Addictions

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Last night I dreamt I was riding my bicycle.

I’ve changed.

For years I dreamt about being chased. For years I dreamt about being trapped in a maze. For years I dreamt about sex. Last night I dreamt I was able to ride my bicycle again.

I’ve changed.

For years I preferred the company of women to men. I used to seek jobs and friendships with the goal of having the majority of my interactions with women. Men frightened me. They were cruel. I constantly faced the unfit.

I’ve changed.

Last week I realized I prefer the camaraderie of men. I want a relationship with a woman; I want companionship with men. I like the echo. I’ve learned something. I’ve learned that if I am open and honest and forthright, men will reciprocate. It doesn’t matter which stratum on the social scale. I stop. I stand. I’m honest. And they reciprocate.

I’ve changed.

For years I knew I was an addict. I thought I was addicted to sex. But then I realized I was just lonely. I thought I was addicted to food. But then I realized I was just hungry from being emotionally emptied. I knew I was addicted to emotion. I wrote it: “I’m Mark R. Trost and I’m an addict. I’m openly declaring it. I’m owning it. I’m addicted to emotion. And as the numbness of neuropathy fucks me feet first – I’m going to engage each day and experience every emotion. I don’t strive for serenity. I don’t thirst for tranquility. I crave complications. I court complexity. The simple life is for simpletons. And as I wither, I won’t waiver. When my breath is arrested – be assured I gave my last exhale. I didn’t give in; my heart gave out.”

I’ve changed.

Last week I realized I’m addicted to God. I ardently and adamantly seek to experience the Synchronicity of Divinity. I need to know where He is. I need to know why I’m there.

I’ve changed.

For years I had to write. I wrote it: “heart. soul. mind. body. i feel. i pray. i consider. i act. writing combines all aspects of my being. not writing is like … not loving …. not talking … not knowing …. not fucking … not fighting … not breathing. i don’t know how to not BE. i can’t live without show-n-tell. it doesn’t matter if someone doesn’t want to see-n-hear.”

I’ve changed.

I’ve realized it does matter if I’m seen and heard. My words are a light in the dusk of earthly despair.

I’m going to use my words to make changes.

About Mark R. Trost

Writer. Editor. Consultant.
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