A son sits quietly and he thinks about what to write. He thinks about his dead mother and his living father. He thinks about Souls and he thinks about the Crowd of me, me, me. He thinks of two other deceased mothers, a different father, a daughter, a granddaughter, and many other entities; a tiny few, who regrettably suffer unto themselves, and most, who inflict and instill needless suffering, torment, and neurotic madness, upon every creature that ever comes within the realm of their reach. The son can’t ignore this fact…he can’t. He can’t return or exchange his awareness for ignorance or stupor or delusion; he can’t shut it off. It doesn’t work that way, and maybe, that is the short version of the whole damn crux. Eyes, stapled wide open, he is forced to watch this wretched “most” perpetuate hell throughout existence, and as if that were not enough, in and of itself, to torture him relentlessly, he is further forced, to watch them deconstruct all that life is suppose to be about, while they parade whatever false and transient banner they conveniently choose to raise for the moment: love, blood, salvation, revolution, or rescue.
The son laughs to himself; they wonder why I write… most of them really do wonder why I write. Mom would have probably wondered the same. He hears her voice in one of those memorable quotes of hers that will never fade from his mind, “Why do you ask such silly questions, Jeff… you are always asking such silly, silly questions…?” And in the ghost of a conversation, he looks at his mother without distraction and he says “Why don’t you, mom? Why don’t you ask questions…the real ones…the important questions…the only ones that really matter…why do you avoid them like the plague…why do you run from them…why does it terrify you almost more than it intrigues you, when I open my mouth? Why do I ask such questions………? Because…I want the answers…I want to understand…I want the truth, as much as it exists. I have watched you and father…watched your relationship…watched you pretend it is normal and healthy and loving. I watched you start a fight with him almost everyday of my childhood. I remember trying to cover my ears with pillows at night, stuffing them tightly around my head as I lay in bed…trying to shut out your yelling and screaming…shut it out, just so I could sleep. I remember giving up on both of you and just praying that y’all would get a divorce to end the madness and the insanity…not for yourselves…not for your salvation…but just for me…for my peace…so I could escape your hell…your screaming…your madness. I remember dad making mistakes and being the man he was born to be and the man he will always be, and I remember you choosing to marry him…did you get that, mom? You chose to marry him…HIM. You didn’t choose to marry him for who he might be or choose to marry him because he would learn and grow and mature…you married HIM, knowing he would always fail to satisfy you…always be weaker than you…always be submissive to you…and never leave you. You chose him exactly because he would take your shit…all of it, over and over…shit bombardment after shit bombardment…so you could rail like a scared, fearful brat and have an easier target than the whole damn world to throw your temper tantrum about your existence at. No equal man would take your shit and you knew that…and I am guessing that your fear was probably beyond terrifying that you might get rejected by someone of undeniable worth… so, you chose for lesser…you chose lesser, so you could act dominant and be neurotic as fuck without question…without a chance that your mate would just sit there or stand there and smile while you kick and scream and hold your breath in the middle of the floor like a spoiled dysfunctional bitch, until you finally passed out or suffocated yourself. You made sure to choose a man who would not walk away from your insanity…because you didn’t want to be alone…you wanted company in your misery…in your suffering from existence…and if he wasn’t smart enough to suffer on his own, by fucking damn hellfire and the scorn of a woman’s wrath, you would educate him on the subject…you would make him suffer as much as you did…that stupid dumb-ass simpleton was just too happy for his own good, and you would baptize him in your own truth, your own version of reality and he would pay for his blissful simplemindedness by being forced to see and feel and know your madness and pain. And no one forced your hand in your choice…I get it, I understand…I know you were probably steered that way by all the stupid mother-fuckers around you at the time and I understand all of the swirling contagious confusion from the inescapable, Crowds of me, me, me, but still, ultimately, you…you…you chose him. It wasn’t his fault. Even if he finally learned to love suffering with you and enjoy your torture, it wasn’t his fault…it was yours. Mom, you never asked the questions and never wanted to, because you never wanted to know the answers. You chose him. You chose your prison. You chose your torment. You chose your pain. You chose to waist your existence. You chose an excuse for your fear. You just wanted to isolate yourself in your own make-believe world and remain there as a queen of madness. But, the psyche takes its toll when you rip it like that…when you take such a grace, and pollute it with poison and disease…..at best, it will only let you hold your breath for a short little while, before calling in its due. And you know that now…or at least your ghost does, mom.”
To be continued…