Wading Through the Miasma of The Ancient Smaze

The Ancient Smaze that had been the miasma of so many in Our realm, enshrouded everything in Its dominion. None in Its path was spared Its muddle. But I was restless, and had cultivated survival techniques to walk deliberately, through the dread and gloom of Its obscurity.

At times, I would stop and feel for the outstretched tentacles of nearby dead trees to reorient My physical and spiritual bearing. A cluster of timbered sherpa corpses helped Me along the path toward My next destination, and I never wavered in deliberateness of step.

A Grim Realization of a Psychological Confinement

Freshly released into the wildwoods of My new life, all I could do was sit meekly next to the sadistic cage that had deprived My vigor for all those months. I was like some domesticated tiger that had lost its pounce.

I looked in all directions from My docile position, and spotted her off into the distance, but she was no longer looking in My direction. Her penetrating gaze was engrossed on her new prey, and she was stalking quietly, patiently, with sinister intentions.

I inhaled the crisp air, feeling the buoyancy of fresh breath in My chest–not the stale kind that had cemented My lungs for so long. Although I was free to go, I still found Myself psychologically confined to My diagnoses.

As I sat there, cursing My will under the ambivalence of night, I could hear rustling noises in the bushes–it was feeding time for her, and someone was getting theirs. 

Remission!

As I type this, my thoughts are scrambled, and my typing fingers are confused and unsure what they're doing, but that's ok, because I'm alive, and for the foreseeable future, I will continue to be...hopefully.

So, I had a very important medical appointment today–my oncologist informed me that my cancer's now in remission, and that's great news, but as is most things in life, it's a little more complicated than that.

The thing is, I still have a residual mass (tumor) in my chest cavity, but it's considerably smaller than it was when I first started chemotherapy (it's no longer harassing my lungs and heart), and based from my PET scan results, it's inactive (dead).

My oncologist hopes that it'll continue to reduce in size over the next few months as the chemo drugs continue to work their magic. She'll be closely monitoring me for the next 2 years, up until year 5, where the likelihood of relapse is said to be very low.

So to recap, my cancer is theoretically dead, but it can always come back without warning (especially the aggressive kind I have), so I'm not necessarily in the clear. BUT, I now have a lot more peace of mind, and can start to breath a little easier.

I know this is such a cliche, but I really DO feel like I have a new lease on life. I feel tremendously grateful to be alive, and I'm going to start attacking life with so much more vigor and passion. I should be dead, but I'm not, and that's such a sobering feeling.

For all of you who've reached out to me in the past few months and expressed your well wishes, I thank you fully from the bottom of my heart. I've been humbled from this entire experience, and just want to marinate in the simple joys that life has to offer.

If you're in the LA area, and want to have a beer with me to celebrate sometime, DM me. Let's celebrate being alive together, one pint at a time. ¡Salud!

Walking Toward the Rim of Numbed Despair

Closer and closer I walked, closer I walked on the trail toward the rim of My numbed despair. Her gaze transfixed on Me, and Mine on hers.

I was approaching the boundaries of those familiar feelings that had desiccated months ago–back when I could still feel the moisture of My fresh diagnoses on My cheeks.

But I was devoid of fear because I had already died a hundred times in the depths of My idleness–envisioning how My ashes would scatter in the cool ocean breeze of the Pacific, sublimely, and the looks of grief on all the passengers on that sunlit deck–on afternoons when I lied in bed with closed eyes, aching knees, and swollen hope.

A Beelzebubian Breeding Before The Great Unknown

Again I stared into the expanse of My impalpable future, and again she returned My gaze, looking down at Me–into My chest cavity, which housed a Beelzebubian overgrowth.

The black mass nested itself in-between My lungs, prodding My heart with its breeding possession, and it reminded Me each passing day that My sojourn in this density was limited, and that I would soon return to hitchhiking the highways of The Great Unknown, alone.

Purgatory's Pet

I am confined in purgatory's cage, pacing back and forth, rattling an occasional bar or two. And as I stare off into the expanse of My impalpable future, I see her sitting perpendicular to Me, with parallel tits, chin up, and gaze transfixed on My thorax.

In two days I will find out if I live or die.

In the meantime, I will continue to rattle My bars in petty defiance, as teenagers in Vernon lose their virginity, bored cats devour baby sparrows in Altadena, and Terrence, the black vagrant on Sepulveda Boulevard looks for his other shoe.

Scarlet's Rapture

And in the last days, art was one of the first luxuries to go, or rather, art for commerce–after all, there were those who made an art of dying in the way they did–flailing their lopsided limbs through the air and shrieking in decibels that pierced unnerved ears below.

The gratuitous sky being who carried out the rapture was a bored conductor, and the mortals in this density were It's momentary orchestral diversion.

From My shadow lair, I watched with amusement as people squawked fragmented prayers and crossed themselves with vigor. Soon they would come to know the absurd and grotesque nature of their true origins.

The Empathic Tongue of Lasciva Libido

Half-asleep, and weighed down by lethargy, I somewhat awakened to the molestation of what felt like a female tongue glossing over My exposed skin.

Her empathic tongue initiated its route on the crown of My head, and proceeded to glide down, figure-eighting My orbitals with an undeniable consideration. I felt the moisture from her stroke linger on My brow ridge and underside of My eye lids, as I recoiled back to sleep.

When I awakened in the morning, I was stricken with horror to find My head absent of its lazily-curled locks.

I looked in the mirror, and to My dismay stood a pallid and befuddled salamander in the reflection, speckled throughout with benevolent poison that worked relentlessly on its enemy.

During that stretch of time, I had entered into yet another density of understanding that would thrust Me into the unconscious briny deep.

The Inevitability of Forced Demonic Urination

You are born alone, and you die alone.

Somewhere in-between, you are visited by the occasional demon, and the mark of your greatness will be how you respond to their prickly harassments.

The fact remains, they will pry your mouth open and piss in it. Whether you believe in the metaphorical or literal sense of the word does not matter, your mouth will be a urinal.

So what's it going to be? How will you respond?

Well, if you are a decent human being you will accept the fact that your bloodstream will be soiled by the misery of their malevolence, and find a way to triumph over your unavoidable fate.

We have a liver for a reason, so use it.

The Boy Who Breathed Fear Into His Lungs

The cruelty of summer had vacated the abiding night's temperament, and he was ready to enjoy the healthy air–finally.

It had been quite some time since he breathed with ease. His chest expanded with satisfaction, without the normal crackle that had plagued him during the heatwaves. That is, until a sinister breeze perverted his lungs with its hellborn gossamer.

Strands of spiderweb draped themselves upon his bronchi, and moments later, the hatchlings bursted open.

Baby spiders instinctively spun their web on the branches of his alveoli with industrious velocity, and his wheezes bore into the tranquility of the night.

He was afraid of spiders, and now his breaths were a breeding ground for his fears.

Kiss of Life

I awoke mid-melody, only, there was no troubadour, but rather, the Batibat who had transgressed the interior of My ribcage with the caustic clutch of her gargoylian malady.

There she stood, over Me, under My terror-stricken scrutiny.

I was ready to die–ready to become yet another lamb to the slaughter of her barbaric butchery. Yet, unmoving, she seemed uninterested in delivering the kiss of death.

Perhaps a simulacrum of compassion had unintentionally wafted inside her unloving lungs, and settled, albeit temporarily, inside her prefrontal cortex. I had no idea, but I wasn't going to try and figure it out then and there.

With a shaking and discombobulated bravery, I lifted Myself up to My feet and slowly backed away from her presence, backed away from the almost-memory of My coup de grâce. Mercy was in My corner that day.