by Jeremy Danté

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chapter five. in certain spaces, freedom can feel like being lost. open spaces of light when eyes are shut can seem like spaces of darkness. fucked up because im so used to functioning within entrapment. shackles held tight to my feet and wrists that i sometimes wake up with a longing feeling of being connected, because thats the only connection that is familiar. disconnected looking more like reconnecting; while discovering a sense of self that only leads to trap doors, leading me further into an isolation and dissection of me.

who am i? not a lost one, but still i keep looking for shit. continually searching, because it’s not enough. i’m not enough, i’m too much. cross examination of who i know myself to be, with who i one day hope to be. who i am today, being a reflection of years past, which unlock the doors with keys into my future. it’s all tied up. the layers are stacked within one another. everyone seems to want a piece, but no one handles with care. yet i’m the one who has an air about him. as if i’m expected to remain confined to your idea of me, and be secluded to your idea of humility? searching within a circumstance i traveled to; while you were searching for a reason to mark my exit. and speaking of exits, i had to make way for a greater freedom for him, running into the rails of my own fear of losing him forever. and while that forever seems in progress, and speaking of finding; i know what i found, and I’m hoping in many ways that all this shit is profound; enough to for me to get you back, because without you, i’ve fallen off track.

and it was me sitting back, bitching that you couldn’t love yourself because you didn’t love me. when i was the one leading, and perhaps most blindly. covering myself with you, and worrying about you, and worrying about us, now looking back i ain’t even have to make such a fuss. should’ve just let it breath, leave you be; and let you come to me. controlled while out of control, gripping on shit while i ain’t even have a grip on myself. paycheck to paycheck, fucking with the structure, organizing the unorganized; but setting myself up in the process. my sister came back around, not like i ever doubted that; but now the other one won’t even respond when it’s inspired by life and death moments. so, why try? am i trapped with the thought, or stuck mourning the loss of a certain freedom? a freedom that really wasn’t free at all? i remember shaking with tears in my eyes as i got on that flight, leaving the sunshine in the west, a job where i was vested and moving into the abyss, risking it all for love. but where did that take me? have i now become more lost?

finding the faith, understanding patience and trust; most of all of self, but through you, because nothing else greater exists over you. and while i play my own consciousness, grappling with pseudo-patience, like i’m in control because i can’t learn to let go. cause what the fuck is freedom when i can’t afford to go out to dinner, or buy new shit to wear? head down to a skin fade to escape the new york summer humidity; but was i only escaping that in which was within me? always looking to change, willing to grow- but still, cannot fucking let go. aware, and still numbed; because the control i surrender is the control that you’ve earned. fucking around with fire- always getting burned. except i’m used to it; so the scars i wear as badges of honor, while i move from level to level, unscathed and unmarked. my emotional processing is the key to my survival, and yet every step of the way there are questions. questions that become answered when i speak or write. so, all in all; what is learned here is that there is no freedom in silence. freedom is in my voice.