Disease 1

Born with a disease, yet I wrestle which disease drives the other disease.
Growing up, my soul, wired after years of trying to figure out what was wrong with me, never knew what ailed its aching spirit. I only knew that I was in pain – sadness at the root of my being. Childhood years spent preoccupied with my distorted mirror image, always reflected on “why do I do what I do? Why is the moment so awkward? Why fat? Why no follow through? Why am I so afraid? Why do I always dream about being somebody else? Seven year olds should not be asking these questions. I did.

For years I believed that I was born bad – a seed that never developed right. A young person stammering their way into things, and saw the world from a different tree top. When I tried to follow, initiate some project, it always seemed to fail to my expectations. With each stilted end, the I “damaged” feelings emerged. Drugs seemed to make it all right.

So I spent my days, years, lifetime, searching for rightness. Death eventually knocked at my door, while I desperately chased normalcy. It was never found. A day finally came where the end was in clear sight. The winds, the sun, the earth and the seas exposed my heart ready and willing to be taken into their care. My parents called and bought me a plane ticket. With the temptation of money, I got on the plane from San Fransisco to New York. There in lies the end of a world, and the beginning of a new one.


Can we ever really know the truth about a given thing. As we seek to understand the true cause or explanation of the event, instance or happening, our perceptions are shaped, reshaped, and then finally justified by so many factors. Historians profess that the fact, examined like a social science provides a window into some Rankean notion of objectivity, however they wrestle whether true objectivity can ever be found. There is your truth, my truth and then the truth in-between.

Bomber Photo Release

Sifting through the news threads trying to glimpse the photograph of the alleged bombers created a fueled anxiety that bordered on excitement. Before meeting Dale, I sat in my car turning page after page on a dying IPhone trying to get a closer glimpse of their faces. If I was able to see how they looked, perhaps their gaze would tell the story of why this crime had to be committed. These young men looked all too normal – their focused strides eerily everyday. It worried me to consider the average mind out there plotting revenge – plotting some message of violent overthrow. Were these social anarchists? Disguised foreign terrorists? Militia men? Or perhaps MIT students gone awry!
More is sure to be revealed.