The Retrospective Writings

Chapter 2 The saying still rings true, I suppose, except now I’ve just given in; the “can’t” has come sooner than expected. My cynicism and disparagement in life comes with the territory. It started back when things were simpler, before the shakes and the seizures. The doctors told me that when they started, the alcohol was weakening my immune system. When paired with the chronic smoking, it all just gave me a greater chance to meet the reaper through the exact same hand my father had been dealt. Having never been that great at poker, I chanced my life with a bluff, and bet it all into the pot of gold that was part of the delusion that the disease reflected at the bottom of each bottle that I drank nightly and with each hourly cigarette. Eight years later, now at forty two years old, the doc handed me some papers with eyes that said, “I told you so.” I’d be dead within a year. My father, who had actually never smoked a day in his life, cursed God for the deceptiveness of the fort...

Life In Death “Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.” -Norman Cousins Chapter One             My brother and I sat in the near-bare hospital room and watched my father breathe his last living breaths. Months before this moment, the doctors had told us all that there was nothing to stop the cancer now, that there were no more lung snippets to take without suffocating the man I had grown to respect. Weeks later, he made this hospital bed permanent, shrinking into it like a deflating blow-up doll. Minutes prior to his final living breath, my father spoke his last words, which were simply, “It’s about time.” We sat there now, waiting for the flat line, and the answer to our long awaited question.             It finally came, and the high-pitched tone of the machine was deafening. We bowed our heads in respect ...

Some recent friends of mine have been posting memories from their past, so I decided to type out an old writing from my prison book. I’ve been slowly transferring all of them to electronic format, but I’m definitely not getting them out as quickly as I would like. Good friends of mine know about my memory issues, and writing helps me remember, so here’s one of the few sober memories that I’ve been able to retain. I know it’s a little long, and that this generation only has the attention span akin to gnats and only like to read shorthand, emojis, and memes, but bear with me. More to come. Icepick – Written 6/11/16             It was the summer of 2010, I believe, and a part of me wishes that I could call it a simpler time. I lived at a place called “Madhouse,” and for anonymity purposes, we’ll just keep it at that. Why is it called Madhouse? Because the place is a fucking madhouse—don’t ask stupid questions. In actuality,...