my mind's playinn tricks on me

I sit alone in my four-cornered room
staring at candles.
Oh that shit is on? Heh.
—Scarface

My four-cornered room resides in my mind and I’m trapped in it too many times. Yesterday taught me to laugh at the absurd, at the way in which I believe with all my heart—until I don’t. I be on some Now I see me; Now I don’t. I am visible until I am ghost. And when I am gone, something else comes into the frame and that’s the problem. I need an exorcism every other week.

I haven’t been eating, much. Juice cleanse with weed and wine and coffee. So not quite a cleanse but more of a fast, a way to shrink my waistline back down to twenty-five inch. But more than that, it’s a way to clear my head. Not that the crazy stops, it just isn’t taken as gospel right quick.

Of course, there’s me and my crazy and then there’s everyone else, and that’s where it gets weird, ya dig. I see myself in others, the good and the bad and the ugly. And those who I am most attracted are those who give me something I’ve never known in any shape or form and through this knowledge I learn to transform my world.

Lately, I been triggered like an AK-47 because he won’t enable me. He just backs all the way up and let me fall over and over again. And damn it—I love this. And I hate it. I love the fact that he lets me be as I am and I have to figure it out for myself. He ain’t saying ish. That ain’t him. I mean, he got a mouth and a brain, but he reserves himself so that when he speaks, I listen. I listen. I never listen to anyone, least of all men. Listening is a kind of submission I am only beginning to understand.

And when he asks how I am and I tell him things are interesting, he asks Interesting how, and I think, but that one day this would no longer be happening. Yea that and, something else. Something that’s so surreal I think the gods must be laughing. But what of it? It’s like looking at myself, at who I neva eva want to be again. And for that, there is gratitude and there is something else. There is an understanding that allows me to forgive me my trespass.

But here’s the fuhckt up thang. I mistake signs and go the wrong way. And when I do this, my finger starts to itch on that AK, and he’s already said enough that I know better than to spray. Whether I am better or not, well that’s on me. I appreciate the challenge of silence. He doesn’t have to Do in order for me to understand things I never knew were possible. He can simply Be and his existence is enough for me.

But that I could remember this? Fuck yea. I write and still I forget. Trust is a muthafucka. Especially when I am the one with the problem.