just came out of the womb, the primordial ooze of substances that fogged your energy field for years clouds any and all judgement. You really think listening to ones heart is an option? Where is my heart? What does it feel like? The machinations of one’s thoughts and behaviors create a robotic evolution if one were to just mimic the recovering. Has one seen an aluminum caterpillar break free and shed it’s organic wings?!

Hiding behind raw, unrelentless control, letting go is the answer to the observer/addict who sees their father hanging on for dear life like that ridiculous cat photo you see in every middle school silently echoing the heartfelt agony of what you must do through those awkward years of adolescence and puberty. Does someone else have to really be there for “it” to exist? Easily masked behind a house, nice furniture, cars, books, and mental conversation. Alone without friends. Lacking acceptance and emotional connection, the addicts’ father was the passive aggressive merry go round type. The father was the kid who took one turn and ceased all other turns until everyone else had a turn whilst resenting the others the entire time, mechanically controlling his every move in an attempt to keep his own addiction at bay. He passed down to some of his offspring, the “in betweeners” – jumping from slides to slides, monkey bars, merry-go-rounds, swings, always landing on their feet to turn around and see the sibling addict walk away from the playground never to truly say goodbye. Just to hear a whisper in his ear “nevermore.” Did he hear it or think it? Is it the path he truly wanted to go on? As the Raven stared at the young man, the addict, walking away from the only playground he knew, it wondered could you let it go without remorse? Without mourning, especially if he wasn’t in control of the action to walk away in the first place?

The desire will come back if the filters of dilution still contain the concentrated poison for which the first consumption began. Breaking down the playground piece by piece and seeing what was passed along from the father, from the mother, from the other cells, we then start to see matter in a different light. We see substance in a different degree. We see transformation in the present time. All that is- no matter.  What is a breakdown? A breakdown to be.

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