40 oz of Freedom



I truly have no answers, if any, about life in this world. I don’t claim to understand the underlying values of this system. But I also don’t choose to. Because I don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in a world which spells a finish-line with letters pronounced ‘death’. I don’t believe in a world where loss is as natural as life. I don’t believe man will ever have the true capability beyond words to lay peace and justice as neatly as an iron-pressed shirt on Sunday mornings I adorn my faith in religiously. Simply put, I don’t believe in man. Maybe I’m completely wrong. Maybe this road I walk toward is as narrow as they say my mind is. Maybe. But maybe dying for a belief of something more. Or something better. Maybe believing that my great grandpa is sitting somewhere on the other side of paradise waiting for me means more to me than to ever believe that this world is worth dying for. That injustice. And hatred. And finding escape through forty-ounces of freedoms and hangovers is all worth the price of this facade of freedom. I can’t place my life in the hands of this temporary pleasure because no matter how beautiful it may feel, even the reddest of roses eventually wither and die here. And I can’t gamble my faith with Satan because all he’s ever done is take, take, take, and take even more than I can afford to give. And I’m just not that loyal to these sins. I don’t have the answers to figure this life out now. But I know I have something worth more to live for. Something better. Something perfect. And I have 144,000 reasons why these forty-days and forty nights are worth the agony because when the doors of this ark finally opens up, I will feel the soft side of the Sun against my skin that even poets will fail to put into words. So why would I worship myself in the role of God? I can’t save myself from here. I’m only a mustard grain underneath the heavens hoping, just hoping, to make it out of here. Alive.

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