Sunday, May 31, 2015

The Prodigal Diaries: Diary Entry Eleven

Diary Entry Eleven:

Prodigals burn bridges.

“But when….”
Luke 15:17

I stand on the mountain overlooking the forgotten valley that is smoldering in smoke. I am gazing at the bridge I just burned. I stand hypnotized as it burns, smokes and discards into the river below. The people who have hurt me are left behind and with the burning of the bridge they can never reach me. The burning of the bridge is the final nail in the coffin. I feel vindicated as I delete their name from my contact list. The relationship is now dead to me and I am ready to run. I attempt to leave my pain behind as I venture into my brave new world.

Deep inside I know the swine of this new world will ceremoniously stab me in the back. How many times will I bleed self-pity and pain? With each new pain in my back I feel my past pains hemorrhage as it depletes my life force. When the old wounds open the haunting of my past begins to emerge. I fester in my self-pity while tears water the thorn bushes of bitterness that chokes my soul. The agony of my past spreads like a cancer while it vividly replays the remorse of past disappointments and failures. 

My Prodigal predispositions kick into overdrive.

I gather all I have and the process of running begins. I now find it quite sad. Why? Because running is all I have, it’s all I grasp, it’s all I own, and it’s the only thing I am good at. It was fun, adventurous and edgy in the beginning, but now I run out of necessity. It is how I attempt to survive the deep seeds of personal pain.
I now run, because I am a runner. A runner, running out of places to run.

I am isolated and fearful.

I am alone and lost.

I am blind and devoured by darkness.

My feet make haste and my sin of haste has led me to burn another bridge.

So I stand alone on this mountain top as the flames taste the bridge below. I take a deep toke off of a blunt in a feeble attempt to relax my anxious mind. I exhale seeing the faces of those I hate profiled in the smoke. My hanks are shaking. My mind is racing. The memories of my past burned bridges begin to past through my mind tormenting my future. My hate justifies my actions as I shed my last tear of bitterness. My heart no longer screams of vengeance, but is replaced by a void. This void is a keen sense of desolation. It is a total feeling of isolation. I have overtime worked myself into a corner. I feel trapped in this plane of desolation. 

I have no one in my life.

I have no place to call home.

I have no roots, I’m a rolling stone.

What scares me this time is I don’t know where I am going to run next. Because everywhere I run, there I am. I can’t get away from me.

All I know is a sick feeling is overtaking my stomach as I walk this lonely road. The truth is I don’t know what do. My street savvy macho image I project to others is a lie. Deep inside I am a scared little boy trying to navigate the school playground. You become who you are when no one is around and this lonely road is revealing the real me. I am scared, lonely and afraid. 

Where am I going?

All I know is what I smell, and it is that smell that is making me sick. As I walk to the next town I smell that all too familiar smell.

I smell the pig pen.

I am sickened by the stench of my destiny.


A Prodigal gets sick.

Look in the mirror Prodigal:

What you seek is within you.

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