Off The Ledge

I remember this one time I was sitting up at my rooftop with my legs hanging off the ledge and a joint in my mouth. It really was peaceful, that trip. The air was breezy and cool and the high complimented it well. But it was at that moment when my mind fell into deep contemplation. What if I just jumped off the ledge? I had nothing to lose. I was a 17 year old kid, a disappointment to my family for liking to enjoy a good trip and not giving a fuck about what my parents said to me. It seems childish to me now this incident but there was a time when I hated myself so much that I actually wanted to just let it all go. To become free from all my bonds and just pass into nothingness. It all seems childish to me now but there was a time I thought suicide would save my life rather than breaking it. It was after my grandfather had passed, after I’d lost an immediate family member that I realized that my problems weren’t problems at all. That my life was pretty precious to not just me but to all my family. Suicide seemed like an angel back then. But life’s taught me better. And I can finally get off that ledge without ever wanting to think about flinging myself off it. I’ve found my will to live.

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I Am

I’m a 100 metres running, healthy eating, puzzle solving, cartoon watching, cereal eating, bedwetting, probable Olympian. I am 5 years old.
I’m a food hogging, note learning, couch hugging, human despising, hard working, teachers’-ass-licking book worm. I am 12 years old.

I’m a bong ripping, pot smoking, cigarette puffing, Monk guzzling, blunt blazing, Marshall listening, insensitive, selfish, asshole. I am 17 years old.

I’m a LSD popping, Xanax ingesting, coke snorting, methadone blowing, Hennessey sipping, paradise searching junkie. I am 25 years old.

I’m a needle injecting, ecstasy licking, valium crushing, ambien mixing, percocet ingesting, lean drinking corpse. I was 30.

m.A.A.d city

Jeffrey never was the kinda guy who’d throw up gang signs and rep colors. He was the shy kid on the block, never spoke much, never interacted beyond a certain level and sure as hell didn’t resort to violence when situations seemed to get out of hand. He’d always had a way with words.

Jeffrey never sought vengeance on anybody for any reason at all. He was the peaceful kind, the one who believed in compromise and dialogue as opposed to brute force.

Jeffrey loved his parents and would ride or die for them, under any circumstances. He’d been groomed in a manner that was only fitting for any child to receive and had always made his parents proud, be it academics, extracurriculars and so on and so forth.

Jeffrey was never the kinda guy who’d go out a lot and do things he knew he shouldn’t be doing.

But Jeffrey never knew that the death of his parents might change all his values in an instant.

Jeffrey never knew that throwing up gang signs and repping colors was the only way to keep your family truly safe, in this place they called home.

Jeffrey never knew that sobriety was a long lost concept. Inebriation was the new reality of the neighborhood he’d grown up in.

Jeffrey never knew that violence would provide his conscience a serenity that he’d never experienced before.

Jeffrey never knew that one day, eventually everyone falls prey to the m.A.A.d city. Just like he had.

The Man In The Mirror

Ever since he was a little boy, he’d been observing the man in the mirror who’d mirror all his movements. He was fascinated by it in the stage of infancy, attracted to it in adolescence and discussed philosophy with him in the adult stage of his life.

He still remembers the first time he stood in front of the man in the mirror before his first football game. He’d preached words of courage and motivation, the man; pumped up the little kid with determination. When he scored 98.2% in his final year, the man in the mirror toasted to him and cried tears of joy with him.

When he finally found the woman he wanted to marry, the man in the mirror flipped out with joy. When he landed his first paycheck, the man in the mirror rejoiced as if it were him who got the paycheck. The man in the mirror witnessed the boy’s first kiss and never had he been more proud of his steps.

The man in the mirror didn’t come with holy intentions.

When the boy was having a hard time, the man in the mirror inspired him to indulge in intoxication. When he was fighting with his girlfriend, the voice of the man in the mirror screamed in his brains, asking him to beat the shit out of her. When he beat her up in front of the man in the mirror, he cheered for the boy. When he first killed a man in front of the man in the mirror, he felt as if he’d made his father proud. The night when he slashed his own wrists at the request of the man in the mirror, was the night when the man in the mirror won. He’d played all the right cards. He’d made the perfect demon out of a kid who was so good, he could serve as an agent of peace. He’d corrupted something so pure, so young that even Lucifer would be afraid of him. He’d succeeded at spreading death and terror in this world.

And the boy? He loved the man in the mirror. He owed so much to him. He’d been there throughout his life. As a little boy, the man in the mirror would just mirror his movements. As he grew older, the man in the mirror started speaking to him. They clicked real soon and the lonely, scrawny kid now had a friend who looked exactly like him. He’d tell the man in the mirror everything. He’d lay his soul bare and ask for guidance and cousel from the man in  the mirror. He’d always been an obedient boy. The man in the mirror showed him the path to salvation. He did his very best to attain salvation. He obeyed every order the was conveyed to him by the man in the mirror. He’d achieved what every human being only dreamt of achieving. Eternal salvation. He closed his eyes and let his soul get let rip into shreds as this song played in the background. He was finally found peace.

