Just passed the 24 hour mark of quitting smoking. Definately a drug. Definately putting me in a reality that is certainly not real. And now, as the fog leaves me and I faithfully chant Daimoku and Gongyo, life begins to show me that I have been running away, by contrasting my relationships - the really hard ones and the really not hard ones. The irony of thinking they were reversed. That I belonged with sheltered middle class white people. I am having to get statistics for the books again, another project that I dont give myself enough credit for. Seeing again those that I stood between armed police and gang gun fire before, ready to sacrifice my life without hesitation or thought. It bound me to the Mexicano and Cambodian immigrants. They are my family now. And yearn for me to come home to them, as though my decade in their lives was not just a chapter of my life. I am now bound to them just as I am bound to my blood. Perhaps when the nicotine no longer has me in its grasp I will see things from a third point of view. Or stand up for myself and go back to Airport District, Modesto Ca Where farmworkers to gangsters tell me I belong. With my own people. People that dont care if I have a few faults. They know I got it where it counts. Its important that we know we count.
Posted on: Sat, 03 Jan 2015 16:06:19 +0000