Letters left on un-read
29…
“From the dimming sustain, a melancholy triumph, the every breath of the day
Confiscated to the most sullen eyes, as the sullen are most expected to praise”
IN 2020, I awoke to the stark difference of the very feeling of who you are. Tubes ran from the arms and to the legs that used to stand strong. Numbness and paralysis designed the stillness I’d crashed my life upon. Upon the stillness I sat in the hospital trying to find reason to thoughts and the actions that brought me to where I was.
It was not bad chance that I was stricken by, no the concoction was liquor, nitrous and stimulants. When flames grew dim they were re lit by the substance that lie closest to my ear. Thinking I was the master of my will, but discourse made it damming appeal with every powder filling the nostrils my cartilage began to fear the rolling of dollars and 2″ straw my pocket held dear. All the faces that saw the tirade are the same that I can’t find anywhere near.
When self medicating found its breakdown in my composition. Addiction no longer a foreign disease but a distinguishable watermark whose position was never withdrawn. Conveyed on my own personal waste, realizing you get to choose who you are with the scars that time reveals are the signature art. Now I am facing the accountability for actions where my integrity was lacking. With compassion I am curating the pages that fills, Letters Left on Un-Read. Inspired by silence the comes when you question the abuse your childhood was defined in. Sexual, mental and physical violation are the playground that host the groomed scenario I am blessed to recognize before I entirely lost my mind.
This is me, this is Garrett, into the world I confide. To express the chains I’ve been anchored to. The labored breath accepted as the side effect of the furthering distance from the day I was made.
Putting me through revision, The terminal prompted by self religion, How the shine cremates the plate I try and rise above, To circle the circumstances from above, in formation I flock to find vision of the version I've become Dreamt on delusion, unheard voices tell the tales of confiscated pleasures, In the good from the evil that I take When I am reminded that false isn't necessarily what's fake, Does the surfacing show the same, does palpable rhythm find a chorus to which it deserves no shame, Of the dew point that carries the calls that found no harbor, Etching existence in the fumes that churn from the curdled stench of long overdue, Burnt synapse to emotion, indifference between the high and low of this roller-coast, Wading in the pond of long left years, Still the taste, the poignant signature, Permeates through the fermented body that is never waste, When caution shapes itself along the jagged edges of the window image I can't escape, Is this dust on the window pane another smeared mark meant to be cleansed away, Tell me what does personal success convey when built off the majority percentage of those who don't have, Tell my mind what haunts it is something far too easy to comprehend, Even broke stories have conclusions, even if not ever read
Convicted on imposition, Twisted like the revelation wrapped so perfectly ready for sale, Why not me, I will be the soonest to experience so I can tell, Can you taste the protein of me, or do I just quench a thirst that only demons sell At five was I aged right, At nine did it feel like your sickness I was the antidote you'd never find on the shelf At thirteen did it get scary that I would tell Divorcing the facts, it took me hating you for you to dispel Did the candles light, did the streamers sail the moment you felt my scars open This imprint on me, I may have no tattoos but these scars inked the parameters of my hell Bending the metal of ironclad lies is something I couldn't do, Bending myself to exit the maladaptive state, I found through every exit I improve
IN humility we resurrects the presence that trauma guised and scarred
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“Letters Left on
Un-Read”
Inspired by virtual and symbolic stack of unread attempts to message and confront the assailants my childhood survived.
I always thought that even being accused of child endangerment, let alone being accused of child molestation was taken serious. But it is not.
In fact both the one who enacted the pedophilia and those who knew but never acted on it shun the idea completely especially if the survivor is well put together. “Something like that could/did never happen to him”.
I’ve heard and felt that so much I have wished it was the truth. Unfortunately the violation of child by the closest and trusted in individuals in his/her life does not brush away like a fad or phase.
Instead it is a constant. In this constant we find connection and we find healing through one another and giving voice to what it looks like living in recovery. Of both the initial trauma and all the maladaptive self-medicating techniques that the years de-volve into Russian Roulette. Pulling the trigger, here I am again, the hammer striking a empty chamber, the comfort in this is the sole thing I resent.
My Story… Shared
Integrity
We know what is right for us.
Accountability
For the mistakes for the victories all the layers make our bed.
Compassion
School of Thought
G & G Ascencion follows the credo of Evolutione Mentis, as a father I recognize it is my responsibility to strive and evolve the mind to more. The framework was built on the ambiguously concrete concepts of Integrity, Accountability and Compassion. The general idea is concrete, the ambiguity arrives in the individual experience and perception of each one. What is Integrity to you? Accountability, does it involve just actions that were partaking in or does the observing accompanied by the action of nothing hold something to be accountable to? Compassion, while the world needs our stewardship, do we treat ourselves well after the failed relationship, after the relapse, after putting forth reactive action that showed no streak of our true intention, is there compassion in our hearts for our mistakes?
“This is the staging of my journey to a MBA as a published writer.
I know that will happen through community and understanding self-purpose. That feeling lost is part of the path.
My religion is to self-improve.”
Garrett Fernandez
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