“Satanic verses,

It’s the tales of the evil,

We’ll never have for a victim.”

The Tortured Artist.

Out of all the mentality distorted and beautifully twisted minds that exist in this planet we so affectionately call the Earth, there lived a speck in this pool of immensely talented yet insanely distorted human beings, so to speak.
This speck didn’t have a name. This speck had an interesting past, though. You see, people always have this premonition that an artist’s past is so dark, it would put Edgar Allan Poe to shame. Their state of mind so fragile, it might shatter at the slightest hint of negative criticism. Their thought processes so distorted, a normal man would shriek out of sheer and utter disbelief. But these premonitions were true and more for this particular person.
She’d lost her parents at an early age, to something the papers called “an unfortunate car accident.” She grew up amongst strangers, physical and mental abuse being the only true constants throughout her childhood, the taste of tears more familiar to her than that of water.
When she went to school, her teachers labeled her as that awkward kid who’s never found without her sketch pad. People made fun of her physical appearance, not knowing that she had to fend for herself in her foster house, not knowing that the only way she ever got food was if she stole from the refrigerator, not knowing that the scars that she tried to hide were either from the several beatings she received from her foster parents or from the several other attempts she made at taking her own life.
When she first fell in love, she hadn’t found a feeling more elating and horrific at the same time. The guy was some senior whose name she doesn’t recall now, but what she will always remember is his voice. That soft voice which would whisper words of affection in her ears, the very same voice which spit words of malice at her after he’d grown bored of her. She remembered how lovely his smile was, the very same, crooked smile he had stuck on his face when he hit her for not obeying him. She couldn’t live with him. But she couldn’t possibly exist without him. And when he left, that was the moment she really grew up. She grew to hate the feeling of being in love.
So she escaped to her reality, spending hours mindlessly doodling on her sketchpad. This was a place where no one could intrude. This was her solitude. Her world, where she was the master of what she created and not the malicious Fates which seemed to like playing around with hers. She would showcase her art, post pictures on Instagram, garnering critical appraisal from her peers.
But all the appraisal could never overshadow the horrors of what she had faced. Her suicidal tendencies made her drown in Hennesey and fly off Cali, getting lifted more than she was aware of her surroundings. Being sober made her feel nauseous. Intoxication became her newfound love, it became her reality. And in this alternate reality, the old one was forgotten. Her art had been slaughtered, butchered by the love of poison in her liver. The people she could call friends had left her for reasons her buzzing brain couldn’t fathom. In her loneliness, her kitchen knife became her best friend. And one fateful night, it wrapped itself lovingly around her wrists and dug deep, never to let go- it became a part of her. And as she drowned out from the alcohol so did her screams to the loud music that was blaring from the speakers on the nearby streets. She’d finally lost consciousness once and for all, and all that she could remember were the first couple of lines of that very same song, playing on rewind in her twisted brain.

“Don’t you open up that window,
Don’t you let out that antitode…”

Finally finding peace.

The man was frustrated. This world was driving him insane. Seeing no way out, he decided to pay a visit to his friend. The one he would always go to, to share his thoughts and emotions with. To share his joys and sorrows with. He spoke to this friend and hoped that he would understand his problems one last time, as he always had. With a heavy and depressed sigh, he told him his problems in as brief a manner as possible. “Man, I can’t think anymore. It feels like my entire body is turning into lead. I have done nothing but work and solve other people’s problems for the past 5 months. I’m running on empty. I need to get away.” He was drained. Spiritually, emotionally, physically and mentally. The man was so taxed that nothing seemed bright anymore. Everything was monochromatic now. He couldn’t see things the way they were supposed to be. Everything was black and white to his eyes now. He couldn’t ‘see’ anymore. He needed out. He needed an escape, a plight from this world of mortal tortures and where everything was so corrupt it didn’t even make him flinch anymore. His perceptions had changed. He’d experienced everything that he could imagine. Drama, honesty, agony, laughter, bitterness, love, hate and the constant pain of being a disappointment in every aspect of life. His friend, being the last thing that the man had, finally caved in. He saw what this world had done to his friend. He couldn’t imagine anyone going through what he had. He gave it to him. For the sake of his betterment and relaxation. So that he could feel alive again. So that he could see the colors of the world gushing right back into it. He passed him the pouch. The man took the pouch and took out one piece. He placed it under his tongue and waited. He waited till his body was numb and his legs regained sensation. He saw colors. For the first time in 5 months, he saw colors. His mind was relaxed and happy now, his sorrows dissolving into happiness. He felt that bliss he was searching for. Finally, after such a long time, he was flying. He was flying towards the moon, which was painted in the colors of the rainbow. With a smile on his face and tears of joy in his eyes, he took the knife and stabbed his gut, watching his heart bleed and his brain connect to the flow of the universe one last time. He finally had the peace he was looking for. He had reached the moon. He was done with this planet. He had reached his destiny and he never planned on going back. He let out a final sigh and drifted off into a deep sleep which he never wished to wake up from. He was finally free. He had finally found peace.