The
recovery was like eating nails, thrust through palms, she died first; an
existential aria, mental opera, same artists, different messages. The cacophony
of existences—the last symbol before the grave—the ontology of the addiction.
Many vows on day three, by day six, one slip, becomes a tsunami. Much
enthusiasm. Salient pains. Succinct language—if a soul was a woman, he might
understand. The tales of recovery—they hurt the heart—sitting, writhing,
wrangled, wrestling the greater skies. The geography of the interior beasts—the
first polygraph, Have you remained what you have to give? Holding a tambourine—playing
drums—the sawdust of one’s essence; the freedom one claims—the water is
clearer. Many don’t fathom, nor would try, much a laisser-faire approach—to
what ruffles a man, what rough terrain for a man, what terrors for a woman. The
fertile reality—six months in recovery, a hostage of guilt, a tiger gnawing at
intestines, fragile but strong. So frozen, aside a warm lake, trying not to see
the second vision. Shapeless for miles—running to precepts, truly
uncomfortable. The mind has a zookeeper—a gatekeeper—wavering at the fences;
tailoring every response, tortured by past neglect, underestimated, much of the
blame has been digested. The mind is a masquerade, the soul is like asphalt,
the future is unpaved, dirt road, filled with sediments. Recovery is architecture,
agriculture, with many insects trying to ruin the crops. By virtue alone,
studies alone, solid against the waves.
