My wife loves me.
There are times when she is abundantly happy.
I see to her needs without hesitation or complaint joyfully.
When I am focused there is nothing she wants or needs in the reality we have.
As a matter of truth, I expand that reality whenever she has a need as I can.
I am not a one trick pony.
My focus of all around me is beneficial because I do care about condition.
There is a toxic nature to my being. I have worked on this Jekyll and Hyde thing most of my days.
I have made progress in thwarting my temptations, but it remains and will linger until I am no more flesh.
In as much as I am blessed, I am cursed and the worst part is that I know the difference.
That in itself is progress. There was a day when I just didn't care.
I am fulfilled in life I have more than I deserve.
There are times however when my beautiful wife has authority to pick up a bookshelf and make it splinters
across my head. She has done so and done so without fault. It is a needed correction.
I speak not of an unending horror story. There is no reason for me to be considered as worthless and fit to be worm food
for a general finding. Quite honestly I am worth more alive than dead. It is more like we keep a room open that serves as a lock up
for the times when I need to be put away. When I am disagreeable to being put away, a bookshelf is used for proper motivation.
My problem is slavery to a thing...
Just as when I put my hands to things and excel beyond perfection
I do so similarly to my indentured obligation.
I'm not sure why I condemn myself to this self indulgence. I have named all the excuses in the world and universe to
explain the behavior and all are convincing nonsense.
My fatal flaw as I think of it is so perfect.
I am an alcoholic.
It takes a bookshelf to properly halt me because the existences I have lived in intoxication
are tales worthy of shelves in a library. I need no more identity finding.
This thing removes me from my own innate nature and I go to it like a moth to a flame.
The love I have for my wife prompts me to examine my fault.
In the time we have known each she can testify to my efforts and my stumbles.
It would be easier to wrestle an Angel.
This obsession of mine has delivered me to a place where my skin and bones demand escape from me.
I imagine that chemotherapy is an easier day.
I am not sure why I know this so well except for the truth and that is I am weak.
There is no blame or reason why I find myself in the place I go, the habit is my own.
I volunteer before requested.
I know full well what I'll be guilty of at the time of answering....
All of the transgressions in my life are mine without blame to another.
I know the doorway to living hell. It is a closet where I store things put away left to the darkness
until I pull the string to switch on the light of my own betrayal.
The waste of all of it remains in the things I haven't yet done in my life.
Only with my wife do any of those things get accomplished.
Of my own accord I'd have already quit life.
God delivered my wife to me and He gave her instruction to beat me after I forgot myself.
The books written in my days have needed a new home once.
The greatest writers in this world's appreciation ended their lives with a bullet.
I'm not sure what they were thinking. I know I gave their thinking a good deal of thought.
Such an end is too cowardly, one should present themselves to the world regardless of what they want to avoid.
I'm fortunate in being honest about my flaw.
Shame of regret lives in the pauses of life while the blessing of Love is made certain by a bookshelf across my stupid ass.