Whether I'll hear someone "calling me home" when I go is still undecided. Whether my time and date of death is my "time to go home," I don't know. I'll figure all that out later. Right now, call it fate, call it destiny, call it His plan; it's basically the same thing. Who will ever know why shit happens the way it does?
I'm still not sure if the program at my funeral will say "Homegoing Celebration," like my great-grandfather's did. Why not call it what we know it is? All we know is that I'll be six feet under one day. For all anyone'll ever now, that's my last destination. Mind, body, and spirit might just come to an abrupt, expected, or long-awaited end right then and there.
Most people, I'm afraid, are scared to stick to what's evident and only that. So, they embelish the truth. I don't blame 'em. Who wouldn't like to think eternal life awaits us all after death? But call it home, call it heaven, call it paradise, or simply six feet under. No one will ever have the facts to prove anything about afterlife happenings. So, fuck it.
Maybe one day I'll decide to come back to the path that was beaten for me. Maybe I'll become too afraid of the naked truth to recognize it. Just maybe I'll bank on having a reunion with all of my lost buddies in the land of no sorrow and no pain. But nobody's guaranteeing that reunion; my philosophy is applicable. Fuck it. That's exactly why I don't think twice about earning green just to spend green just to smoke green. I see nothing wrong with living every day like it's my last. That's why whenever Mary Jane calls my name and I have the means to answer her call, I do just that. She's my only love in this world. She makes me feel good.
Now, even when she doesn't call my name, I call hers. Communication is a two-way street, after all. Take right now, for instance. I'm running low, so I'm calling her name. The last joint of the stash is an ugly reminder of the trip across town that has to be made. But I always roll one up before I make the trip; it makes me forget about how long it is. The trip is even uglier when it's dark outside. So, now, since the sun is up, I'll go and come back quickly.
I've never been one to watch weather channels to find out what the weather is gonna be like. That's why I wasn't surprised when the drizzle started as soon as I stepped through the emergency exit. The rain wasn't enough to chase Ronald away from the back of Mo' Liquor, though. He was standing there, looking intently at something in the direction of the playground, looking like a nutty bum in the rain.
My lighter is never in the first pocket I check. I always end up fishing for it. It doesn't help that I wear cargo pants every day, either. It works out thought, because as soon as I find my lighter, Ronald starts to begging for it. "You got a light?" It was sort of a rhetorical question. He saw the green lighter right in my hand. I looked up to hand it to him and he didn't even attempt to look my way. What was he looking at? My first guess is that he suffers from pedophilia, but there are no kids to stare at. No kids are on the playground. It's raining hard by now. Yet, he stands there, inanimately, unaffected by the rain.
I looked towards the playground to figure it all out. Nothing. Had he gone mad? Puffing his cigarette, he kept his gaze still. "It'll still happen without her telling us it will," he said as he handed the lighter back to me. What will happen? What does that even mean? I dared not ask. He looked as if he could snap at any moment. He heard my thoughts. "The future," he answered. I looked again towards the playground. She was laying underneath the slide, motionless, protected from the rain. She looked ironically peaceful. She looked as if she had seen it coming and was prepared for it, just not the weather.
I made fire and lit the joint. "She's in a better place," Ronald said. "Rest assured."
My lighter is never in the first pocket I check. I always end up fishing for it. It doesn't help that I wear cargo pants every day, either. It works out thought, because as soon as I find my lighter, Ronald starts to begging for it. "You got a light?" It was sort of a rhetorical question. He saw the green lighter right in my hand. I looked up to hand it to him and he didn't even attempt to look my way. What was he looking at? My first guess is that he suffers from pedophilia, but there are no kids to stare at. No kids are on the playground. It's raining hard by now. Yet, he stands there, inanimately, unaffected by the rain.
I looked towards the playground to figure it all out. Nothing. Had he gone mad? Puffing his cigarette, he kept his gaze still. "It'll still happen without her telling us it will," he said as he handed the lighter back to me. What will happen? What does that even mean? I dared not ask. He looked as if he could snap at any moment. He heard my thoughts. "The future," he answered. I looked again towards the playground. She was laying underneath the slide, motionless, protected from the rain. She looked ironically peaceful. She looked as if she had seen it coming and was prepared for it, just not the weather.
I made fire and lit the joint. "She's in a better place," Ronald said. "Rest assured."
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