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Initiation of a Street Author

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
The Initiation of a Street Author.

Submitted: December 19, 2018

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Submitted: December 19, 2018

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Initiation of a Street Author

Many writers seek locations that inspire them to create a distinguished and meaningful Book. Their eyes gaze upon green meadows, beautiful blue skies, crystal clear ocean water, and views that would make great artistic paintings. Traveling to these amazing locations may require a journey to the other side of the planet, or even isolating themselves from civilization. The unexplainable, gorgeous surroundings of these places bring the best literature out of these authors. Wonderful ideas that are eventually translated into words are created in these heaven-on-earth scenes. The words I put together are usually derived by different means than those which I have described above. 

In a state of self-produced insomnia, I felt my mind reject any type of control I attempted to implement on it. I lay on a firm mattress facing a moldy ceiling and staring out of a window the size of a door. I had been awake for about a week, at this point, and could not distinguish reality from my self-made psychosis. This almost identical scenario has taken place countless amounts of times in my life. Engaged in the company of a female or females, a drink of alcohol is introduced to my body. Simultaneously, or immediately after that drink, I invite shinny white cocaine into my system. Between my starting point and the end of the first twenty-four hours, I lose track of time. Animalistic fornication with these females pushes the boundaries of sex to its ultimate threshold. 

Somewhere between forty-eight and seventy-two hours has passed and the foreign substance that fuels my body and primal mindset can no longer provide the power to keep me at a sprint. My body begins to fall back into its human state and no matter how massive the quantity of powder I put through my nasal cavity, it fails to keep me at the state in which I yearn to be. Exhaustion begins to plague my person, but my mind refuses the resignation of the situation. Standing nude, in a run-down motel, with a female still caressing her reproduction area, I reach further into my stash box grabbing hold of sharp, transparent, crystals. I promised my wife, my God, and myself that I would never again inhale the synthetic material that produces such cumulous clouds. Holding the glass object containing the gleaming crystals, I start second guessing my decision of pouring the substance into the glass globe. I hear the moans and wants of my female company, lying seductively on the bed, and temptation victors over me. 

After expelling what little human thoughts I had left lingering in my brain, I place the glass nozzle to my lips and the twirling of the apparatus commences. The hell-like flame the torch produces melts away the frozen, solid look of the meth. Now Liquified, it converts into a thick white smoke as I inhale it deep into my lungs. Exhaling the smoke that has traveled deep into the core of my being, my mind and body now contains the energy of the sun. I stand in stillness, relishing the hypnotized stage, the relinquishing of control, and the realm that overtakes my soul. The sounds of pleasure produced from the out-of-body sexual experience only elevates the power of this new realm. 

Ninety-six hours is the approximant time that I am completely ruled by the unseen and unheard. My physical form has completely been devoured by the evil that my past, present, and future have created. I now find myself physically alone because I scared away my company with my insane words, and murderous behavior. One hundred and twenty hours mandates me to hold my firearm with a bullet chambered, waiting for my enemies and their conspirators to invade my room. I am alone, yet I feel completely surrounded by those I do not see or hear, but they cause me much paranoid fear. One hundred and forty-four hours is when my body, mind and soul have completely given up. The gun that once protected me, is now the biggest danger I face. One tender caress of this stainless-steal piece can once and for all set me free. 

The hideous ceiling, that I stare at from the bed, entices me to turn my head toward the window with a torn screen. I look at the alley infested with graffiti from different neighborhood gangs who reside in my county. A homeless man digs through the trash collecting all the aluminum items and places them into his stolen shopping cart. I ask myself, does my hopelessness outweigh the hopelessness of that homeless man? How can he still continue on with life in his particular predicament? Or better yet, how can I want to end my life because of my particular predicament? My mind starts to drift to a man who once was a great friend and roll model of mine, who dealt with adversity of the coldest nature. He adapted every which way needed to survive the predicaments his life presented. Whether it was the suicidal, psychotic, or survival portion of my brain, I told myself I will tell his story. In order to do so, I must live.

Temoc Sol

http://www.temocsol.com

http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQGgH8Dmwig5Hh4PwSO8JHA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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